The Dom of My Dreams: A BDSM Novel

by M. F. Sinclair

  Seton leaned against the bar and ordered drinks. A topless girl with a purple and red mask poured red wine into two glasses and placed them in front of us. She smiled invitingly at Seton, but he ignored her, shifting his body sideways so that he faced me.

  “That reminds me,” he said after taking a quick sip of his wine. “You haven’t chosen a Safe Word yet. Have you thought of one?”

  I took a drink and frowned, considering his question. No, I hadn’t thought of a Safe Word, but only one word sprung to mind right now, one that perfectly described Seton’s warm, sexy tones.

  “Velvet,” I uttered, smiling at him.

  He raised an eyebrow. “What a lovely word! Why velvet?”

  I felt my face flush with heat, and I gulped down my drink as if my life depended on it. “Because I…like velvet,” I finished lamely.

  Amusement lit his eyes. “You drink when you get nervous, don’t you?”

  I blushed again and reached for my drink, then stopped. Yes, I drank when I got nervous. It was a compulsion. It kept my mind busy, if only for a few seconds. And it wasn’t just alcohol I drank—though I preferred it, for it helped block out my emotions a little—it was anything. Once, I swallowed a whole glass of milk before a job interview, and I hated milk.

  Seton chuckled, adjusting his spectacles over his nose. “I like that about you. It’s quite endearing.”

  My breath caught as his thumb moved teasingly up and down my wrist, sending little sparks of electricity shooting through me, and I had to avert my eyes to fight desire. I scanned the smoky club, my eyes roving over scantily-clad female slaves and their demanding masters. Drinks were passed over heads—the poor servers moving slowly, trying not to stumble over their shackled ankles. Energetic activity came from one particular area. I craned my neck, wanting to see what was going on. A woman clad in nothing but black leather emerged from the large crowds. The cat suit that hugged her slim, feminine body was so not Edwardian!

  She was the only woman at the club without a mask. She was beautiful—tall and slim with glossy hair that spilled down her back in a blue-black curtain of silk. Her full, luscious lips were perfectly outlined with red-blood lipstick. A rhinestone choker that resembled a dog collar decorated her neck, and she wore patent leather shoes with heels not unlike the ones Seton gave me. She looked to be around her mid-thirties.

  As I watched, the woman walked languorously, seductively, toward one of the men at the table. Upon closer inspection, I realized that the man was Victor. The dark-haired goddess smiled down at him when she approached him, then unbuttoned his trousers, drawing his erection from a tangle of bunched-up cloth. I gasped when the woman yanked the fabric that covered her crotch, revealing a pink, bald pussy for everyone’s hungry eyes. Gasps and moans followed in her wake as she leaned forward and kissed Victor, long and slow. Then, before anyone could react, she turned her back to him, straddled his legs, and lowered her body to his erection. The crowd whistled and catcalled as she rode Victor hard and fast.

  Mouth dry, I reached for my drink and gulped it down all at once. Then I glanced at Seton. He was watching the dark-haired woman, his eyes half-closed with passion.

  “That’s Tatum Fox,” he said, voice thick with arousal. “Or ‘Raven,’ as she’d rather be called. She’s the club’s dominatrix. My friend and I trained her for several weeks. She and I were involved during those weeks, but now we’re just friends.”

  I snorted softly. “I didn’t know Edwardian ladies wore skintight cat suits made of leather.”

  “She’s no one’s slave here, so she dresses as she pleases.” His eyes moved down to my corset. “She made that pretty little outfit you’re wearing.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “She made this?”

  He smiled. “Yes. She also made the black leather dress you wore the other day. Raven is a fetish-wear designer. She owns a shop in Manhattan. Designing naughty lingerie and outfits is her passion, and it keeps her sane during her day job.”

  “Which is?”

  “She’s a tax lawyer.”

  Speaking of day jobs… “I’ve noticed that you wear suits. Do you do something else other than writing?”

  He sipped his wine. “I’m an art dealer. I bought that vacant spot down on State Street. My gallery will open in about two months, if everything goes well.”

  “Interesting. And which one of your two professions is your true passion?”

  “I’d say both. But there are other things I’m equally passionate about.” The look he gave me just about liquefied my insides.

  Flustered, I switched my gaze back to the woman just in time to see Victor shudder underneath her. He had come, and “Raven” slid off of him, a contented expression passing over her feminine features. She ambled over to another man. Then she crouched in front of him and pulled out his cock. The man grasped her silky hair as she drew him slowly into her mouth. I let out a sharp intake of breath when she began to stroke her hand up and down his erection at the same time as she worked him with her mouth.

  Arousal rippled through me in staggering waves and I suddenly had to get away from the luscious Raven and her very public act. I needed a break, needed to breathe, to find sanctuary somewhere. So I asked Seton where the bathrooms were and made my escape as soon as possible.

  To my luck, the ladies’ room was empty—not a single lewd act in sight. I claimed a stall and tried to relax. The atmosphere in this club was too heady, too hedonistic. I wasn’t a prude, but I simply wasn’t used to this kind of uninhibited behavior. I’ll tell you one thing—erotica is fun when you read it in a book, but it’s in a whole different league when you encounter it in real life.

  After my bathroom break, I stepped into a quiet corner of the club, to an area with walls full of erotic pictures. A brief glance through them showed that these were not run-of-the-mill porn images. They were paintings on canvases, and they were beautiful.

  They were mostly of nude men and women, their bodies twisted in strange positions, tangled up with one another. Others were holding each other forcefully. The colors used for the paintings were black and gray, sometimes brown or dark green. The images seemed to be sending a message of struggle, misunderstanding, pain, sorrow, loneliness, sexual tension, lack of communication, and unexpressed love. At least that was my perception judging by their body language and facial expressions. The paintings were dark and erotic, almost sinister. I stared at them with fascination, getting lost in their beauty.

  There were two paintings that I particularly liked. The first one had a naked couple in a dark room. They were in profile, and the woman kneeled before the man, her hands tied behind her back, an odd mixture of excitement, fear and apprehension twisting her delicate features. The man—who had what appeared to be a riding crop in his hand—was clutching her hair, forcing her to look into his furious eyes. The portrait reminded me of the two people I saw on the stage earlier. I felt my body begin to tingle, and I had to look away from the picture.

  The second painting had two nude men holding hands. They were standing side by side, holding hands, but looking away (as if they were ashamed to be holding hands). I liked the message that the artist seemed to be sending: there is nothing wrong with platonic love between two men, even if society does not allow it. The two men wanted to be close, but their reluctance was obvious. I read the caption underneath the image, and it said, “Dedicated to one of my two best friends. You know who you are. Just be yourself, mate.”

  The artist was obviously very talented and imaginative, and I wondered who he was. Straining my eyes, I peered at the tiny signature at the bottom of the caption. It was signed “Q.A.”

  “Lovely, aren’t they?” a low, husky voice with an Australian accent said from behind me. “ ‘The Marquis de Sade of the art world,’ everyone calls him. The artist has lost his passion for art, however. He’s lost passion for everything, in fact, and this may be the last of his brilliant work.”

  I turned to glance at the owner of that magnetic voice, a voice a
lmost as sexy as Seton’s, and my breath left me when I looked up—and up and up—at the tall, dark and gorgeous specimen standing before me. He looked a lot like Seton—same formidable manner, same elegance—but he was a good three inches taller than Seton, and his features were rougher, harsher. His straight dark hair was neatly cut, long sideburns outlining his chiseled jaw. He had a long nose, thin but luscious lips, and the most enigmatic looking silvery-blue eyes I had ever seen. A black cravat was tightened around his neck, giving him a refined, graceful look. He looked like the proverbial Edwardian gentleman. Were I not at a fetish club that catered to turn-of-the-century aficionados, I would have thought that he was a ghost from the past—or a very sexy vampire coming to claim my neck.

  The man grinned and stuck out a large hand to shake mine. “You must be Marjorie Fordham. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Quinn Armitage.”

  I swallowed hard as we shook hands. It took me a minute to form a coherent sentence, not only out of surprise that Seton had mentioned my name to others, but because I had to stop staring at him. Seton was gorgeous and enigmatic and seductive, but this man was…dark. Brooding. Pensive. Morose. But in a very alluring, intriguing way. And the rich, husky tones in his Aussie accent were…wow. Be still my heart!

  “Nice to meet you,” I managed to croak. “Quinn Armitage. Q.A. You’re the artist!”

  A soft smile touched his lips as he gazed past me and skimmed the canvases on the walls. “I was. Tragically, I no longer paint. Haven’t been able to touch a brush for more than a year.”

  Why? I wanted to ask, but it somehow seemed rude to do so, especially when he was talking more to himself than with me.

  He must’ve read the question in my eyes, because he said, “Personal reasons.”

  “They’re truly beautiful,” I praised, turning back to the paintings. “I think almost everyone can see themselves through these paintings.”

  “That’s the idea.” He was silent for a few moments. “Miss Fordham, have you ever been rejected by someone you loved?”

  I spun back to him. Huh. What a strange thing to ask a total stranger. There was no emotion in his voice, but the flicker of pain that seared in his eyes told me that it had happened to him, and that that was the base of losing his passion for art.

  Yes, I had been rejected by someone I loved. My mind flashed back to my childhood, when I overheard my parents arguing one night. My father confronted my mother, enquiring about her sudden disappearances during the day. In tears, she admitted that she had been seeing another man. She begged for forgiveness, asked for another chance. That would have been fine, except that it wasn’t the first time she’d cheated on Dad. It had happened before. Many times before. My father, out of love, forgave her every time. His love for her was stronger than his masculine pride, but it nevertheless hurt him. Furious, my father stormed out of the house and didn’t show up until the next day, drunk and miserable.

  It hurt to see him brooding around the house, so I rushed over to him, wanting to comfort him, to show him that I loved him, but he pushed me away. He turned angrily to me, his eyes moving over me with clear distaste.

  “Go clean your room,” he yelled drunkenly. “You fat slob! You’re nothing but a fat slob. Tell me, what have I done to deserve such a lazy and ugly kid?”

  I was seven years old at the time and a little on the chubby side, but that soon changed. I went on a diet and lost ten pounds in one week. You’re probably thinking that a child so young wouldn’t starve herself to be thin, but when you’re desperate for your father’s approval, you’d do anything, regardless of your age. My weight loss made no difference to my father. He didn’t call me fat anymore, but he continued to call me ugly and carried on rejecting me. I was never good enough for him, so I gave up.

  Over the years, my father and I had hardly ever spoken. My mother called often, and I asked her how he was and she told me he was fine. I once asked her if I was really his daughter. Her horrified reaction told me that at least he hadn’t been forced to raise a child that wasn’t his. I never did find out why he detested me so much. Perhaps he simply didn’t love me.

  “I apologize, Miss Fordham,” Quinn said, his voice jolting me back to the present. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Sometimes I forget that we’re here to have a good time.” His silvery eyes gleamed with forceful joviality. “Come. Let us make haste. David’s asked me to come fetch you. He’s got a surprise for you.”

  He crossed my arm over his and carefully ushered me toward the noisy area at the club, where people milled around tables, drinking and playing card games. I edge around a woman whose perfume scent was so thick it made my eyes water. Stifling a sneeze, I scanned the club, looking for Seton, but I didn’t see him anywhere.

  “How do you like my establishment?” Quinn asked me.

  My eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You own this place?”

  “Yes. It inspired me. What better way to capture people’s uninhibited nature and sexuality than at a fetish club? Unfortunately, this place serves no purpose anymore. But the chaps seem to enjoy it, so I’ve carried on with it.”

  “And how long have you and Seton been friends?”

  “David’s been my friend since university. We went to Cambridge together.”

  We walked slowly around the room, making our way to the—the stage.

  Shit!

  Apprehension shuddered through me, and I tried to rip my arm from Quinn’s, but he held me tight, refusing to let go.

  “Relax, Miss Fordham,” he said soothingly. “You’ll enjoy this. Trust me.”

  He practically dragged me to the center of the stage, his arms curving around my waist to hold me steady. I squinted at the people surrounding the tables through the glaring lights from the oil lamps. The guests were laughing, talking and, more important, ignoring us. Well, there was that, at least.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” Quinn’s voice boomed through the noisy room. The laughter and chatter came to a slow end. “This lovely young woman is an exhibitionist. According to my good friend, David Seton, she wants to be fucked in front of a roomful of people. So, we’re about to make her fantasy come true.”

  Cold dread bit through me as Quinn reached into his pocket and pulled out a strip of black silk. He moved in front of me and smoothed a large, callused hand over my cheek as if to comfort me.

  “Hold out your hands,” he commanded.

  Despite my trepidation, excitement surged, and I held out my hands as he tightened my wrists together.

  I waited tensely, wondering what else he would do. I scanned each table at the club, searching for Seton. Damn it, where was he? Was he going to leave me here like this? Was he going to watch me get fucked on stage? Was that the plan?

  I turned wary eyes back to Quinn. His gaze flicked over to the ceiling, where a lever of sorts dangled from wooden hedges. He glanced back at me, silvery eyes traveling slowly down my body. I adjusted my mask with my bound hands, feeling a rush of mixed emotions as I felt my body respond. Hmm. Maybe I shouldn’t fight this. This had been my fantasy, after all. But I wished I could fulfill it with Seton. Quinn was gorgeous and all, but he wasn’t Seton—my master, the one who should be here with me. So where the hell was he?

  Quinn grasped my elbow and positioned me exactly where the lever was situated. He reached up to it, pulling down the lever and bringing it to everyone’s line of vision. A flurry of claps and cheers came from our spectators, and I felt my insides liquefy with heat and anticipation.

  Quinn slipped my bound hands into a metal hook, and I gasped when he released his hold and the lever shot up, positioning my arms high above my head and thrusting out my corset-clad cleavage. My breath grew labored as I watched everyone watching me, arousal seeping its way within me in waves.

  With one hand firmly on my shoulder, Quinn lifted his other hand and caressed the top of my breasts. His fingers were warm against my skin, sending slivers of desire down my belly. He reached inside the corset, extracted the nipple chain, and gave it
a rough pull. Pleasure-pain flooded my body, and I couldn’t suppress a low moan of approval. He smiled seductively as he unlaced my corset, gently lowering the upper half so that my breasts were exposed.

  “Now for the pièce de résistance,” he murmured, loosening his cravat.

  He was about to blindfold me with it when a velvety-smooth voice thundered, “No blindfolds! She wants to see the people watching her. The blindfold would defeat the purpose.”

  My body trembled happily as Seton emerged from the saloon and charged into the stage. His spectacles and cravat were gone.

  “Missed me, darling?” he asked once he approached me.

  His hands encircled my waist, pulling me against him. I gasped when he rubbed his erection against my aching sex. A shiver tore through me when he stepped back and smiled at me, his green eyes twinkling with pure mischief.

  Uh-oh. I knew that look. In the short time I’d known him, I knew that look meant he was up to no good. He leaned forward and brushed a gentle kiss across my lips, then stepped away.

  “I’d say you’re about ready,” he said, inspecting me. Seton and Quinn exchanged smiles that spoke of bedevilment just moments before Seton uttered, “Raven’s trainees, please step forward.”

  Raven and four youngish men stepped onto the stage. They stopped in front of me, side by side, naked lust and admiration flickering in their eyes.

  Raven smiled at me, eyes a pair of glimmering obsidian stones. God, she really did look like a raven. “All right guys,” she said to the four men, her voice commanding yet gentle, “get to it.”

  The men stepped forward and began to touch me everywhere. One of them kissed my shoulders slowly, teasingly, his lips trailing a hot line to my earlobe and grazing his teeth over the sensitive flesh. Another one went straight to my breasts, yanking the chain. My breasts jutted outward with the movement. My third tormentor moved behind me, large fingers probing my anus. The fourth person, a mousy blonde-haired guy who didn’t look a day over twenty-five, flicked his tongue inside my other ear. The man toying with my breasts closed his mouth over one nipple and sucked in as he pulled on the chain.