Love Beat

by Flora Dain

  Everywhere, the newly trained subs and Doms are keen to show off their skills. Under the watchful eye of Nera and her assistants, one or two are already teasing each other with whips and floggers.

  Among all these lewd and fantastical costumes, my chiffon is pretty and practical. The jewelry blazes underneath in a dramatic statement of veiled, erotic wealth. I draw envious looks.

  In the pool I’m soon splashed from head to foot. When it’s wet, the whisper-thin silk clings, shockingly transparent, but it quickly dries.

  “You look amazing, Tunis, like a fairy princess. Are those real diamonds?” Mel and Ben look shocked as I joined them. Jake glowers from the other side of the pool then reaches for his camera.

  As I greet the team, I fend off eager questions about my costume and my jewels.

  Mel, stunning in skin-tight, bright blue latex, red hair flowing, fills me in on the team’s activities.

  It seems Ben’s now deeply attracted to Nera—his training session Domme—much to Mel’s fury. Jake’s moodier than ever, while Mel’s consoling herself over Ben’s fling by attaching herself like a limpet to Garth Delaney, male lead in the coming movie and her all-time pin-up.

  “And I’m going to extend that interview. But I’m not sure how to ask him.” Just then Mel’s jaw drops. “Omigosh—Tunis, don’t look. It’s him.”

  A ripple of excitement runs through the crowd and I spin round.

  The Panther. He’s on the terrace—a fearsome, terrifying gladiator with flowing black hair and a braided beard reaching halfway down his powerful, oiled chest. His feet are bare and he’s wearing only his trademark hood and a black leather loincloth. A coiled bullwhip hangs casually over one shoulder.

  I freeze as he scans the crowd and his gaze falls on me.

  And I thought I was safe.

  Mel puts an arm around me. “Hey, it’s okay. We won’t let him get you.”

  Then a strange thing happens. From all around us, women are leaving their partners and moving forward. Soon he’s mobbed and starts signing autographs. Nera fights her way through to murmur something to him and he glances up with a grin. Or is it a snarl? The crowd backs off a little.

  Nera turns to the crowd and makes an announcement. He’s going to give a display.

  I stare spellbound as a space opens up on the terrace and at Nera’s direction, two of the women haul a third forward and hold her by the arms. It’s Eileen, the pretty little redhead, the other star of the movie and the intended occupant of the harness I’m wearing.

  The crowd surges closer. Mel’s grip on my arm tightens. “Tunis? Don’t look.”

  I have to look. It’s my dream made flesh.

  The Panther waits, poised and still. Women scurry around him and the crowd grows quiet then he slowly unfurls the whip. It looks enormous. The tail end alone seems several feet long, the business end near the handle, powerful and thick.

  Yards away the quivering Eileen is being tightly held. She has her back to him. Her arms and legs are spread wide, firmly clasped by willing helpers, her plump little rear fully exposed. Her pretty face is a picture—a mixture of fear, hunger and excitement.

  I know the feeling.

  The Panther takes a step forward and, in one lithe move, his body uncoils. The whip follows his arm with a sudden crack, its whole length unfurling in a single, fluid movement. The thin tip lands on Eileen with a force that makes her jerk, even though the fist gripping the whip handle, sole source of the blow, is yards away.

  I see instantly how the Panther got his name. His single flash of uncoiled power is unleashed in a move so graceful that I feel a lump in my throat.

  He lands two more blows then turns to the crowd with a smile, coiling the whip with a flourish and slinging it over one shoulder. The crowd roars applause. He bows to Eileen, now blushing and restored to the protective arm of her lover, Jo. The fans crowd back for more autographs and cell phone photos.

  But before they close in, he holds them at bay with an upraised hand. His eyes glitter through the gaps in his hood as he touches the coiled whip to his forehead, and he looks straight at me in a final salute.

  I turn away, shaking. He knows I’m here. He knows who I am.

  And he’s just like my dreams…

  I swallow.

  “Hey, this is Tunis, right?”

  I spin round as Garth Delaney holds out his hand.

  “So glad to meet you at last, Tunis. Saw you by the pool. Hey, how about a dance?”

  Mel looks on in disbelief as the star leads me to the center of the pool. Others follow and soon we’re surrounded as Jake’s camera whirrs away in the background.

  As we dance, I slip in some questions and find he’s surprisingly normal for a star. “It’s a lotta fun here, honey, but I miss the kids. And back home the wife’s getting, you know, edgy. So I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  I accept another cocktail from the tray of a passing waiter. As I open my mouth to reply, a rich male voice cuts in from somewhere just behind me.

  “Shame. The party won’t be the same without you.” Cade steps smoothly between us and lifts the drink out of my hand. He takes a sip, eyeing me over the rim. “You’ve had enough.” He touches my arm and arches an eyebrow. Startled, I nod a brief farewell to the star and turn away with a quickening heartbeat.

  Cade’s eyes scorch briefly into mine.

  What?

  I feel heat flare between my thighs as my arousal rebels against the torment of his fabulous jewelry, reminding me of its dark purpose—to make me ready for him, eager to submit.

  He looks ahead, as if our leaving the pool together is mere coincidence. He speaks too low for others to hear, but his low growl is already making me pulse and ache.

  “I’ve watched you flirting with other men for long enough. Now it’s my turn. Get upstairs, now. I’ll follow in a few minutes. Wait in the middle of the room, eyes down, hands clasped behind your back. And don’t touch anything. I want to undress you myself.”

  * * * *

  When he walks in, I’m standing as commanded. When I’d come in, I’d taken a few minutes to freshen up, but I’d hardly needed to. In the mirrors I’d looked bright-eyed, pink-lipped, eager.

  I had lacked only one thing—and he’s on his way up.

  The instant his eyes fall on me I can tell he knows. He’ll always know. He plays me like a violin.

  The chiffon comes away first. He simply rips it off. It floats down to the floor like scarlet smoke. He runs his hand lightly over my belly and down to the apex of my thighs, his fingers slipping inside me, intimate, searching. “You’re so wet I can smell you. Delicious.”

  I groan as he quests higher, his hand brushing agonizingly close to my center. A shaft of pleasure shoots all through me, setting up ripples of excitement but leaving me aching, unfulfilled, endlessly denied.

  “And the jewelry? How is it? Tell me.” He’s being serious now, an artist testing his materials, the scent of my juices simply a measure of his success, like the smell of paint on a canvas. “You found it arousing?”

  “Partly. And so was something else.” I arch my neck as he gently cups my breasts, teasing my stiff, swollen nipples.

  He frowns. “What else?”

  “You, watching.”

  His jewelry’s designed to torment me, but the real torture was his steady gaze while I tried to move and talk normally as I wore it. His hungry eyes have burned into me all evening, underlining the signals shooting all through me from his disturbing design.

  He’s eyeing me now with satisfaction, like I’ve passed some kind of test. “I think we can safely say this piece does the business.” He unfastens the harness and the breast pieces and replaces them in the glass case, closing the doors on their splendor and turns to me with a stern, remote expression. “Keep your hands behind your back and your head down. You are required to be graceful, humble and obedient at all times during submission. Understood?”

  His voice is quiet, slightly sinister. This is new. I’m unsure
what to think of this but my body has already decided. Down below I start to pulse with excitement.

  He leads me to the service elevator at the far end of the apartment and jabs at the buttons. Once more the journey is swift, far faster than the elevator in use at the front of the house.

  As the door opens, I see the dungeon laid out ahead of me in all its harsh detail, the racks of canes, the rails of whips and straps, the glitter of chains and the gleam of cable. The flat surface of the spanking bench yawns, an invitation and a threat, and at the center looms the circular platform with the loops of chain, the trapeze and the evil snaking ropes.

  Within minutes, my wrists and ankles are cuffed and secured to wide, sturdy loops of chain from the ceiling and fastened to two stout rings on the floor. He angles the lighting so that it falls directly on me. In the mirrored far wall I see myself suspended like a butterfly caught in a web, displayed for his pleasure.

  But he’s in no hurry to begin.

  He’s still barefoot from the pool, his ankles glistening and wet. Now he slowly removes his shirt and strolls over for a leisurely inspection of the whips. He touches them with loving fingers, letting the strands of one slide over his hand, running a finger over the braided leather handle of another, his expression absorbed and thoughtful.

  He knows them well. He handles them with the reverence of a master craftsman for his tools.

  At last he makes his choice and unhooks it from the rail, turning toward me with a gleam.

  Excitement and sheer naked hunger clutch at my insides.

  All at once it’s no longer a dream. It’s about to get vividly, painfully real.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the dungeon, Cade seems to change. He’s more commanding, more powerful—but absorbed and focused, an artist at work. My body is his palette, the implements around us his tools. The final result—pleasure, pain and maybe release—is his art.

  But maybe I change too.

  He trails the whip along the inside of my leg, letting it slither over my sensitive breasts and along my taut, aching arms.

  “This is a fairly mild whip, used on livestock. More direct than the flogger, more accurate than a horsewhip, more sensual than a crop.”

  With a sudden flick of his wrist it uncoils and the end of it snaps on my bottom, making me cry out.

  It’s more in surprise than pain. It stings, but not too badly. I relax a little as he slides it over me again. “Hush. You’re very tense. Relax. This takes time. I want you to enjoy it.”

  Enjoy it? Is he mad? The whip snaps again. This time it taps the back of my thighs, leaving a thin streak of heat. With an effort, I control the urge to cry out as it trails once more over my belly and my nipples.

  “How does it feel? Tell me. I have to know.”

  “It feels… It stings. Ow.” It snaps again, the sting on my breasts and my tender nipples, harder this time. It occurs to me he’s keeping his touch light. Heaven help me if he ever applies full strength.

  “It stings—what?”

  I fight for breath as it lands again. “It stings—Sir.” I jerk as it tingles over my belly.

  The blows keep coming, now teasing, now harsh. I give up trying to guess which. Each one sends a spike of arousal straight to my groin. I lean into its touch, the feel of the slithering leather doing strange things to me, blending with the roll of his wrist and his soft, deep voice in my ear.

  The blows rain down, light now, sinuous and sensual, but I’m growing tired. He frowns as a tear strays down my face. He tracks it with his finger.

  I see his jaw clench as he steps back to take a swing.

  Surely not…there?

  With heart-stopping accuracy, the whip lands with one sharp crack then another. The sting is far softer than the sound, but to my dismay, the ends are snaking up into my groin. With sickening certainty they land again and again along first one then the other side of my wide, splayed slit.

  I’ve been clinging to a cliff-edge all evening as first his jewelry then his burning, hungry look inflamed me. Now this teasing pressure, its energy flowing directly from his wrist, tips me over the edge. With a shriek I convulse with a massive orgasm, my body jolting in my bonds.

  The whip clatters to the floor as he flings it away and holds me close, his arms folding around me. He captures my mouth, his kiss robbing me of breath, and I’m being carried. I’ve no idea how far. I land on some soft, flat surface and almost instantly I sink into sleep.

  * * * *

  Some time later my eyes snap open. It’s still dark but I wake instantly, my body limp and content, my belly still aglow.

  He’s sitting on the bed, naked to the waist. He looks angry. “I have to know. Are you okay? You passed out. I left you as long as I dared. Tunis? Talk to me.”

  I smile lazily up at him. “I’m fine, thanks. You?”

  His eyes glitter. “Are you serious? I was worried sick.”

  Eyes wide, I sit up. I feel wonderful, ready for anything. He looks drawn and hollow, his hair all mussed.

  “I’m fine, truly.”

  His eyes narrow. “Glad to hear it. Now get up.”

  I blink. “Why?”

  He smiles briefly. “You’re forgetting your manners. Passing out is one thing. Turning in for the night while your Dom is still high and dry is quite another. Bend over.”

  My senses now on high alert, I notice just two things before he takes the back of my head in a firm grasp and bends me forcibly down to the edge of the bed. I’m already burning with arousal—and he’s holding a riding crop.

  With impatient taps of the whip he takes a few moments to get me in position, indicating I should spread my legs wide and keep my knees straight.

  “Put your arms behind your back.”

  I shiver as my wrists are swiftly encased in cold, hard metal. The handcuffs press into the small of my back as I stretch and tense to his instruction.

  At last the instructions cease. I feel a cold rush of air as the whip descends. The flash of pain is so sudden that I gasp and rock against the bed.

  Only minutes before I was fast asleep…

  He steadies me with one hand under my pelvis. “Easy. Don’t cry out or you’ll get an extra. You’ll get two more.”

  I clench my jaw tight and screw up my eyes as the whip lands again, then again. Each time he waits for the pain to flower fully before taking aim. After the third blow, there’s a long pause as the fierce heat blooms, spreads and settles into a hot, burning glow.

  I feel his breath on my skin, then his lips as he kisses the searing places with a loving sweep of his tongue. Heat burns between my legs as my arousal flares. It burns brightly as the sting of the whip fades to golden heat. His hands move gently over my strained, aching thighs with a fond, loving caress.

  “Another?”

  I close my eyes. The punishment’s done, I counted the strokes. But now he’s asking me something else. Do I want another?

  This is for pleasure. But for his, or mine?

  I have to find out. “Yes. Please, Sir. Another.”

  It lands again, on my legs this time. Again the pain flowers, blooms and fades. The glow between my legs burns hotter.

  “And again?” He sounds husky. His breath comes in long, shuddering spasms.

  “Yes, again. Please. Sir.”

  It lands again. Once more the pain flares. I let out a long, shuddering sigh, savoring the ache between my legs, letting that bloom too until I’m pulsing with excitement.

  I’d never have believed it. I’m enjoying this.

  He hauls me upright and turns me round to face him. His eyes rake my face, his expression awed. “Did that really just happen? You really wanted me to do that?”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes narrow. “Now you can thank me for your punishment, sub, and for your session. Kneel.”

  As he says it, I know instantly what he wants. To my surprise it seems only natural, in fact essential, that I should kneel and return his courtesy.

  I
sink slowly to my knees. Without being asked, I lean forward to drop a reverent kiss on his fly.

  I hear another sharp intake of breath then with a few swift movements of his fingers, his erection springs free. He’s huge—as I knew he would be, very hot and glowing darkly purple. With my hands still cruelly cuffed behind my back, it’s impossible to feel his silky skin with my fingers, to caress his heat. Instead I roll my tongue over the broad, gleaming crown, brushing with the soft inner skin behind my lips before licking eagerly along his length to moisten him fully before taking him into my mouth.

  “In your own time, sub. But be warned… If I come before I reach your throat, I’ll whip you again.”

  His tone’s harsh. I pause, quivering, as I weigh up my chances.

  He’s very erect. A throb from below spurs me on. He’s throwing me a challenge. He’s clearly close, but I’m in no hurry to finish. I want to enjoy this.

  And for the first time in my life, the thought of another whipping is exciting. Only hours before I’d have shrunk in terror.

  Game on.

  I smile around his erection, letting it fill my mouth to stretching point. Slowly I take him deeper and ease into a steady, pulsing rhythm as I get into my stroke. His breathing’s ragged now. As I lunge forward to swallow him deep, I yawn open my throat to ease the gagging, hardly waiting for each spasm to die away before lunging again.

  Soon the reflex eases and I take him fully, savoring his salty taste. Low, appreciative growls from somewhere deep in his chest stir my arousal like music.

  All at once he stills and I felt a thrill of achievement as his creamy honey flows over my tongue. I swallow triumphantly, letting my mouth ease round his shaft, careful not to suck too hard while he’s still tender.

  He towers over me, his breath easing like he wants this to last.

  So do I.

  He’s so beautiful—perfectly honed, powerful, dominant. A golden glow spreads all over me as I kneel before him to perform this simple and ancient act of female submission.