He had all night, after all. And then some.
* * * * *
Not having any wine was the smartest thing Tabytha had done all night.
The only smart thing, really.
Had she a lick of common sense she would still be home, researching on the net, finishing her story the safe, sane and consensual way, with absolutely no hot, possessively dangerous Doms in the area.
At least Tabytha was not falling for Harlan’s little gimmicks, pretending to be so suave, trying to pass off his silly establishment as some sort of elegant Victorian mystery theater with miles of catacombs and happy De Sade clones in the basement.
He’d probably hired actors. Sure the food was good, one excellent course after another. But come dessert she was out of here.
“You haven’t relented on the wine,” he said as she continued to work diligently on her almond-crusted tilapia. “You’re really missing something.”
“I doubt it.”
Harlan put down his fork. She pretended not to notice.
“Tabytha, may I be frank with you?”
She feigned annoyance. “I’d rather you weren’t.”
Frankness was a bad thing because then it might come down to him asking her about the black outfit. It was true, she had this proverbial dress for just such mystery occasions.
But why the silk panties and bra, black on black, trimmed in lace?
Yes, Martinique had badgered her, but she could have said no.
Tabytha told herself she was doing this to spite the man, to tease him.
He would never see them, ha, ha.
Like waving a red flag in front of a bull, that’s what it meant to taunt a man like Harlan Blake.
Well so what? He could go stuff himself.
“I’ve never met a woman who intrigued me like you do, Tabytha.”
She pursed her lips. “And you want to know if there’s any more like me at home?”
“No, you’re the one I want.’
The way he said it, not a trace of subtlety, not an ounce of polite, politically correct reserve.
“We all want something…”
“But I get it, Tab, whatever I’m after.”
“I’m not up for grabs.”
He raised his glass. “Here’s to tonight, and you being in my bed before sunlight.”
Tabytha’s heart leaped to her throat. It was one thing to know a man was trying to seduce you but to have him put so much on the line before he’d even delivered a kiss.
It was infuriating, but dangerously arousing at the same time. “Wow, that’s right up there with ‘baby, what’s your sign’.”
The insult left him unfazed. “Why did you come here tonight, Tabytha, really?”
“Obviously to swoon at your feet, Master,” she exaggerated, somewhere between Scarlett O’Hara and Marilyn Monroe.
“I would rather see you tethered to my bed,” he countered.
She contemplated tossing the wine in his face but he would probably take it as a badge of honor, a sure sign he was getting to her.
“And that’s the only way, partner, because I would never go willingly.”
Harlan laughed. He was enjoying himself and it pissed her off to no end.
“You don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?” he asked.
“I loathe everything you stand for.”
“Loathing is a strong thing, Tabytha, a very potent, easily malleable emotion.”
She pointed her fork dead on. “I know what you’re getting at. You’re like Martinique, twisting things. Well, the truth is I don’t secretly lust or love you or whatever. I am indifferent. Cold.”
“Your cheeks are flush, but you haven’t had any wine. Are you sure you aren’t a little warm?”
“Sure,” she spat. “I’m totally head over heels. Why don’t you drag me out to the alley or the backseat of your car and be done with it.”
“I don’t need to do that. There are adequate facilities downstairs. Besides, I want you in bed, not pushed against some dingy brick wall.”
“You’ve no idea what I could do to you in a column,” she warned.
“And you don’t know what I could do to you in my bedroom.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Just a statement of fact, I have a good deal of toys and I am very, very creative.”
“You have no shame, do you?”
“We both felt something at the café, Tabytha, when I held your hand, when I had you close your eyes. What did you see? I saw a strong woman who wants to let go, who wants to be in a man’s arms…in his power, surrendering.”
“I’ve heard enough.” She wanted to slap him; then again she wanted him to kiss her, to see what it was made him different, his promise of domination.
“Stay and watch the show.” He seized on her indecisiveness. “We arranged it just for you.”
Tabytha felt dangerously, wickedly trapped. She wanted to fight, to run…but another part of her wanted to go with him wherever he might lead her.
“No.”
Harlan drained his glass. “Are you sure? This is a chance to see BDSM as the work of art it’s really meant to be.”
She tried not to focus on his voice, deep and rich. Or his eyes either. And then there was the problem of his lips. “I can find plenty of art on the internet, thank you.”
He smiled, ever the wolf. Damned if she would be his prey though.
“And if I told you it would please me to have you there, Tabby Cat?”
Her toes curled at the absurd name. “You really don’t want an answer to that one.”
“A toast instead,” he said, moving to fill her glass.
She lost herself in the steady glugging of the magic red contents and next thing she knew she was clinking her crystal to his.
“To wonderful beginnings, Tabytha Quillen.”
“To tidy endings,” she countered.
As she gulped the wine she remembered her earlier promise, not to fall for anything. Over at the next table a pretty brunette was watching. She wore a diamond choker and a black halter dress. She was gorgeous and her smile was electric…and so peaceful at the same time. A long-haired man across from her occupied himself slicing up his steak. They were lovers, Master and slave, and the girl, the slave wanted her to know it was all right, whatever happened it would be okay.
The hell it will.
Tabytha averted her gaze. “I need a refill,” she decided.
And this time the tables were turned. “You’ve had enough, my dear.”
She clenched her fists.
The brunette nodded as if she’d somehow heard and turned away.
Tabytha hated them, every last one.
“I am going home,” she announced.
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Say one thing,” she challenged, “to stop me.”
This he did, catching her utterly off guard and taking her breath away.
“Please, Tabytha, I would like you to stay.”
Chapter Four
Sometime later Harlan led Tabytha back through the dining room to a circular staircase in the foyer. She was a bit unsteady on her feet, though not from alcohol. They had been talking and not about BDSM. Harlan had been sharing his travel experiences, his views of life. They were so dead-on similar to hers it was scary. He too loved mountains but got bored climbing them. He loved eagles but would personally have preferred to be an owl if he were to be a flying creature.
He was quite sure dolphins knew a lot more than they were saying. And he couldn’t stand jazz.
She found herself following him closely as they walked. The club was a little more crowded and some of the people, the women in particular, appeared to have eyes for the newcomer.
All of them looked beautiful, though some were closer to the standards of perfection. The one thing they all shared was the proximity of at least one confident, proud-looking male.
Most wore tuxedos, a few had expensive suits. Their ladies all wore dre
sses and had expensive jewelry.
This certainly matches no stereotype of leather-loving deviants, Tabytha thought.
Harlan led them downstairs. At the bottom was an open area with elaborate corridors leading off like spokes from a wheel. The corridors came complete with sets of armor and torches built into the stone walls. It was an odd mix of modern and medieval with slate-gray floors and designer wooden doorways.
They stopped before a particular set of double doors made of heavy, carved wood, magnificent as anything in a European palace. Clearly Harlan was pulling out all the stops for his little show, or maybe she should say his macabre circus.
“This is where we part ways,” he said blithely, touching her elbow. “Do watch your step, it may be a little dark in there.”
“Excuse me?”
“I have business elsewhere, but we can meet up afterward.”
“The hell we will.”
Harlan opened the left door and before she could say a word he was ushering her in, his hand at the small of her back.
Before she could protest he had closed it again with himself on the outside.
Fucking bastard.
Everything was dark, almost pitch black.
Oh well, might as well get it over with.
“Come on, bogeyman, come get me,” she called out.
Squinting her eyes, she began to make out shapes, shadows facing her like some kind of Star Chamber.
This was what she got for not staying home with the gelato.
A light ignited, the quick flash of a burning torch. Others followed and soon the place was bathed in a soft orange glow.
She was in some kind of theater, very velvet and very Victorian, everything in purple, red or black.
They certainly had a flare for the dramatic.
“Your place is here, miss,” said a man in a black robe, his voice deep, his face hidden by a monk-like cowl. “The others will arrive soon.”
Her place as he called it was more like a throne, one of two.
Was the other for Harlan, assuming he deigned to return to her before the show started?
He had said afterward, though, and he didn’t seem like a man to lie.
Without looking left or right, one foot in front of the other, she took her place on the velvet cushion.
It was like heaven.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Harlan was just trying to scare her.
Tabytha decided to resume her proper journalist’s role of observer and describer. Words came into her mind, little mnemonic devices to help her write about the scene later.
The room itself was fairly small, less than two dozen seats arranged in a semicircle in front of a low stage. The two thrones were along the side. She was the only occupant of the room other than a small collection of the robed men, who at the moment were congregating in the back of the room.
A moment later they processed forward. Some kind of horn was blown and the door was opened. The men and women, a few of whom she recognized from upstairs, entered in couples. They had donned white and black masks and with their long tails and sequined dresses, they reminded Tabytha of an archaic audience en route to the opera.
She wondered if anyone would sit next to her.
They did not.
As soon as the people were seated, Tabytha turned her attention to the stage, which at this point was brightly lit by a number of candles lining the edge. There was no curtain, just a gray marble-inlaid floor and a black background with white designs, suns and moons mostly.
To the left was a rack of implements, whips and paddles and such.
Tabytha’s stomach clenched.
A chain hung from the ceiling right over the center of the stage. There was a pair of leather cuffs dangling from the end at about eye level.
She told herself this was all nothing, a gag, research for a funny column, a humorous anecdote to share with Martinique over wine and ice cream later on.
Yeah right.
Just a gag, my ass, the elegant audience, enraptured, anticipating the spectacle to come. And somewhere backstage a victim or victims waiting. Just get this over with, she thought.
A few minutes later, or maybe it was an hour, the door was finally closed and the torches were extinguished, leaving only the white shimmer of the candles. Instinctively Tabytha grasped the arm rests.
The whole thing felt like some pagan ritual, like they were about to wheel out a human sacrifice.
If Harlan were here she’d have made some sarcastic remark about the cheesy effects.
Or maybe I’d have grabbed his hand for comfort instead, she thought, with a chill down her spine.
Good thing he wasn’t.
Tabytha drew a sharp breath now. Something was happening. A woman was coming out onto the stage. Incredible and beautiful beyond words, so frail and exquisitely alluring in the light glow of the candles.
The woman was probably in her early twenties, long brown hair, combed out, a flower tucked behind her left ear.
She wore a chemise, very thin and sheer, hanging mid-thigh, the neckline plunging.
The costume did little to hide her attributes. The full breasts tenting the material, nipples subtly pressed, and the long, coltish legs, the flat belly and thin waist.
She was barefoot and around her neck she wore a diamond choker.
Tabytha’s heart skipped a beat as she remembered. The girl in the dining room.
They were the same!
Yes, her eyes were downcast, not in fear or self-pity, but in serenity, almost reverence. But one look at the rack behind her told the story.
Was she truly going to be whipped?
Suddenly the men began to applaud, not for the woman but for one of their own, walking toward the stage from the back of the room.
Was there some kind of secret entrance?
Surely she wouldn’t have missed such a specimen, so powerful and graceful and mysterious in his black mask and black silk shirt. For good measure, his pants were tight, like stockings, and tucked into a pair of leather boots.
He had leather gloves too, also black.
She’d never before thought of a man being beautiful, but this one was.
He also seemed vaguely familiar, if only her mind would let her connect the dots.
Was it the man dining with the girl in the choker? No, that one had long hair and this man’s hair was distinctly clipped short.
Like a panther now, she watched him move toward the girl who lowered her head at his approach. She was a good eight inches shorter and very slight in comparison to his build.
He put his hand under her chin, lifting her head, inclining her eyes to his.
“Do you consent?”
“Yes Sir.”
“To what do you consent?”
She licked her lips, so moist and soft.
Something about that man’s voice.
“You may mark me, my lord, and use me for your pleasure.”
He smiled with the look of a predator about to dine on his favorite prey.
“You can do better, Vanessa.”
He moved to touch her breast, skimming the material, lightly flicking her already distended nipple.
Vanessa moaned, arching her back.
The whole time she kept her arms at her sides.
He gave the same treatment to her other nipple.
“I’m waiting,” he declared, his hand moving over her flat belly.
“Please…Master…use me.”
Vanessa groaned as his finger found the apex of her thighs.
She wore no underwear.
As if against her will she began to move against him, lightly rocking.
So helpless and so sweetly taken away.
He brought her swiftly to orgasm, his fingers moving in and out, the glove pleasuring her and claiming her, wringing from the depths of her ecstasy.
She laid her head on his chest once the spasms had subsided. He encircled her in his arms, kissed the top of her head.
Then he told her to raise her arms overhead and lift herself onto her tiptoes so she could reach the chain.
When she had done all this, he affixed the cuffs to her delicate wrists, one after the other.
Tabytha was rapt. The girl was totally immobile, open to pleasure and pain.
The man put his leather-covered fingers to her lips. Slowly, obediently, she licked away the glistening come.
Her come.
He let her take the fingers deep, simulating the motions of suckling a cock.
Abruptly he denied her.
Grabbing her chemise, he tore down the front of it, exposing her neck to knee.
She was scarcely breathing but Tabytha could feel the woman’s pulse racing, the heat that must have been surging inside her.
He circled around her now and did the same thing in back. Again and again he tore off strips until she was naked, her chemise hanging in rags.
Grasping hold of her buttocks, he moved in close behind. Her eyes were wild. He sank his teeth into her neck while lightly caressing her waist.
She must have been going out of her mind.
Tabytha leaped as he spanked her, delivering a crisp blow to her posterior for which she promptly thanked him. Again he struck, this time leaving a red mark. She was sucking air through her teeth, clearly experiencing something other than raw pain.
The man stopped and turned. He was looking right up at Tabytha. Slowly, accusingly, he pointed.
So familiar and yet her mind wouldn’t, couldn’t register the identity.
What? What the hell did he want?
“Your permission is needed,” he called out as if reading her mind. “You must give approval or I won’t continue.”
Tabytha grabbed the armrests, wishing she could make the seat into some kind of rocket ejector to take her a million miles away. “You can’t expect me to do that.”
The man strode across the stage, utterly in command of all he surveyed. He selected a small whip, a riding crop. Several times he tested it in the air.
“You hear me?” she cried. “I won’t sanction this.”
“The ceremony can’t go on without you.”
There was no denying that voice anymore, the identity of Vanessa’s punisher.
Damn Harlan Blake, damn him to hell.
“No!” she defied.
Harlan ignored her. He was speaking to Vanessa now, whispering in her ear.
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