by Roxy Harte
I watch Garrett smirk over the top of Kitten’s head as she curls against me, kissing me as she kissed Garrett, letting me know by a very obvious rub along my hardened erection with her painted palm that she is glad I am allowing my body to react within the moment tonight…and she wants me marked—not necessarily caring how I feel about that. It is the one annoyance of her full body paint, she leaves a trail, barely, but still, anyone looking closely will see the glitter and light powdery remnants of dried paint. I am never pleased when she leaves me marked. Depending on my mood I indulge or punish, keeping us both guessing, so tonight she purposely took a chance.
“Down, Kitten.” Recognizing the tone in my voice, Kitten drops to the floor in a long, slinky palm, palm, knee, knee crawl, ducking her head until she again reaches Garrett. She rubs her body along his pant leg, seeking safer shelter. Garrett points at the pillow beside him and, with a tragic, very theatrical pout, she plops lengthwise, then pops back up to plump the pillow with her paws before settling again. This time on her back, open and spread, displaying her shaved, painted pussy.
Morgana, silent until this moment, demands, “Can’t either of you control your cat?”
“We control her when we need to,” Garrett answers, shutting her down with the tone of his voice.
Eva, being Eva, remains as cool as ice. Only because I know her so well do I notice her grip tighten on her fork, but from her eyes, nothing, facial features, not even a twitch.
“So you’re here and it’s your choice to be here, but are you a victim or a participant?”
This last statement perks Kitten’s ears. Not meaning to, I obviously antagonize her to action. Not about to let some nobody claim the position she’s worked to acquire so ardently over the last few months. She responds by rubbing between my legs with her entire, very naked body, leaving a glittery trail everywhere her body touches mine. Sending Eva a look that can only be classed as pure evil, she manages to wriggle into my lap, rubbing her breasts over my chest as she buries her face into my neck, purring loudly, staking her own claim of ownership on me.
I pull my fingers through Kitten’s curls, getting the expected reaction. Kitten purrs and rubs her face on my cheek, showing her pleasure. Lifting my hand, I call over a waiter and am immediately served bite-size squares of cheesecake drizzled in chocolate, each topped with a piece of strawberry. It is a favorite here, and one Kitten immediately perks up for. She rubs her face against my hand, begging for bites. “Does Kitten want a bite?” I tease.
She rubs her entire body against me and I feed her a bite of cheesecake with my fingers as a reward. She chews delicately, nibbling her way to my fingertips, not stopping at my fingers but licking them clean, her tongue swirling around each finger with a provocativeness that the entire room responds to. Like it or not, our table has become center stage. The look on Eva’s face is no longer cool or collected. Staring down into her plate, she bites her bottom lip. At least it is a reaction.
Fortunately, a distraction appears tableside in the form of George. I’m sure he couldn’t help himself, a little private voyeurism for the doctor. As Garrett’s best friend, he is a regular at our table, even though he isn’t a big fan of mine, and Kitten hides from him every chance she gets. Just his appearance puts her on edge, and teasing bites of cheesecake are not even lure enough to keep her in my lap. Sulking, she angles behind the chairs to return to safer harbor, the one farthest from the doctor at the moment, and curls into a tight ball.
“Visitor?” Dr. Psycho asks sarcastically.
Catching the gleam in his eye, I believe it is time the scene that has been brewing is starting. I decide to let the cards fall where they may. “Doctor Psycho, this is Eva.”
“Ah Eva, I’ve heard much about you.” He tilts his head to the side, taking in Eva’s attire, conservative red dress, not provocative, rather business attire, a power suit. “I’m glad you could finally join us. You’re a bit—overdressed though. Will you be wearing Lord Fyre’s collar tonight? Or perhaps a Club Collar?”
Subtlety is not Psycho’s strong suit. I control my urge to smile, explaining to Psycho, “I’m not sure that Eva has answered that question herself.”
“Well, my dear, you are either a Dom or a sub, which is it?”
Eva manages to look vaguely confused but, lifting her chin a notch, answers with some manner of dignity, “Sub.”
“Does she understand the rules here, Lord Fyre?” Garrett asks and I realize the scene has already begun.
“I’ve explained the way things work here on the Members Only level,” I answer, watching the panic shear through her eyes. Eva has been to enough clubs abroad to realize the hole she just dug for herself.
“A witty woman is a treasure; a witty Beauty is a power.”
George Meredith, Diana of the Crossways
Chapter Twenty-Five
Eva
One moment, fork in hand, stabbing lettuce, and the next, three sets of hands are holding Fyre down and all hell breaks loose around me as the man called Doctor Psycho looks to his left and security is suddenly tableside, hauling me to my feet and publicly stripping me of my red dress—ripping threads, tearing fabric, and my staid, black, company-issued pumps are thrown to the wayside—hell, someone even manages to strip me of my undergarment holster and 9mm. I’ve never lost control of my weapon before, but then I’ve never run across a team as determined as the one employed by Lewd Larry’s. Seeing the smug grin on Kitten’s face is more humiliation than I care to encounter ever again.
Fortunately Garrett Lawrence steps into the melee, ending my dishonorable disrobing—me left wearing bra, garter belt and stockings—explaining what has happened and how the game will be played from here. Since I have failed to provide verification of already being owned, I will be forced to wear a Club Collar. The rules of this new game are fairly simple, the first condition of wearing said collar being to do whatever any Club Dominant asks me to do, and secondly, any Club Dominant can demand sole ownership any given evening.
Upon explaining conditions one and two, Garrett made an immediate announcement that I would be his property for the remainder of the evening. He further announced that we would be going onstage for a demonstration. It seemed that the Members Only Lounge suddenly packed out, standing room only, hushed voices competing over soft music. But then, as the lights dim and I am spotlighted, silence explodes. Total and utter silence.
I scan the room for Fyre, but he is nowhere. Did security drag him away? Did he leave willingly with that awful purring woman? Too little time to worry as I am led forcibly center stage by a three-man security team. Garrett is already there, waiting, microphone in hand. He is a showman, that is obvious, however, his power isn’t as blatant as Fyre’s. Garrett’s power emanates from within, drawing in the unsuspecting with ease, and even knowing his intent, I am captivated by him. It’s unexplainable, the way he holds his body with a quiet confidence, waiting; the way he smiles, brilliant and welcoming; the way he lifts out his hand, expecting me to take it, knowing I will. He draws me in. Standing so near to him, my heart goes wild, my defenses melt, the heat of the spotlight melting what’s left of me.
The crowd makes me nervous.
The stranger, Garrett, puts me at ease.
Serious psychiatric counseling is in order. I couldn’t accept Fyre’s collar but I can stand with this man, wearing a Club Collar, and feel the thrill of anticipation building? Where is my fear? Where is my anger?
I remember being at Whips so many years ago and feeling this feeling. I remember thinking, this is what it feels like to be alive. Garrett beckons a female slave pushing a stainless-steel tray. On top rests several lengths of rope in different colors. My heart sputters in my chest, gearing up for the Triple Crown. I know Garrett feels my nervousness when he chuckles.
“It isn’t too late to change your mind.” Garrett’s words boom through my head even though he whispered so softly I know the microphone he holds didn’t pick it up at all. “You can leave.”
> “I didn’t come to San Francisco just to turn around and leave,” I say, sounding way too smart-assed to my own ears.
“But that doesn’t tell me why you are here,” he whispers intimately, his hands moving behind me. In a blink, he has unsnapped and removed my bra.
Our bodies are so close, I know he feels my breath, my trembling, and I struggle for inner calm, not daring to meet his eyes, hating that he senses my fear, my embarrassment. I search the shadows behind him for Fyre, but don’t find him. Time stalls, and it is suddenly impossible to stand still. I settle for quiet fidgeting, fighting the natural fight-or-flight instinct, clenching my guts and sphincter muscles at the same time, adrenaline flying into every muscle. I make the mistake of looking up at the same time he utters, “Relax.”
In that single command, I feel very much his prey. A feeling magnified when he turns me to face the audience and, lifting the first piece of rope, snakes it around my elbows, pulling my arms tight behind me. He tightens and loops, covering upper arm to wrist in pristine white rope and, after twisting another loop to snake around my waist, secures my arms effectively to the back of my body. His hands are tender, soft caresses with each pass of rope as he loops my waist again and again.
When the spotlight pans out, I look into the crowd, not seeing the people who make up the crowd, but forms. I seek only the form that is Fyre.
“He’s stage right,” Garrett whispers to me and I have no doubt he speaks of Fyre.
I turn my head, seeing him, leaning nonchalantly in the shadows behind the stage. I assume he considers himself well hidden—and to the general public, he is—but I am so attuned to the man my inner radar finds him easily in the shadows. It is one of those moments, our gazes locking. He winks and I relax. After all the fuss at the table and really freaking out to the sound of a bullwhip, all it takes is his smile and a wink and I am regretting not letting him make me his slave publicly. Instead, I am now bound, center stage, and at Garrett’s mercy. I realize then that he is speaking into the microphone.
“Your slave is beautiful, bound, every movement of her body is restrained, even her breath is under your control, because with each inhale, she feels the ropes.”
Unbelievable. I am the victim of a lesson in bondage. He takes another piece of rope, red, and squatting, passes it around my ankles. “Her bondage makes her feel safe. Cared for.”
Oh great, now I feel safe. Thank you for explaining how I should feel, Master Garrett.
“As you loop and tie, make each movement slow, sensual, so that she can savor the intimacy of the rope tightening against her skin, the rope a second lover. Watching you, she falls in love with you, your power, your mastery, all over again. Never forget that she is watching every movement, so practice your skills in private. When you are tying her, it must be with skill.”
I look for Thomas in the shadows, finding him, not believing that he is allowing this to happen, but then why wouldn’t he? This is his world. These are the rules he plays by every day. Did Henri know what situation he was sending me into? Was he insane to think I could mentally survive this? I struggle against the ropes, remembering the last time I was restrained.
“She has an acute perception of suffering.”
My mind panics and it is all I can do to focus on Garrett’s eyes as he loops rope, seeing that it is he, not Liam, holding me captive. My pounding heart threatens to explode. I fight the urge to start screaming. I am losing my mind, this is insane. This is how it feels to slip over the edge.
“She needs her ropes tighter.”
No, no, I think the ropes are plenty tight enough, thank you.
And with a flick of his wrist, the ropes cinch my arms tighter, the ropes that coil from just under my breasts to barely above my bellybutton crush in and I am suddenly very aware of my breath, very aware of my heartbeat. Oh God, oh God.
“With her elbows drawn together behind her back, her breasts thrust higher, she stands before you tall, proud and gloriously female.”
I lock my eyes on Garrett, trying to remember how to breathe.
“It is your responsibility to be acutely aware of the subtlest change in mood, and be prepared for a quick release in case of an emergency situation. Don’t trust the speed of your fingers if she panics and suddenly can’t breathe.”
He produces another length of rope, pink, and with a pinch and a pull, passes the rope between my legs, looping and twisting to quickly form an unyielding saddle against my clit. Against my will, my body and mind both refusing to believe that this is possibly happening, pleasure rises through my clit.
“Remember, she gives herself to you willingly and each time she allows you to bind her, it is your audition for the next time, so make every performance the best possible experience for her.”
I am not entirely sure what he is doing to the ropes between my legs, but he can stop now, really.
“Her body will long to arch against you as the lines of rope holding her legs together from thigh to ankle remind her how desperate her situation is…she has given herself to you completely…she wants this, to feel helplessness in your arms. It is a powerful turn-on knowing that no matter how hard she struggles, she cannot escape.”
While he speaks, he tightens and ties until suddenly my every breath is shifting the ropes and I am struggling, the binding between my legs becoming an exquisite, unbearable torture. Ohmygod.
That Garrett is using my body as a hands-on teaching model adds a spark of irony to the moment as my body rides a wave of exquisite pleasure. I refuse to breathe, not one more breath! I will not…
“It is the freedom of knowing that she will not be harmed that allows her to experience a pleasure otherwise not attainable.”
I will not breathe! I will not…
Oh God, maybe a little air, if I just breathe in really, really slowly…
“It is a myth, ladies and gentlemen, that you own your slave, when in fact, it is the submissive who chooses the Dominant. You see, only the submissive truly knows her own needs, seeking out instinctively the Dominant who can offer her the freedom to embrace her inner darkness, allow her to battle her inner demons in the safety of his embrace. Only when she finds one capable, deserving of her, will she submit and allow you to dominate.”
A soft stroke down my cheek makes me realize that, one, my eyes are closed, and two, I am crying. Opening my eyes, I find not Garrett’s blue eyes staring into mine but Lord Fyre’s brilliant brown ones. And yes, it is Lord Fyre standing before me, transformed. He no longer smiles, but exudes such a force that, were I not tied and bound, I would drop to my knees.
I inhale, my lungs threatening to explode, deprived so long of air, making me gasp as one almost drowned. For the moment, I forget the building pleasure between my legs, as Lord Fyre places first one arm around me and then the other, making sure that his hands close over mine. Except for a black leather jockstrap, he is nude.
“Ready?” Garrett asks, interrupting all thought.
Ready? Ready for what? Isn’t my Master here to rescue me?
My Lord of Fire nods and suddenly it is he being wrapped in rope, loops that bind us together, tightly, our chests crushed together, our cheeks touching. He grunts and I realize that Garrett has managed to trap his genitals in a tight coil.
“Don’t move,” Lord Fyre commands.
Too late I realize the nature of this newest rope design—I move, his ropes tighten, he moves, my ropes tighten. Oh God.
“Why are you doing this?” I whisper against his face.
“You are mine, Eva.”
“Why? I know that you know why I’m here,” I whisper, my voice cracking with very real fear.
“Do I?” he asks, rocking his hips, pulling the ropes between my legs, causing sweet, sweet friction.
“Oh God!” I moan out loud.
The crowd responds with a lewdness of their own. Barely a classroom demonstration now, are we to be the cheap sideshow?
I arch my back to stop the pleasurable torment.
> “Don’t move!” he squeaks and bites down hard on my shoulder, and I realize the full sadistic intent of Garrett’s rope trick. If I move, I cause Fyre pain. If he moves, he causes me intense pleasure. I relax in my constraints, letting every muscle go limp.
“Thank you.” He sighs against my neck.
“Don’t you move either. I will not orgasm in front of a crowd of strangers!”
“Then you still refuse to submit to me?” he asks, his voice filled with incredulous agitation. In a very sadistic maneuver, he begins a gentle rocking motion with his hips. “You refuse to let me Master you?”
“No. Yes. Stop moving!” I cry out, “You’re confusing me.”
He doesn’t quit rocking, and neither has Garrett stopped instructing. “If you find yourself in the possession of two such lovelies, and have the exquisite desire to master them both, and you desire that they be forced into a position of making love, it is merely a matter of stimulating the right body parts. The brain is not entirely sure whether to process the sensations as pleasure or pain, arousal or fear, resulting in sensual overload. In other words, it takes very little to push your helpless submissive over the edge…”
“Let me master you, Eva,” Fyre begs. “Trust me a little, and I can help you learn to trust me completely.”
I grit my teeth against the delicate pleasure happening between my legs. “I already asked you to Master me, I asked you to fix me, I asked…” Oh God, no, oh God, oh God, oh God.
“Relax, Eva. Let me love you,” Fyre commands, a soft whisper in my ear. “Come for me now, Eva. Come for your Master.”
“I-ah, a-a-ah-ahhhhh, God yes, Master m-me-eeeeeee.”
“Your bound lover will tell you by her reactions if what you are doing is working,” Garrett concludes.
* * * * *
I sit at Master’s feet, and yes, he is Master, since I so gloriously announced its truth in front of not a few but a hundred spectators. Each of whom has managed to stop by Master’s table to offer a congratulatory remark or lewd comment in passing. I have not decided whether I will be canine or feline in this strange new rabbit hole I have fallen down, but I do know I want my inner critter to have very sharp teeth, because if one more person scratches me behind the ears, offering another stupid remark like, “she’s such a sweet thing” or “darling, just darling”, I will scream and bite and claw. What is the punishment for attacking the nice Members Only Dominants? It will be well worth it, whatever it is. I am not sweet, and I am definitely not darling. I have been neither since I started packing a 9mm under my arm. God, I miss my gun.