Identity Crisis (Blood Brothers #4)

by Manda Mellett

  Downing the water, I push off from the bar, ready to take a turn around the club, just to ensure everything’s as is should be, when I spot something that causes my experienced eyes to sharpen. One of the stages is being prepped for a very particular type of play. Hoping all the proper precautions are going to be followed and wondering who the Dom or Domme is, I start walking over in that direction, trusting he or she knows exactly what they are doing. Gritting my teeth, I only slightly favour my right leg as I make my way across the dungeon, my eyes intent on my destination.

  Drawing closer to the brightly lit stage area, I discover candles are being set out on a shallow tray resting on a small table. Sir Duncan, who in his daily life I know to be CEO of one of the major banks, walks into the area carrying a bucket of water. I sigh to myself, knowing he’s a fairly new Dom, which means I’ll have to confront him. I approach, clearing my throat to get his attention, interrupting as he sets up his scene.

  “Duncan.” I greet him, pleasantly enough at this point. I may need to toughen my stance if I need to call a halt to his plans. I know him quite well, having been one of his mentors during his training, but to my knowledge he hasn’t performed this particular activity before.

  Intent on preparing for his scene, my voice startles him, but glancing my way he notices my bright orange vest and straightens as he understands I’m here in an official capacity. “Master Sean. Is everything alright?”

  I nod toward the play area, “Have you got permission for this?” Wax play, if not done correctly, carries a risk of serious injury for a submissive, and obviously, a small, but one that cannot be dismissed, hazard of fire for the club.

  His head dips down then up again enthusiastically, “I had a training session with Master Ryan last week.”

  I nod in return, happy to hear that. But Ryan, who’s coincidentally a Grade A colleague of mine, should have been in attendance the first time his protégée, quite literally, plays with fire. The club’s rules are very comprehensive. “And where is Master Ryan?”

  Duncan looks a bit sheepish. “He was supposed to be here, but he hasn’t turned up yet. I thought it would be okay to go ahead, at least with the preparations. The training covered everything. I know what I’m doing.”

  I can’t be annoyed that Ryan hasn’t appeared. In our line of work, it’s never possible to guarantee where you’ll be at any point in time; providing protection and security to a vast range of diverse people with varying requirements means you can’t predict when you might be called out of the country on short notice. And it’s hardly a nine-to-five job where you can just clock out when your shift is over. If the person you’re protecting suddenly needs extra security, or decides on a whim to alter their plans, you’ve no choice but to drop everything else to provide what’s necessary. And you can’t excuse yourself to make a phone call when you’re neutralising a threat. It’s far from unlikely that Ryan could have been held up, or won’t be able to make it to the club at all tonight. But I’m here, and wax play is one of my specialities. I don’t mind standing in for him.

  I tell Duncan so, then add, “Carry on setting up, and I’ll be back in a moment. Who’s your sub?” He mentions the name of someone I haven’t heard of. “I’d like to be in on your negotiation, if that’s okay?” Wax play doesn’t suit everybody, and the sub has got to appreciate what she, or he, is getting into.

  Duncan seems quite relaxed as he gives his confirmation, and shows no awkwardness that he’s going to have an audience, making me recall the titbit I’d forgotten, that he’s a bit of an exhibitionist. Leaving him to continue getting ready, I stride away, giving a slight gesture with my hand to catch the attention of one of the other dungeon monitors on duty. There are four of us in attendance at any one time, three in the main club while the fourth monitors the hallway leading to the private rooms. I quickly explain the situation, and that I’ll need to be focused on the one particular scene for now. He confirms he’s happy to cover my allocated area of the dungeon as well as his own. Satisfied I’m not neglecting my duties, I return to find a male sub kneeling at Duncan’s feet.

  Although Duncan is relatively new to Club Tiacapan, I know from our previous conversations that he’s been in the lifestyle for a while, but I’ve not met his sub before. It’s soon clear from their interaction their relationship is well established. Duncan’s hand is on the younger man’s head, and he’s affectionately caressing his hair. I watch, discreetly, as they have a private moment. The successful businessman leans down, lifts the man’s chin with his hands, and places his mouth on his, sharing a deep, and surprisingly gentle, kiss. While they are enjoying their intimacy, I take a second to examine the sub. He’s certainly not what I expected. A burly man with an unruly crop of curly hair and tattoos down his arms and across his chest. Rings adorn both his nipples and moving my gaze downwards I see he’s got a Prince Albert cock piercing. This chap is no stranger to pain, and it is easy to see why this sort of play would appeal to him.

  The idea that he likes a bit of discomfort is reinforced when I make my presence known with a purposeful clearing of my throat. Duncan reaches out his hands, takes hold of his sub’s nipple rings, and uses them to pull the man to his feet. The hard nubs stretch out from his chest, and the sub gives a loud groaning sigh, a sign he’s enjoying the combination of pain mingled with pleasure. He’s a pain slut! I begin to feel easier about the situation.

  Standing aside, I let them negotiate the scene, close enough to hear, but far enough away to give them a semblance of privacy. Then I nod, giving my approval for the scene to proceed, and take a further few steps back, letting them have the stage to themselves.

  Duncan first binds his sub to the table, making sure the hand and ankle cuffs are tight enough to keep his body taut, but loose enough so as not to restrict blood supply to his appendages. After stepping back to admire his work, he applies a lotion all over his sub’s body, massaging it into the skin. The careful attention causes the man to start to writhe, and for that he receives a sharp slap and terse instruction to be still. A command he obviously struggles to obey as the lotion is applied to his half erect cock, which quickly becomes hard under his master’s touch. I smile, whether or not wax will be dropped there, Duncan is certainly making sure his dick and balls are well covered, almost reverent in the care he’s giving to that part of his anatomy.

  Moving to his table Duncan collects a blindfold, and, after tenderly smoothing his sub’s head, insists on a verbal assent he’s doing okay and correctly reminds him of his safe word. Then he ties the black cloth around his head. If I had a checklist for a perfect BDSM scene, I’d be ticking every item off right now. As far as I can see, Duncan hasn’t put a step wrong. Pulling up a chair, I relax into it, taking the weight off my aching leg. Tonight’s duties aren’t arduous at all, in fact, I’m transfixed by the tableau in front of me. I’ve been on both the sub and Dom’s side for wax play before, and it’s something I personally enjoy. My cock twitches and begins to swell as if in camaraderie with that of the man tied down on the table.

  Now we’re getting to the main event, I notice, as Duncan lights the candles which I’ve already checked are made of soy wax―they’re the safest, burning at a fractionally lower temperature than other types, and slightly less likely to cause skin irritation. Ryan’s obviously taught the Dom well.

  Not wanting to keep his sub waiting overly long in anticipation, Duncan pauses for just the right length of time before picking up a red candle, and, after a terse command to ‘stay still’, begins to dribble wax in a line from just below the sub’s throat, following down the sternum, but halting just above his neatly trimmed pubic hair. The sub’s body jerks as the hot liquid causes a momentary burn, but his bindings hold him firmly in place. Next Duncan draws a horizontal line, just under the nipples across his chest, this time the man keeps control, and a slight twitch is the only sign he’s feeling any discomfort. Then Duncan pulls back, and a large glob of wax is allowed to drop onto a nipple, the heat intensified by
the metal of the nipple ring. That causes the sub’s whole body to shudder and for the first time, a groan escapes his lips. I can almost feel the sting and burn myself, and I adjust myself in my leathers, engrossed in the smooth performance of what I now realise is a Dom who’s taken his lessons to heart, and the palpable enjoyment of the sub.

  Another candle, this one blue, and now Duncan pays attention to his sub’s legs, drawing on them as if on a canvas. From experience, I know exactly what the young man will be feeling, a burn creeping over his skin, almost unbearable for a split second, and then fading away to a pleasurable, gentle warmth. Theoretically, his body should process the pain and transmute it into arousal, which is evidently the case as his cock is bobbing against his stomach, and even from my position I can see it hardening to almost impossible proportions. Duncan takes his time, painting his picture, weaving the wax close to, but never quite touching that most painful area on a man’s body. Captivated, I can’t draw my eyes away, my cock’s straining almost unbearably against my leathers, mentally I’m sharing every drop of wax with the sub.

  Duncan’s drawing this out, the sub’s excitement is growing; audible sounds of longing and frustration coming from his lips until the Dom builds up to the finale. And there it is! A line of wax along his shaft. A scream rings out, almost too shrill for such a burly man.

  Duncan immediately pulls away, blows out the candle and reaches for his sub, taking his dick in both hands. Massaging his balls, heavy strokes up and down and pulling at the piercing until the man suffering his attentions doesn’t stand a chance. Within seconds the sub is shouting out in ecstasy, cum is shooting out in long white ribbons up and over his chest. Duncan rubs it into his skin, mixing it with the cooled wax. I can’t see from my position, but I suspect the man’s eyes have rolled up into his head, and that he’ll be floating on the most incredible high. I breathe deeply and concentrate, far too close to coming myself, and needing a moment to bring myself under control.

  When suitably composed, I stand, intending to leave them their time to indulge in aftercare, but I wait to check the last stage and am satisfied when Duncan takes a plastic card he left for this purpose on the table beside him and starts to remove the hardened wax gently; a job made easier by the lotion applied earlier. He glances over at me and we exchange nods, mine hopefully conveying the scene was a pleasure to watch, even though it’s left me with churning balls. As I watch the competent Dom take care of his sub with such glowing affection, an unexpected wave of envy comes over me.

  Making my way through the now heaving club, I retrace my steps to the bar area and, seeing by the clock that I’ve completed my allotted time, pass my DM vest over to Master Donavan. My lips curl up as I see he’s been chatting with a very pregnant Mia, wife of Jon Tharpe, my boss at Grade A and part owner of the Club Tiacapan. It’s hard not to remember the first interaction between Mia and Donavan, as it wasn’t exactly quiet or reserved. It had to have been a year ago, her first visit to the club and she’d hit him. But if I recall correctly, it was his fault, and his actions that had triggered such an extreme reaction. She’d earned her first punishment from Jon that night, and at that time it wouldn’t have seemed possible she and Donavan would have become friends. But it’s clear, over time, that’s exactly what’s happened.

  Sweeping the memories from my mind, this time I take the offered whisky from the bartender who’s replaced Ralph, having decided I won’t be playing tonight, so there’s no longer a need to keep my head clear. If truth be told, I haven’t scened for a while now. My last mission in Amahad was so frantic I had no time for extra-curricular activities, and of course it was there that I’d been shot. On my return, I had the excuse that my legs needed time to heal, but that justification no longer holds sway. I still get a thrill out of coming to the club, but my heart just hasn’t been in playing.

  But the reason why completely escapes me.

  Chapter 2

  Sean

  “When you figure it out, let me know.” Although I’m only hearing the words in my head, the sentence seems to echo around me, hovering in the air.

  Gazing into the bathroom mirror as I shave, the question Zoe, now the wife of the Emir of Amahad, had asked all those months ago, as well as the answer I had given to her, rattle round my head as though they’re haunting me. Just one day was enough for her to sum me up as an enigma, unable to understand who or what I was. I’d asked her to let me know when she’d worked it out. But she never did get back to me with an answer. Even after we’d become close friends, while I was serving as her, as it turned out, rather unsuccessful bodyguard, and we both ended up kidnapped and injured, the mystery remained. Who, and what, am I?

  Fuck if I know.

  Oh, the basics are easy enough; I’m thirty-six years old; I have a great job working for Grade A, work which takes me all over the world, a role that I enjoy, or did, before I was wounded. But my private life is another matter. Zoe’s comment that I was neither one thing nor the other hit down deep. Was it time I made a decision and came out on either one side or the other?

  Holding my head still, as I carefully trim my goatee, I look into the blue eyes reflected in the glass, then note what are politely called ‘laughter lines’ are now undeniably obvious. Although my shoulder length, but nonetheless carefully groomed, dirty blonde hair isn’t yet showing signs of graying, I’m unable to hide it; age is creeping up on me. Is it time I started to leave my playboy days behind and settle down? Fuck, I’ve no idea what a life like that would even look like.

  Slowly shaking my head I, yet again, shelve such deep thoughts for another day, unsure whether I’ll ever be able to come up with an answer. All I know is a sense of deep dissatisfaction with my life has come over me, and it’s as if I’m standing at a crossroad, not knowing which way to turn.

  Stepping back, I straighten, but my mind refuses to stop racing. Saturday night at the club, for example, I got my kicks watching a scene but came away restless and unwilling to find a sub to play with or to submit to someone myself. Since my recent injury and extended recovery, I don’t seem to have the same appetites I once had, and one night stands don’t interest me like they used to. What previously gave me gratification seems jaded now.

  Was it that I’d come so close to death? The insight into my mortality? The knowledge that I’m vulnerable, just like anyone else? That I’m getting older? Giving up hope my reflection will be any better than me at providing any answers, I finish my daily ablutions and return to the bedroom, pulling on a tailored shirt and expensive suit. Grade A ensures that its operatives are paid well, very well. But then we ought to be. In the field, we risk our lives almost on a daily basis. Being a CPO means being prepared to take a bullet for the person you’re protecting. And that’s part of the problem; that question of my expected longevity that makes me cautious about introducing any stability into my life. I might not be around long to enjoy it. But is that what I crave? Something more meaningful? Fuck, it’s probably the fact I’ve been desk bound for too long while waiting for my leg to fully mend that has engineered this sense of restlessness and discontent. Perhaps when I’m back out in real world, I’ll relish my freedoms again.

  Glancing at the alarm clock by the side of my bed I see, despite the time taken for introspection, I’ll still be in good time to make this morning’s briefing. With any luck, Ben will have relented, will have accepted I’m fit enough, and will assign me to a real case. Since I returned to work five months ago, I’ve just been doing paperwork, and my feet have become itchy staying close to the modern offices situated in the Docklands area of London. Assigning others to do the job I love so much has become wearing. I’d rather be out there, on the front line myself.

  I took this flat, which is nothing more exciting than a typical bachelor’s pad, as it’s centrally situated and not too far from the office. A twenty-minute hop on the tube via the Jubilee Line and then another on the overground Docklands Light Railway will take me there in thirty minutes. Like any other morning,
I have no expectations there’ll be a vacant seat on either train in the busy rush hour, and now I’ve ditched the crutches no one will offer me their place. Not that they always did even when my disability was more visible. Unless I sidled up to someone sitting under a ‘Please give up your seat to someone who needs it’ sign and exaggerated my incapacity.

  Reaching the platform, pausing only to grab a copy of the free paper, Metro, I leap on board the first tube to arrive, and stand, leaning against a pole. In a practiced move, I read what’s going on in the world swaying gently with the train as it rattles around the curves. The DLR is only slight less crowded, and again I’ve no option but to stay on my feet, but I’m used to that. Then a short trek from the station and I’m walking through the glass and chrome business district of the Docklands to arrive at the building housing the headquarters of Grade A.

  “Hey, Sean! Good Morning!”

  I wave at Sandra, the receptionist, as I enter the building without stopping to chat, hopefully giving off the vibe that I’m in a hurry. She’s the worst gossip in the world, always good-naturedly trying to extract information to titillate her fellow workers at break time. I’ve suggested to Ben we should use her in interrogations; a couple of minute’s conversation with her and you’re spilling the beans about things you never expected to divulge! I’ve quickly learned it’s best to steer clear unless I want my personal life known throughout the organization. Sandra’s innocent enquiry of ‘did you have a good weekend?’ is usually followed by questions which tend to prompt far more than you ever wanted to say. I’ve often wondered whether she was trained by the intelligence service.