Cuffed & Collared

by Samantha Cayto

  “Great,” Regan replied, suppressing revulsion over the idea of seeing so much of her future clients. She was pretty sure few of them were going to look like her magazine models, although the killer’s victims certainly had. “I still don’t understand why they want this.”

  “You don’t have to. Just try this on.”

  Veronica shoved the dress in Regan’s hands and showed her the dressing room. The leather was surprisingly thin and supple, and while it was tight and made her breasts pop out in an alarming fashion, there was no denying it made her feel feminine as well as sexy. Standing in front of a full-length mirror, she gave a little twirl and was pleased with the way the tea-length material cut on the bias flowed around her legs.

  There was more, of course. Veronica gave her black fishnet stockings and black knee-high leather boots with three inch stiletto heels. Regan wore nothing but flat, comfortable shoes on all but the nicest occasions.

  As she tottered around the store, she wondered if her clients would be happy if she fell on them as punishment. Even small details were attended to by the club owner. Regan’s short hair was slicked back and dramatic make-up was applied. The other woman went so far as to glue long, fake talons in blood red to Regan’s short nails.

  It took over an hour, and when she was done, Veronica stood and stared Regan up and down. “Wow, did you miss your calling, honey. You look fabulous, a natural born Mistress.”

  Regan couldn’t help grinning over the compliment. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror and couldn’t believe the exotic creature staring back was actually her. Casual and comfortable was her typical style, and yet the tight, curve-hugging dress felt good, very good. It moved with her like a second skin, and even she could see how hot she looked in it. The thin leather allowed her hard nipples to jut out, and their state had nothing to do with the temperature of the store. A small drop of dew tickled her inner thigh, because the dress didn’t allow for underwear. She felt wicked.

  But there was more. Being a cop meant feeling strong, confident, and powerful. The badge and gun she normally carried were part of that, as were the muscles she worked hard to keep toned and cut and the kempo karate she practiced. And yet, this was different. There was power in these clothes. She felt as if she could control a man with simply a look when dressed this way.

  “You look like a Mistress, but you have to learn to act like one, too,” Veronica observed.

  “I have no problem giving orders,” Regan assured her, unable to stop looking at herself in the mirror.

  Veronica snorted. “I bet. There’s more to it, though, as you well know. We have a variety of instruments we use for chastisement.” She held up a riding crop.

  Regan didn’t take it right away. She stared at the thing, wanting to giggle almost at the clichéd absurdity of it all. But eventually, she took it from Veronica and weighed it in the palm of her hand. It was fairly light to hold, although it was made of a stiff leather. It would certainly hurt far more than a spanking. She wondered if, when it came down to it, she could inflict this type of pain.

  “Try it,” Veronica urged in a low voice.

  Regan slashed the crop down in an arc and was startled by the satisfying sing it made. She swept it up and down once more. Then she smacked it against the side of one boot, and the sting of it heated her blood and made her breath quicken. Her reaction was not because she enjoyed the pain, but because she now had a sense of what she could do with it to someone else. To a man.

  Mistress Regan was born.

  Chapter Three

  Kyle paced along the sidewalk in front of Club Nemesis, trying to work up the nerve to go in. Christ, what was wrong with him? He was usually decisive and almost fearless, when it came to business anyway. He had a plan of action, carefully thought out, at least as carefully as anything could be with his grief still raw and his mind numb from shock.

  Jazz was dead, and the sexy, aggressive cop had been right. His friend had been into female domination.

  After a horrid night filled with nightmares of finding Jazz’s body laced disturbingly with sexy images of the cop, Kyle had called the number on the card Jazz had given him. One phone call filled with cryptic answers to his careful questioning left him in no doubt as to the kind of service provided at this club.

  It was located in what was left of the old Boston Combat Zone, a corner of Chinatown that had traditionally housed lots of strip clubs and adult bookstores. Civic pride had cleaned up most of it, but it was still a part of town where one could spend a mostly legal, yet morally iffy, time.

  Kyle stopped in front of the club’s door, determined to go in and find out what was going on. He owed it to Jazz, although there was this little nagging part of his mind that kept telling him he should have called Sergeant Ball-buster immediately with what could be a lead in the case. Perhaps if he hadn’t found her so disturbing to his peace of mind on a personal level, he would have. As it was, he wasn’t sure he wanted another encounter with her. Not only had she left him seething with anger, she had also left him aching with want and need. An unpleasant combination and one he didn’t want to repeat.

  Tamping down his doubts, Kyle entered the club and found himself in a fairly sedate and nondescript reception room. It looked not unlike his dentist’s office with several chairs, tables and magazines. Only a quick glance at the reading material told him he wasn’t going to find Golf Digest or Sports Illustrated in this place. At the far end sat a young woman with white-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked young and innocent, and she smiled up at him.

  “May I help you, sir?” she asked.

  Suddenly, Kyle wondered if he was wrong about this place. Could it really be some kind of kinky sex club? Besides her fresh-faced look, the receptionist had on what looked like a suit jacket with a crisp white blouse underneath. She certainly didn’t fit his vision of a Dominatrix. He cleared his voice discreetly as he approached her.

  “Yes, I hope so,” he replied using the confident and commanding tone he had cultivated in his career. He was used to being in charge, and he wasn’t going to let the unknown of this establishment throw him. Stopping in front of the desk, he cleared his throat again, this time for effect, as if he were slightly embarrassed to be there, which of course wasn’t entirely untrue. He gave a deliberately charming smile back at the young woman. “A friend of mine recommended I obtain a membership in Club Nemesis.” He paused. “I hope I’m in the right place.”

  “Oh, yes,” the receptionist was quick to assure him. “Mr.…”

  “Ramsey, Kyle Ramsey.” He had decided to use his real name, because he knew it was good enough to get him admitted into any club, and he wasn’t going to take any chances in that regard. Besides, this type of business had to be discreet, so he was reasonably sure no one he cared about would find out. After all, he wouldn’t have known about Jazz if he hadn’t handed over the card in the first place.

  “Well, Mr. Ramsey, if you’d please have a seat, I’ll let Mistress Veronica know you’re here. She’ll be happy to help you explore whether Nemesis is the right club for you.”

  “Thank you,” he replied before taking a seat. Because the waiting area was a few feet from the reception desk, he couldn’t quite hear what the woman said into the phone the moment he turned his back on her. He assumed she was talking to Mistress Veronica, and he wanted to snicker over the cheesy name of what he assumed was the manager or maybe owner of the club. But there was nothing funny about a mutilated Jazz lying in the morgue this morning, and whatever had happened to him, Kyle believed it had to do with this sick place. No matter what kind of bizarre fantasy experience Mistress Veronica was selling, he intended to buy it.

  The magazine lying on the table in front of him was like something one might see in a spoof of kinky lifestyles. A burly man wearing a leather harness was genuflecting on the floor, arms tied behind his back, while a black woman in a red leather bustier stood with her booted foot resting on the back of his neck. The look on the woman’
s face was one of a conqueror, and despite the picture’s obvious staging, Kyle felt his cock stir.

  What the fuck’s the matter with you? And yet his body continued to respond to the idea of a dominant woman.

  His chest rose and fell in a deep breath, his eyes riveted to the scene, and only the sound of a door opening took his attention away. Looking up, he saw an older woman, conservatively, yet provocatively, dressed in a mini-skirted business suit, standing in an inner doorway.

  “Mr. Ramsey?” She greeted him with a warm look that managed to make him feel welcome.

  Standing, he gave a curt nod. “Yes. You’re Mistress Veronica?” He couldn’t help the tinge of irony in his voice.

  The woman apparently detected it, because she gave him an understanding grin. “Welcome to Club Nemesis, Mr. Ramsey. Please come into my office while we discuss your needs.”

  She escorted him through the door, down a short hallway, and into her office. Like the reception area, it was nothing unusual. He took a seat in one of the visitor chairs after Veronica sat down behind her utilitarian desk. He crossed his legs and waited for her to start the ball rolling.

  Obviously used to men having trouble asking her for what they wanted, she started up almost immediately. “I understand a friend recommended us to you. May I ask who?”

  “I’d rather not say, actually,” he demurred.

  “Of course. However, did this friend explain the nature of our services?” Veronica raised her eyebrows in question.

  Kyle took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Well, he said this was a good place to let loose. You see, I’m a litigator, a partner actually in a large firm here in Boston. My days are filled with tremendous stress. I have to make decisions and take responsibility if they’re wrong. It wears on my nerves after a while. I need an outlet. Somewhere I can go and leave the decisions to someone else.” He was making it up as he spoke, not really understanding what this lifestyle was all about.

  One thing was for sure, though, the anticipation of what he was about to get into was having a stimulating effect on his body. As with looking at the magazine, he found he was becoming aroused, the blood flowing into his cock, making it turgid. He shifted in telltale fashion, unhooking his legs and tugging a bit at his pants with one hand. The movement was not lost on Veronica.

  “If you need to relax, there are places where you can get a good massage,” she observed with a sly look. “This is not that kind of place.”

  “I know,” he was quick to assure her. “I’m not looking for relaxation so much as correction, absolution, if you will. I need someone to punish me, so that I can live with whatever mistakes I might have made.” God, was he saying this right? Was this what men came here for? He didn’t know. How could he? He was getting so far beyond what he had ever imagined doing.

  It was the right thing to say, apparently. With a sympathetic nod, Veronica said, “I believe we can help you, Mr. Ramsey. The women who work here understand what your feelings are and want to help you. There are strict ground rules, of course, and we do have a rather steep membership fee.”

  “Money isn’t a problem,” he replied.

  “Good.” She paused a second before continuing. “As it happens, we have a new Mistress, Mistress Regan. Because she hasn’t had time to book out her appointments with our members, she’s free to give you a session now if you’d like.”

  If he’d like? Kyle’s stomach lurched at the idea. He still wasn’t sure what they did here, but he was certain some amount of pain was involved. He worried he couldn’t hack it. Although he was used to the kind of discomfort that came from sports injuries, he suspected this would be different—the deliberate and sustained infliction of pain. Could he withstand it without getting angry and giving up?

  The memory of Jazz face down on his bed covered in blood hardened Kyle’s resolve. And he couldn’t deny his cock had gone hard with anticipation. It throbbed within the relatively rough confines of his cotton boxers, demanding to know what the provocatively named Mistress Regan had in store for it.

  “Yes,” he finally said. “I’d like that very much.”

  Mistress Veronica couldn’t hide her enthusiasm. “Excellent. Now if we could just get the financials out of the way first?”

  ****

  Within thirty minutes, Kyle was rethinking the sanity of his decision. It wasn’t the outrageous amount of money he had allowed to be charged to his credit card. He had expected this kind of kink to be expensive, and he hadn’t lied when he said money wasn’t an issue. No, it was the fact that he was kneeling painfully on a cold tile floor, arms pulled up straight over his head with wrists manacled and wearing nothing more than his boxers.

  He was well and truly trussed, although he hoped he wasn’t well and truly fucked, as in over his head pain-wise. Not to mention how two men were now dead, having been bound in this way by a sadistic woman. But, no, that was different. They had been tortured and killed at home. This was a business. No one was going to kill him here, but if he was smart and lucky, he might learn who was moonlighting as a serial killer.

  Lifting one knee, he winced at the pain already setting in with this vulnerable position. The tether that held his manacled wrists was attached to the ceiling, but it was some sort of soft cord, allowing him if he wished to simply stand up. Mistress Veronica had told him in a stern voice, however, that he was to stay on his knees or risk worse punishment from his Mistress for disobedience. She had suggested this little scene as she called it. It was a nice way of introducing him to what he wanted, she insisted, because it gave him some freedom of movement should the session become too intense. Maybe. He wasn’t convinced, and he had yet to meet his Mistress Regan, either.

  He felt foolish, to be frank. Flexing his arm muscles, he tested the strength of his confinement for the third time, and confirmed once again he was indeed incapable of freeing himself from the tether, his ability to get to his feet notwithstanding. This was no joke. He was really at this mystery woman’s mercy. What would she do to him? There was an alarming array of punishment items hanging against the wall—whips, straps, and the like.

  A shudder went through him, although it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. There was still a frisson of excitement running through his veins, and his erection strained against his underwear. Despite his lack of clothing, his skin felt hot. His heart pounded, and when the door opened, his breath froze.

  Regan hesitated, her hand on the door handle, a sliver of the punishment chamber visible through the opening she had just created. It was show time, and she wasn’t sure she was up for it. Veronica had said not to worry. The guy trussed up in this room was as big a neophyte as she was. He would have no idea whether she was a good Dominatrix or a bad one, and so long as Regan didn’t hurt him, Veronica was perfectly willing to let them bust their Femdom cherries with each other.

  Okay, you can do this. It’s the job. You always do the job whatever it entails.

  With that litany of duty recited in her head, Regan pushed the door all the way open and gasped with surprise, which quickly turned to fury. She entered the room and slammed the door shut behind her, and all the while, her eyes pierced Kyle Ramsey with her displeasure. Her gaze remained locked with his as she approached. Her stilettos made a menacing clack against the hard floor.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  Shit, indeed. So this was her unnamed client. Veronica said it was up to Regan to establish how she would address the man, and said clients often gave a fake name during the session, anyway. Regan would never have guessed that this arrogant man, who had insisted she was way off base looking into Femdom for the murderer, was the one waiting for her. The obvious question was whether he had lied about what he knew, or had he found out something about the club after the murder and decided to look into it himself. Either way, he was pissing her off royally, and her only consolation was her dominance over him—at least for the moment.

  Ramsey’s eyes showed his shock at her appearance. He watched her walk toward
him with wariness. She found the look satisfying. She also appreciated the vision the rest of his body presented her. Dressed, the man was physically impressive. Naked, the man was magnificent, and he wasn’t even completely naked. But what she could see caused the anger to take a back seat to desire.

  Long and lean, every muscle in his body was well-developed and clearly delineated. His corded forearms strained against his restraint, a sign of his agitation, she assumed. She liked the idea that her presence unnerved him. His skin glowed a healthy amber color under the soft lights of the room, and there was a slight sheen to his chest, as if he had broken out in a sweat. Even better. Best of all, though, was how his shorts tented in front, telling her he had conflicted feelings about the circumstances.

  Good. So she wasn’t the only one who suffered from an inappropriate case of the hots.

  As she walked toward him, he struggled to stand. She realized, with a quick appraisal of his bindings, that he could and decided she better take charge of the situation and keep him in his place. If anyone other than Veronica was watching, she needed to act the part of a real Dominatrix, and besides, the condescending bastard deserved it. She quickened her pace and, placing the ball of one foot at the back of his closest knee, pushed him down again before he could get all the way up.

  With a grunt, Kyle slammed to the floor. “Son-of-a-bitch!”

  “I didn’t give you permission to stand, boy-o,” Regan said in her best imitation of her father. When he whipped his head around and looked like he was going to argue with her, she made another preemptive strike by squatting down beside him and grabbing a fistful of hair. “You weren’t planning on speaking where you?” She tugged a little, just enough to get his attention. “Because I didn’t give you permission to speak, either, boy-o.”