by Flora Dain
At last we come back onto the drive and he looks me over, his blue gaze shrewd. “How’s tricks, anyway? Aria sends her best. She says you gotta come again real soon. She wants dance lessons.” He breaks off with a frown. “Hey, honey, you okay? You look kinda peaky. Mr. Big Cat not treatin’ you so good?”
I sigh. “I’m fine. Well, I would be without Nera pulling his strings. What is it about her, Izzy? What’s her hold over him?”
He scratches his head. “Hey, babe, this is heavy. Cade oughta tell you all this hisself. Tell ya what… Ya seen that photo in his office? The one by that hotshot newsman, the one with the kids?”
“The Nathan Gemmell?” I frown, puzzled.
“Yep, that one. Take a good look at it, honey. Says it all.”
* * * *
In the main house I learn that Cade and Nera are downstairs. I feel an instant pulse of heat. Downstairs means the cellars, and to me that means just one thing—the dungeon.
As the service elevator speeds downward, I feel the old thrill pulse through me. Maybe there’s still time for another session, before the end of our time together…
As the doors slide open, the dungeon is gloomy, the only light a soft glow from a room at the far end. It slants over the walls, gleaming on the rails of whips and floggers, glinting off the metal hooks and chains.
Ignoring a distinct pulse from somewhere down below, I hurry past them. I pull up short as I make out angry voices and catch my name.
Cade and Nera are arguing—about me.
“It’s the best place. You want her out of reach, and I want a display. It’s a no-brainer. And in two days their deadline’s past. Look, I’ve got a lot riding on this, Cade. What’s your problem? She’s trained now, isn’t she?” Nera sounds exasperated.
Cade’s deep tone is barely audible. I strain to catch the words.
“Not in the sense you mean.”
“You had her in the dungeon two hours a night. What were you doing? Embroidery?”
“It’s complicated. She’s delicate. “
“Delicate? She’s a dancer, for fuck’s sake. She’s strong as an ox. You should have left her to me. I’m used to vanillas.”
He’s saying something else. Slowly his voice gets louder. “I can’t do this. Not with her. You don’t understand. She’s too intense. I might lose it.” He adds something else, too low for me to hear.
Whatever it is, it’s a game-changer. It stops Nera in her tracks.
After a long pause, her voice comes again. She sounds flat, defeated. “Shit. So that’s it. Then we’re screwed.”
What’s he saying about me?
I push open the door and step into the room. They stare, their faces twin masks of shock.
“What’s all this? Why are you screwed?”
Nera gives an angry snort. “You tell her. If you don’t, I will.”
Ice clutches at my stomach. “Tell me what? That you’re lovers?”
For a second Cade looks bemused. “What? No, nothing like that. Nera’s her professional name. This is Fran, my sister.”
His sister? My startled brain races to assemble scattered fragments of conversation. All that time in clinics. Rehab, you’d call it…
She went to pieces after her mother’s crash and Cade and Izzy put her back together. No wonder Nera’s so weird.
Poor girl.
Sympathy mingled with deep relief floods through me. “Fran? I’d no idea. I’m so pleased to meet you.”
Nera scowls. “It’s a secret, for fuck’s sake. Don’t tell anybody. We keep our professional lives separate.” She glances at Cade. “I’ll tell her the rest. He wasn’t in charge of the club that night. I was. It was my first night, and I overdid things. The girl threatened to sue. Cade took the rap to protect me.”
She fixes me with a look of venom. “And your so-called friends are trying to expose him. If they do, we’re both finished—maybe you too. They’re looking for you. They want to slot their exposé into the end of the film you’re making so it airs too late for us to stop it. But your contract states you’ve got to give the okay or they can’t go ahead. Cade wants you kept out of the way.”
“Why?”
Cade looks stony. “You’re too loyal. You’ll give in. It’s simpler to keep you out of reach.”
I glare at him. “It’s simpler to trust me, surely?”
His cynical glance warns me that aspect of our relationship still needs some work.
Nera’s impatient now. “I’ve offered to hide you here for a couple of days until after the deadline, but he refuses to do it.”
I frown. “Why?”
They exchange a look. Cade speaks directly to me, his voice low. “She’s set up a dun-cam.”
“A what?”
Nera gives an impatient wave of her hand. “A live feed on the Internet. Mine’s called ’The Lair of the Panther’.” She breaks off and her brow wrinkles in a worried frown. The sultry crimson lips droop a little. “Cade’s booked for the opening set but our professional sub’s off sick, and he won’t use you.”
My heart skips a beat. “Why not?”
Nera snorts. “He’s in love with you.”
For a moment we’re suspended in space and time as I stare at him and wait for him to deny it.
Nothing happens. “You are?”
His face is like stone. “Yes.”
“And you won’t do this?”
“Not with you.”
I gaze at him, my heart full. “Why not?”
He pauses, his eyes full of pain. “Because I want it too much. That’s why.”
I touch my cheek to his. “Then I want it too.”
“You don’t understand, Tunis. It’s a bullwhip. It’s—”
“A stock whip. You told me.” I kiss him on the jaw. “More for effect than contact.” I kiss him again. “With you at one end and me at the other. What’s wrong with that?”
He looks down at me in a daze. “Everything, damn it.”
He loves me. I wind my arms around his neck and I feel his arms fold around me. As he pulls me close, everything sings.
I glance at Nera. “When do we start?”
She gasps then claps her hands. “Thanks, Tunis. You’re a star.”
With the decision made, Cade and his sister become brisk and professional. Their matter-of-fact instructions take my breath away and make me pulse with excitement. Part of the time I’ll be chained at the wrists and ankles. At other times, I’ll be free to dodge and move about.
In his presence I’m to be respectful and graceful at all times. If I make too much noise, I’ll be gagged. Rest and comfort breaks will be frequent.
As we build up footage, earlier film will fill in when we’re off set. At night I get a longer break.
I’ll be masked, Cade in costume. Out of shot behind a glass screen, assistants will watch in case of emergency.
I sign a new contract, submit to a final medical and by evening, we’re ready to start. Masked, oiled and wearing only wrist and ankle cuffs and a thin body harness, I pose center stage to await my first encounter with the Panther.
At Nera’s signal, the lights dim, drums roll and he appears.
He looks absolutely terrifying.
It’s the first time since that fateful night I’ve faced him in his own territory. I’m rooted to the spot. It’s not just the costume. Something about him seems different—taller, more powerful, more menacing. Beneath the hood, his eyes glitter. They hold mine in a steady, unblinking gaze.
He’s a stranger but also disturbingly, thrillingly familiar.
He takes up a stance with his legs apart, arms crossed. A fearsome whip is looped under one arm. It coils at his hip like a serpent.
He’s naked to the waist, his body oiled and gleaming. His armlets, loincloth and thigh cuirasses are all in black leather. Power crackles around him like static, sending my senses into free-fall, robbing me of breath.
I’m used to theater. I know it’s all fake. But oddly, now that we’re in
costume, the threat seems real.
This is dangerous.
“Kneel.” His voice is deep and stirring.
I hold his gaze, my head high. “No.”
My voice sounds loud in the sudden silence. There’s a short pause.
Excited whispers come from beyond the glass. I ignore them.
“Kneel.” His voice is louder and has a note of impatience. I see his hand twitch.
“No.”
The whip lands with a terrifying crash near my toes, making me jump. I clench my jaw and raise my chin.
“Kneel.”
I’m not up to this? Who says? “Make me.”
With a sudden twist of his body, the whip and his arm uncoil as one, fast and lethal as a snake. I feel a searing pain at the backs of my legs as the whip wraps around my hamstrings. He jerks his arm back, and I sink to my knees with a shriek.
In a split second, the whip is withdrawn and lands again, this time around my waist, the end snaking up between my breasts with a curling sting that makes me catch my breath.
At a burst of applause, he coils the whip and nods to the assistants, who race in to chain me into position for his display. I’m hauled up between the rings, arms splayed, feet pulled wide apart and the Panther begins in earnest.
I’ve no idea how long it goes on. All I know is the blows and the lithe, athletic being they flow from are one and the same. The sound is far worse than the sting. I guess he’s using every ounce of his skill to spare me, the crash of the whip coming mainly from its contact with the walls and the floor.
Soon I’m released to move freely, and I dart and twist to avoid him. The onlookers love this. But the whip’s flicking tail licks and snakes everywhere, even at the hands of an expert, and somehow each hissing stroke echoes in my groin and sets up an agonizing ache.
Soon I’m burning up with arousal. I crave each new blow, praying the jolt will grant me release.
I’m eternally denied.
At last he coils the whip, walks over and presents me with the phallic-shaped handle.
We’ve gone over this. At the end of each display, I’m supposed to kiss it in token respect.
I jerk my head away.
For a moment or two, the invisible onlookers hold their breath. Then he turns abruptly and strides off the stage to a chorus of shouts and applause.
There’s no real audience, only passing technicians and assistants, but even they’re impressed.
He’s a star.
I slump forward in my chains, exhausted.
At that moment the lights dim to signal the start of a six-hour break. My bonds are unfastened, and I’m led away for a rest.
My first day is over.
* * * *
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Cade, freshly showered and furious, is pacing our room. Even without the Panther costume, he’s almost as fierce as the real thing.
I’m drenched in sweat and still shaky. I shrink into the chair and sigh. “They want a show, don’t they? So we give them one.”
He pauses by my chair, his face like thunder, his bathrobe a poor cover for his huge, twitching erection. This affects him too.
“You’re supposed to submit at the end of a session. That’s the convention. Subs don’t answer back.”
“Well, guess what? This one does.” I glare up at him, my nerves a riot of strange, unexpected emotions. I’m angry too, and I’m aroused—possibly more than he is.
Maybe he knows. Maybe that’s why he is.
Since we started doing this, I’ve been consumed with lust. It fires my will, gives me strength.
And now it wants satisfaction.
I glance down and lick my lip suggestively, rising slowly to bar his way. He stares at me as I press against him, thrilling to the feel of his powerful erection jutting between us. I sigh as his arms fold around me.
Right now he’s got everything I need…
As I move in his arms, his eyes fill with heat and his lips part. When he speaks, his voice is deep and edged with menace. “I know what you want. So do I, but you’ll have to wait. You chose to do this, but I make the rules. If you defy me in one way, I’ll discipline you in another. No sex until afterward. Save your strength for show time. You’re going to need it.”
“What? You can’t mean it?”
He takes my face in his hands and touches my face and neck with his lips—slow, tiny kisses soft as whispers while down below I’m burning up with rage and frustration.
He smiles, his eyes calm, his erection anything but—a cruel reminder who’s in charge here. “I do mean it. And right now you need a shower.”
It takes a while and it leaves both of us more aroused than ever, but he stands firm—in both senses.
Afterward he makes me eat a little. Later in bed he curls round me until I sleep.
* * * *
The following day our sessions start for real. This time there’ll be only brief comfort breaks.
It’s so intense that during massage, I sleep soundly. Even a few minutes are enough to refresh and revive me, help me face each new onslaught.
Sometimes he pauses to give me a rest, letting the whip slide over my skin in a teasing caress, firing my arousal even higher. I lean back in my chains—my eyes closed, my breath ragged—taking long juddering breaths while he comes close and whispers low to avoid the microphones. “Are you okay? Safeword if you have to.”
I hiss back, my lips barely moving. “I’m fine. Don’t stop.”
Another time he moves in again, his eyes glittering behind his mask, his jaw rigid. “For fuck’s sake, Tunis, this is not a contest. Submit, damn it.”
But whenever he challenges me to kneel, I still refuse.
Nera reports our battle of wills is a big hit. Viewing figures soar.
She even shows me a grudging respect. “You’ve got more than guts, Tunis. You’re a genius.”
I vow to redouble my defiance.
Prove him wrong. I can do this.
Last year, an eternity ago, the Panther and all he stood for terrified me. Now something else terrifies me—my hunger for him. Whenever he appears, I quiver with need.
It flares the moment he arrives on stage, and it becomes my secret weapon. It fires my will and sustains me throughout his attack. During our breaks he tries to make me see sense—my defiance is dangerous—I’ll overtire. I’ll do myself lasting damage. It has to end.
But tonight I sense a new edge to his manner. I brace myself. As he pulls his arm from behind his back, I feel my stomach clench.
He’s brought two whips.
I’ve no time to prepare as he unleashes both, unfurling a ferocious mass of hissing leather. One grips me around the ankle while the other snakes in hot, searing coils around my waist.
For a second, his body poses with athletic grace as the lashes slide harmlessly away then he draws them back and launches again.
His skill is dazzling. An excruciating display leaves me panting and running with sweat as applause erupts from beyond the glass. He turns and bows, his chest heaving while I brace myself for his next assault.
He signals to the assistants to chain me up again then he steps back and takes aim with both whips together, the ends curling in precise, agonizing symmetry, coiling first over my breasts in stinging spirals of fire then around my waist and thighs.
Between the double blows, he pauses just long enough for me to recover then lunges again, his body connecting so beautifully to the line of the snaking whips that I can only look on in wonder.
It’s like the pain comes directly from somewhere deep inside him and the terrifying whips are just extensions of his will, jets of flame launched from his gut.
But now I realize where the blows are heading. I’m helpless in their path, hauled wide open by the taut, merciless chains as the ends of the lashes edge, infinitely slowly, up the insides of my legs.
With terrifying precision, the snaking tips curl at last into the apex of my thighs, slide away and surge again. Mom
ents later, with a final, intimate flick, they meet in my cleft and my orgasm erupts like a volcano.
I buck and sob, my juices running in streams down my thighs. He coils the whips and calmly looks on, arms folded. Assistants race on to loosen the chains and I sink slowly to my knees. He moves up close and instead of the whip handles, he presents his erection, sheathed in unforgiving black leather.
Exhausted, limp, drained of resistance, I lean forward and kiss. The gleam of triumph in his eyes is the last thing I see before the room slides sideways.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cade is gazing down at me, his face gaunt with worry. “Tunis. You scared me half to death. Are you okay?”
“Of course she’s okay. She just fainted. That’s all. No surprise after all that. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Nera appears over his shoulder. She sounds gruff, but she looks worried too.
Brother and sister exchange a look then Nera quietly ushers the masseuse out of the door. “We’ll give you a moment.”
I’m lying in the massage room, the small recovery room just off the dungeon. I gaze up at him, my heart full. Our display is over. Now I can rest.
He’s peeled off the mask and his hair stands out in dark, sweat-soaked curls all round his head. The lighting in here is harsh after the soft, atmospheric glow in the dungeon. The sharp light etches hollows in his cheeks and gleams on his oiled, powerful shoulders.
“Was I okay?” I manage a shaky smile.
A flicker of emotion crosses his face, and he touches his lips to mine. “More than okay. You were sensational.”
“You too.” I sit up, clutching the sheet over my sweat-streaked body. It soaks through in dark patches.
His face contracts in alarm. “Hey, easy. How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been under a steamroller.”
He grins and touches his lips to my forehead. “Me too. Don’t ever let me agree to another bullwhip session with you—not before I get a pacemaker fitted, anyway.”