by Selena Kitt
When she got to The Block, she noticed Beast’s car in the lot with a sinking feeling in her belly. She didn’t want to have to see him. Not if they weren’t going to be paired together. In fact, the thought that he was paired with someone else, that he was going to be doing to some other girl what Mark would be doing to her…
And what, exactly, would Mark be doing to her?
Commitment. Follow-through.
Okay, fine. You asked for it, asshole.
She was about to go to boot camp. Sex boot camp.
The door was open today. She didn’t have to knock.
Stepping into the bar in the daytime was surreal. It wasn’t anything like the loud, flashing, throbbing heartbeat it was at night. There was a strange peace, a silence here in this normally noisy place.
A man vacuumed the carpet next to the dance floor. A woman went by in the shadows, heading towards the kitchen with a cart full of supplies. A few men in suits sat at a table with the head chef, likely discussing some sort of business.
High overhead, ceiling fans hung from long poles, whirring quietly. A few wisps of hot steam rose from the dishwasher behind the bar as the bartender opened its door.
No one stopped her as she walked through the bar, feeling incredibly self-conscious. Did they all know why she was here? What happened downstairs? But once she’d opened the door to The Bottom Floor, all she could think about was Mark. Would he be angry, after last night? Apologetic?
A bouncer was sitting on a stool, manning the door. He wasn’t the one who had stopped her the first night—Ed, she remembered Beast saying. But he checked the list and she was on it, so he waved her through. She’d asked Erich about the bouncers there during the day time, when she’d called to talk to him about not being assigned to Beast.
He’d explained that he liked to always have some muscle around. “It’s for your safety,” he’d told her. Participants were carefully screened, but it was better to take precautions, just in case. Having some muscle around at all times could put a quick stop to anything that got out of hand.
Mark hadn’t told her where to go—she’d actually assumed he would meet her at the door again, like last time. She walked down the long hallway, past all the closed doors. They all had numbers on them in ornate, gold lettering. Sitting at the bar, there was a smart looking blonde woman wearing black pants and a white button-down blouse, adding receipts.
She was the only human being Tilly had seen, aside from the bouncer down the hall on the other side of the door. The place was strangely quiet.
“Um.” Tilly cleared her throat. “I was wondering…”
“Oh! I didn’t hear you come in.” The blonde looked up, tucking a stray strand of her short blonde bob behind her ear, smiling at Tilly in welcome.
“My name’s Tilly. Mathilda Beeston.” God, she hated saying her full name. “I was supposed to have an… uh… appointment. With—”
“Oh, you’re Tilly!” The blonde’s smile widened, more friendly than perfunctory now. She reached for a small file box beside her, the kind that held index card, opening it and flipping through. She handed Tilly a key card, the kind that they use in hotels, and she pointed back to the hall Tilly had walked down. “He’s expecting you. Room Four.”
“Room four,” Tilly repeated, taking the key card with a hand that trembled just slightly, before turning and walking back the way she came.
She found room four and ran the key card through. The light went from red to green and she opened the door.
Her heart pounded in her ears as she closed the door behind her.
It was a small, plain room, painted a very boring beige. For some reason, she’d expected red walls and black leather. The Fifty Shades stereotype. But it was more like the rooms she entered whenever she went to get a massage, aside from the lack of windows here. There was an adjustable table in the middle of the room. The light was low, but she saw a candle lit on a corner shelf and could smell sandalwood. Below the shelf was a thick futon.
The walls were beige, but there were abstract paintings mounted on three of them, in muted reds, oranges, and yellows. She’d expected pictures of naked women, but no. Still, there was something about the paintings that evoked a response in her.
In the other corner was a small table and she saw a piece of paper on it. There certainly was a lot of reading and homework involved in this whole thing, she thought, approaching the table slowly. She glanced around at the edges of the room, wondering if there were cameras. She had asked Erich outright if there were, and he said there were security cameras mounted behind the bar, but they didn’t keep the feed more than twenty-four hours once it was reviewed, and there were none in the private rooms.
She put her key card and purse down, picking up the piece of paper and seeing instructions printed on it. Simple, unadorned, a sans-serif font. Arial maybe.
The instructions were as simple as the font:
Undress completely.
Put on the blindfold.
Kneel in a submissive pose.
Wait.
At the bottom of the sheet, printed larger than the rest and centered in red, was this:
Safe word=tequila
Tilly snorted. That’s what Mark had been getting her drunk on the night before when they were upstairs at The Block. The tequila that had made her far too flirty and him too forward. The tequila that had broken down her usually unbreachable walls, making her vulnerable to Mark’s advances in his Jeep as they sat in the parking lot.
But it hadn’t been quite enough tequila, had it? She couldn’t go through with it. She’d rebuffed him and made him drive her home. When she’d walked barefoot up the driveway, she was pretty sure she’d never see Mark again, because she wasn’t going to go back for training. She’d been thinking it, even then.
But here she was.
All right, Mark, she thought, you get your way after all. Who gives a fuck? It might as well be you. Mr. Commitment isn’t interested in making one.
Mark wasn’t such a bad guy, she told herself, as she obeyed her first instructions as a submissive.
She undressed, knelt down, and waited.
Chapter 12
Tilly’s heart lurched when the door opened. She almost looked up, just out of habit—not that she could see anything through the blindfold—but she managed to keep her head bent, submissive. She waited to hear the door close and it didn’t.
Had the wrong person walked in by mistake? How humiliating would that be!
But no. She knew better. People could be very vulnerable in these rooms, tied up, blindfolded, and the establishment was strictly run so that no unauthorized person had a hope in hell of getting involved. Whoever had that key card was meant to have it. It had to be Mark.
Tilly was about to ask him what he was doing, but remembered the protocols. So many rules. She’d even gone through the handbook in the parking lot. You’re a sub. Keep your mouth shut. No talking unless he gives you permission. The only exception is the safe word.
Just when she thought she couldn’t stand it another moment, the door finally closed. She heard the clunking sound of something metallic being placed on the little table in the corner. There was another silent pause. Was this a test to see if she would wait quietly, humbly, without asking questions? Was she supposed to be frightened? Aroused? Or was the dom simply indicating he didn’t give a damn what she thought? She heard him move towards her.
Tilly tensed, holding her breath, all too aware of how naked she was. They kept the room quite warm—she’d noticed the thermostat on the wall set to seventy-five degrees—but even so, her nipples were hard, exposed to the air. Mark had kissed her last night. He had touched her, through her clothes. He’d tried to get further, but she hadn’t let him. And yet, here she was, kneeling on the floor, naked in front of him.
He didn’t speak to her at all. Instead, he moved her around just exactly as he pleased. She imagined him looking at her, taking his fill of what she’d denied him the night before. Tilly was a
little afraid, wanting to ask him what he was doing, what he was going to do next, but that was against the rules.
When he took her firmly by the upper arm, letting her know he wanted her to rise to her feet, she couldn’t help the little gasp that escaped her lips. He didn’t acknowledge this, moving her, as if Tilly was some Barbie doll to be posed this way or that. He moved her over to the table. Her thighs bumped up against the edge of it as he bent her over. Grabbing her by the hips, he raised her so she was standing on her tiptoes.
Then he began exploring her with his hands.
Oh God, I can’t do this. Tilly was glad for the blindfold, then, glad she couldn’t see him.
His hands went everywhere. Slowly, authoritatively, his hands moved from one part of her anatomy to the next, as if assessing, analyzing. They started at her hips, pushing firmly, then moved up to her waist. Tilly’s breasts were pressed flat on the table, so he couldn’t grope those, but his hands moved around her waist to her belly, pushing, assessing. She felt utterly humiliated as the hands kneaded the flesh of her belly—not taut and flat and tanned like Frankie’s, but soft and slightly rounded.
She couldn’t help but wonder if Mark was thinking she was fat. But the hands were firm, sure, taking what they wanted, when they wanted. He didn’t seem to mind her flesh, but rather, those hands reveled in it. This turned her on. She felt herself growing wet as the hands moved over her back, pressing down on the base of her spine as if to test the strength of her legs and feet—to see if Tilly could stay on her toes. He seemed to be testing how much spring she had in her legs—like kicking the tires of a car he was considering purchasing.
There was a very soft, low grunt, but Tilly couldn’t detect whether it was one of disapproval or satisfaction. Gloating, perhaps? Now, at last, Mark would have his way with her when he’d been frustrated last night. Here, “no” did not mean “no.” Only the safe word had that power.
One hand moved all over her back, her shoulders, her neck. The hand paused on her neck, gripping it from behind, squeezing gently at the sides. Tilly loved her neck to be massaged, and when she had professional massages often directed the masseuse specifically to that area. But it was clear these hands were not there for her satisfaction. They were measuring, evaluating, perhaps planning. She’d seen master carpenters handle boards this way.
Then the hand on the back of her neck went around to the front of her neck, and stroked her there. The hand went to her forehead and gently but firmly pulled it back so that Tilly’s neck was stretched, elongated. She understood she was to stay that way as the hand stroked the front of her throat. All along, the other hand rested on the base of her spine.
Suddenly, both hands gripped her shoulders, massaging them in an assessing sort of way, testing their strength. The hands then moved under Tilly’s armpits, big hands that gripped the front of her shoulders, pulling her up. Now Tilly supported her upper body with her hands on the table, arms straight. The dom then moved his hands down to her breasts, massaging lightly at first, then squeezing.
Tilly’s cheeks flushed—she felt humiliatingly like a bit of ripe fruit being examined by an experienced shopper. And still, her excitement mounted. The imposed passivity of her silence, unable to direct the exploration, aroused her even more.
Now the dom came around to stand in front of her, cupping one breast in each hand, alternately squeezing and lifting each one. It was as if he was trying to ascertain whether they were the same size and weight.
Then he moved around behind Tilly, and began to feel her ankles of all things.
She felt like some kind of horse being examined before a race. The hands squeezed almost painfully the muscles of her lower calves, kneading them with great strength. The hands slid up to the knees, feeling the sides of the joints there, and then on up her thighs.
She and Frankie had gone in for a waxing—Frankie had insisted on getting everything waxed, making her look like she had the crotch of a ten-year-old girl. Tilly hadn’t allowed them to take everything, but for the first time, she’d agreed to have her pussy lips waxed, leaving a little triangle of hair above. For two days now, it had felt as if she was walking around naked all the time. She felt like she had no way to hide her arousal—and in truth, she didn’t.
Now both hands worked one thigh at a time, feeling it front, back, and sides. This was like a very firm massage, and Tilly almost cried out, but restrained herself, biting her lower lip. God, she was getting wet. Did he feel it on her thighs? Her whole body stiffened and began to tremble as the hands got closer and closer to her mound.
Tilly was pulled back from the edge of the table, just a little. Her hands were still on it, holding her upper body. She involuntarily curved her spine in this position, jutting her ass up and back, exposing more of her, displaying her complete submission to this humiliating exploration of every inch of her flesh.
The dom’s hands paused. Tightened. A soundless disapproval. She sensed it. His hands seemed to say, no. She’d taken too much initiative. He gripped her hips firmly, tilting them to their previous position. It was the dom, not Tilly, who would decide how much her ass jutted out. She flushed at his silent correction.
The hands now moved swiftly over her hips, buttocks, and lower belly. Tilly couldn’t help but get excited. Her breath came faster, although she tried to control it. Her heart began to race. Her feet ached, from being up on her tiptoes, but that was nothing compared to the ache between her legs.
He explored her as if he was trying to absorb through his digits every nuance of her shape and dimensions, as if he wanted to be able to produce an exact replica, a statue of Tilly. She wanted to cry out, wanted to beg him for what her body longed for. Fuck me, damn it! But she didn’t dare.
Then the hands came to rest on her hips. Oh God. Tilly trembled with anticipation. Was he naked? Would she hear his belt buckle, the unzipping of his pants? Or would she simply feel the soft tip of that hard spear he must have between his legs. She bit her lip when the hands moved back and cupped her ass, fondling, squeezing.
His fingers edged closer and closer to her crack, causing Tilly an ecstasy of fear and delighted anticipation, but then they moved further away again. He did this, again and again. Each time, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when his fingers slid away.
Then, ever so lightly, a hand reached around, slid down her belly, and barely cupped her mound. She felt his fingers brush her pubic hair, tickling it lightly, not quite touching her skin. Fingers stroked her hair there, just above her cleft, driving her wild with desire, but she didn’t dare to push up against them.
He was in charge of her body—she wasn’t. That much he’d made clear. Her body did what it did at her dom’s command, and there was nothing Tilly could do about it. Mark was doing all the things he wanted to do last night, apparently, but Tilly had refused. She was beginning to understand the reasoning behind the “no dating” rule. There really was more to learn here than she’d ever realized.
Then one hand pressed down between her shoulder blades while the other bent her elbow. Tilly instantly understood she was to lay her upper body on the table again. The dom stepped away from her, towards the corner table. She felt his presence leave and then come back again. She felt the heat of his body, although he hadn’t touched her with anything but his hands. She had no idea if he was clothed, naked or something in between.
He grabbed Tilly’s wrists and pulled them firmly behind her back. This forced her cheek against the cool surface of the table. Something thick, a leather strap maybe, was wrapped around her arms just above the elbows, fastening them together.
Tilly realized, with a little jolt of panic, that even if her dom opened the door now and set her “free,” she would be helpless to release herself from this bondage. She could wander about The Bottom Floor naked and blindfolded for the rest of the day, helplessly flapping her lower arms, unable to get free unless someone undid her.
This idea scared her a little. And then… it began
to arouse her.
The master opened Tilly’s legs further with his palms. Then he moved to the side of the table, and made some sort of mechanical adjustment—she was wishing she’d paid more attention when Mark showed her how he adjusted the table—making it rise beneath her until the front of her entire upper body was resting on it, legs wide open, toes on the floor. Tilly thought she could feel his eyes resting on her, examining her, appraising her, studying her ass and pussy in intimate detail.
Then a hand smacked her bottom—hard. She cried out and heard him chuckle. Tilly gasped and turned red, embarrassed by her body’s response. Her ass clenched, and her pussy tightened, too, around nothing.
There was another smack—just as unexpected as the first. She bit her lip, trying to keep from crying out, but then there came another, and another. He wasn’t consistent—she didn’t know when they were coming. Always unexpected, she began to tense in between, in anticipation, then relax, just a little, after the sting of his hand on her bottom. Her ass was on fire, and so was her pussy. It contracted and released all on its own, as if begging for his fingers. She knew her behind had to be a nice, rosy hue by now. Probably matched her cheeks.