by Dee Palmer
The meal debris has been cleared, more drinks poured, and the music continues to drift. I can’t help feeling eyes on me, and as much as I trust Gabriel has done everything since learning that Jason wanted to come, I can’t help feeling….
A stunningly dressed woman in a cream white and gold gown and simple gold mask approaches. Her eyes I can see are a sharp green, and her gorgeous, glossy red hair sparkles with gems. She’s holding an envelope, and Gabriel turns briefly to acknowledge her arrival before pushing his chair back. The heavy wood on the stone floor scrapes loud and is effective in silencing the room. I guess that was the intention.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, it seems Mistress Eve has the results of the auction,” he booms with obvious excitement. There is a ripple of applause and a general rumble of anticipation. Gabriel waves his hand to quiet the guests and takes the envelope from Eve.
Gabriel straightens his shoulders and puffs his chest. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. It’s not like he doesn’t know the outcome. He opens the envelope and pulls out two cards, before he can query, Eve speaks.
“There were two winning bids, monsieur.” Her thick French accent holds some trepidation. Gabriel looks at the two cards, and I can see his has his insignia with five hundred thousand Euros neatly written above his signature. What that actual hell? Seriously, the man is insane, throwing money around like it’s confetti even if it is for charity. This is silly and what’s even crazier is someone else just as mad.
“Fortunately though, there is only one winner, and as Host I will claim hosts privil—”
“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t see that on the back of the card.” Eve points to the other card and Gabriel flips it, a deep angry rumble I can almost feel escapes past his clenched jaw.
“Eve.” His warning tone is low, and I stand quickly to try and interrupt to ease the burgeoning tension. So it’s in dollars and Gabriel has lost. I can see he’s pissed. Still, it’s for charity, and as long as it’s not in pounds, I can breathe easy. I place a calming hand on Gabriel’s arm.
“It’s charity, Gabe. Come on now, this is hardly Eve’s fault.” I tip my head for Eve to maybe take a cautionary step back. Gabriel is radiating all the animosity of a raging bull. Gosh, he really did want this last session, or more likely, he really doesn’t like to lose.
He turns to me, and I can see the fury in his eyes, but with everyone watching and Eve now holding the winning card, there is fuck-all he can do about it without losing face. He flashes a wide smile that doesn’t remotely reach his eyes under the mask and addresses the room.
“The very lucky winner, it would seem, is a somewhat crafty American. I have been outbid by a not-so-favourable currency exchange. Let me see, the winner is…” He holds out his hand again for the card and reads the name. My breath catches if only for a second. “Zanni, not so stupid after all.” He chuckle is strained, but the gathered guests all join in with a light smattering of laughter. “If you would all make your way back to the great room, I do believe we are all set. The gallery will provide a somewhat better view, and the rooms will all be opened when Mistress Selina drops her whip for the very last time.” He turns to me, and my hand flies to my chest at the melodramatic sigh he expels and the sadness in his eyes.
“You old softy, Gabe,” I whisper so only he can hear, and he responds with a tender smile. He steps up to me and takes my hand, bows low, and while maintaining eye contact, he kisses the back of it. He stands briskly and turns, but before we step away he growls at Eve.
“This isn’t over, Mistress Eve.” His threat and tone are deadly serious, and I’m not surprised Eve takes a step back. Gabriel is kind of scary when he’s mad, and I’m thankful, he’s not mad at me. Eve gives a curt nod and lowers her eyes, stepping back to let us pass. Gabriel leads me away from the room, and back down the stairs to the great room.
Most of the guests filter up to the gallery, although there’s still a good crowd gathered at the edge of the room. There is a sturdy, ancient looking St Andrew ’s cross at one end of the hall, and I still haven’t seen the winning bidder. Even so, it’s not like I will need to guess; they will show their face soon enough, or not, what with all the masks.
“Who is it that won?” Gabriel just shrugs, his eyes still searching the crowd. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Look, can you help me with these damn buttons? I need this skirt off.”
“Really?” His pitch elevates with the excitement in his voice.
“Consider it your conciliation prize, because yes, I need help here.” I point to the tiny buttons securing my skirt to the bodice section of my costume.
“My pleasure.” His voice drops, and his tone drips salacious promise.
I narrow my eyes, although he can’t see, so I let out a low growl. “Don’t make me regret this, Gabe.”
He holds his hands up in mock surrender and all innocence. I doubt there is an innocent bone in his body.
I have my back to the cross, and Gabriel is working the buttons behind me while I unhook the ones at the front. Eve comes over and coughs to announce herself, I think I hear Gabriel hiss, and I choose to ignore his sulky demeanour. This was his fucking idea.
“Mistress, Zanni has requested not to be tied to the cross. He promises not to move unless instructed,” Eve informs me.
“Very well, I just need to go over some things with him before we start.” I give a curt nod.
“He has assured me that won’t be necessary. He’s happy to proceed. ‘Let you do your thing’, I believe he said.” She shrugs lightly and offers a thin smile.
“He doesn’t want to speak to me?” I may not have attended a Gathering before but I have performed and not speaking to someone before engaging in something like this is unheard of—crazy even.
“No, Mistress. He was quite insistent on that.”
“Really?” I know this isn’t right, even at one of these notorious Gatherings, there has to be some semblance of protocol. I would never do this with a client without discussing limits and boundaries, but this isn’t a client I remind myself. This is just for show and the winner is happy. No, the winner is insistent and it’s his money, then I guess I should be too. “I don’t give a flying fuck if he insists. I will not raise my whip to anyone I haven’t spoken to.” I smile sweetly to counter the sardonic lilt to my sentiment.
“He doesn’t speak English.” Eve rushes, as if defending the idiocy of the winning bidder.
“He bid in dollars?” I quirk a dubious brow, which she can’t see. Still, I’m sure she can hear the suspicion in my voice.
“He only speaks French.” She shrugs again and I exhale a breath filled with exasperation.
“You know what, fine. I will ask my questions and you will translate.” I turn on my heel before she can agree. She quickly catches up to my side.
“Of course, although he’s already on the platform,” she explains.
“So?”
“There isn’t room for all of us up there.” Her voice is hesitant when she clarifies. “It is only a small plinth.”
“I don’t need to be up there, Eve, and I can assure you my voice does carry. You will hear me perfectly well, wherever I chose to stand, even from the other end of the room.” I point out but I really won’t be that far away.
“Oh, yes, very good.” Her smile is more like a nervous twitch. I walk over to the elevated cross. It’s only raised by maybe a foot in height but Eve is right, there isn’t much room up there. Zanni has his back to the crowd, his chest is pressed against the wood of the cross with his arms already stretched out, untethered and perfectly still. Eve manoeuvres herself so she is slightly in front of him but facing me.
Eve translates each question and I’m pleased I get visual confirmation in the form of a nod or a shake of Zanni’s head, so that when I’m finished, I’m completely satisfied that he understands the purpose of this display, and I know his boundaries. He has none, apparently. Well, none that were evident from the list I briefly went through. I’m not concerned, becaus
e this is not the arena for exploring limits; tonight is just for show
My skirt drops to the floor and I step free. Gabriel draws in a sharp breath through his teeth and I think either curses or praises the lord. The latter is somewhat at odds with the whole evening, but whatever. My tight black bodice nips at my waist and skims my hips. I’m wearing black silk panties that are sexy yet cover quite a lot of skin with very little of my arse cheeks showing. My silk stockings match my underwear with a thin seam up the back. The thigh-highs are secured with a black lace garter belt, and my cute lace-up ankle boots are sky-high with a deadly spike to the heel. I keep the mask on but lose the elaborate feather headpiece and gloves. I need my grip to be sure, and I can’t have the tail of the whip getting tangled in the feathers when I do an overhead crack.
I gather up my whip and uncoil it, and the heavy leather falls with a tump to the floor. I work it around, loosening up my wrist, stretching out my neck, and desperately trying to draw in some calming breaths. Why am I so damn nervous? Most of these people are three sheets to the wind already, and I’m sure they are more interested in gaining access to those rooms than watching some ex-Domme showing off. Let’s get this over with.
I requested a small bucket of gasoline and a spare whip to dip the end for some slightly flashier whip wielding a little later. I have a routine in mind and a flaming cut back would be quite a spectacular finale in this dimly lit and cavernous room.
I wasn’t lying when I told Gabriel there would be no blood tonight but that doesn’t mean I won’t slice every inch of clothing from Zanni, the winning bidder. By the time I’m finished, he will be breathless, desperate, and looking very much like he has lost a serious fight with a shredder. My smile is full, wide, and utterly fake, plastered on for the occasion.
After Gabriel’s effusive introduction, I slowly turn and make a small curtsey to show my appreciation. My eyes dip for a second, and when I rise to my full height, I take my first look at the man standing at the cross. My heart does this stupid flutter thing because from the back, he’s certainly built like Jason. So damn tall and broad in the shoulders, with defined muscles bulging due to the wide-stretched pose. He is holding on to the top of the horizontal bar of the cross and the silk shirt may be oversized and almost floaty. The fabric is so fine it moulds like a second skin where it touches. He has it tucked in at his trim waist and, oh wow, this man has an arse I could bounce quarters off of. The room is too damn dark to see the colour of his hair. Even though my breath is coming a little faster, I only have to take another cursory look around the room to see that the man on the cross is not so dissimilar in build to several in the audience. Any of whom could pass physically for Jason. But there is only one Jason.
I shake myself as the room falls silent with palpable anticipation so intense it sizzles. I slice the air with a cattleman crack, and the sound echoes off the high walls and fills the space with an ear splitting sound. The tip of my whip kills the flame of a candle placed just to the left of Zanni’s boot. There is an audible gasp from the audience, but it’s swallowed by the quick succession of the following crack, and a second candle flame is extinguished. The smoke from the candles drifts up in white looping tendrils. I take a step forward, flicking and cracking my whip in a succession of slow and rapid figure eights. I move carefully in a small circle. I watch Zanni out of the corner of my eye, for any sign of movement. I watch his fingers, his jaw perhaps, or the rise and fall of his breathing for any signs of change. Interesting.
He’s either done this before, or perhaps his hearing is impaired, or just very, very controlled. The noise alone has every single person in the room jumping each time I strike out yet nothing from Zanni, no matter how close I flick the tip.
“Losing your touch, Mistress?” I hear Gabriel goad me from the shadows. I won’t rise to the taunt. I’m absolutely calm. However, I do flash him a wry smile before I turn back to Zanni. It’s time to spice things up.
I take a step back, raise my arm high and let the tail fly, the tip, slicing a clean line on Zanni’s forearm. The skin is exposed; I cut only the delicate fabric of the shirt. I do it again and again. Long slashes appear across his back. His sleeves are in tatters and the crowd is going wild and baying for blood. I won’t give them that, but it’s time to mark that tantalisingly perfect skin I can now see more clearly.
“Remove the shirt.” Two assistants instantly relieve the statuesque Zanni of his tattered clothing. He hasn’t uttered a word, no cry out or even a flinch, but then I haven’t really touched him…yet. The remaining candles artfully arranged at the base of the cross flicker and cause a series of shadows to dance across his back. As dark as the room is, there is no hiding the fact that this man has a very beautiful back, sculptured to perfection. He has paid a great deal of money for the privilege of being at the receiving end of my whip.
I tilt my head as I get a flash of recognition, but before it takes hold and drives me crazier, I curse my baby brain and riotous hormones for playing tricks on me. It’s not surprising I’m seeing Jason everywhere. He’s always in my damn head, always in my dreams, imprinted on my damn soul, despite my best efforts. I close my eyes and force the feeling to pass. When I open them, I pull my arm back and fire off one overhead crack followed by a single flick along his shoulder blade. He doesn’t move, not a twitch, not a single muscle, and sure as shit, he doesn’t cry out.
These strikes might be light but that’s the thing with a single tail, it doesn’t matter because each touch bites. It’s true, a whip-master can slice skin like tissue paper with a single flick, but even a butterfly kiss will mark the skin and sting like a bee. Without fail, each strike I administer will still hurt like a motherfucker. I should know.
I place several light stripes across his shoulders and back, avoiding the kidneys, taking care to avoid wraparound. I find with each strike I’m getting more worked up, which isn’t like me. There’s something about Zanni that is starting to irritate me. It’s like he’s taunting all my efforts not to harm him, which is probably crazy. This might just be the way he enjoys his punishment, but since I didn’t ask him that specific question, all I can assume is I’m having zero effect on this ice man.
“Turn,” I command. My voice is hoarse, and I take a moment to grab a quick drink. My arm aches from my efforts, and the sheen of sweat makes my skin glisten in the low lighting. I have to swap whips for this. I pick up the one with the tip I had previously coated in gasoline and carefully light the end on a nearby candle. A large ice bucket filled with water is placed beside my feet by some servers for when I have finished this particular display. The flame licks along the Kevlar and ripples up to about half way. There is an awed hush and I spin on my heels and raise my arm in a swift and showy Tasmanian cut back. A burst of flame explodes with the crack and lights the whole room with a flash of brilliant light. The applause is enthusiastic, but in that moment my world drops away as the whip falls from my fingers. There is a hiss of steam as the flaming metal hits the water in the bucket beside me. My hands fly to my mouth, holding back the cries of agony at the sight that momentary light exposed.
That scar on his abdomen, the one Will gave him. It is Jason.
Of course it’s fucking Jason. You’re an idiot, Sam, and he’s probably laughing his arse off under that mask.
I turn before I make eye contact that will not only end this, but very likely end me. Gabriel is instantly at my side.
“Is everything all right, Mistress? Are you injured?” His hands are on my shoulders and he looks me briefly up and down, concern evident in his voice. I shake my head lightly; if I tell him, this ends now.
“I am fine, Gabriel, just warming up.” With extraordinary effort, I keep my tone impassive. I’m not done, I’m not nearly done. I smile, though I can feel it doesn’t reach my cheeks and Gabriel’s eyes crinkle with worry as he steps away. I bend to pick up my own trademark whip, handmade and coloured the same as the red mist that now clouds my vision.
I strike his thigh, hi
gh enough for him to know this is no longer a demonstration. His trousers protect his skin but only for the first strike. I pull back, and in a lighning-quick succession of volley moves I slice his skin on each thigh in turn, until it’s a plethora of tiny slashes and without hesitating I move to his torso. I throw one long strike across his chest and pause, the stripe is instantly obvious; the blood takes a little time to spot and trickle. He still hasn’t moved, and I can no longer stop myself. My body is shaking from the power of feelings and raw adrenaline coursing through me. I have to see his eyes. His mask is so ugly. The long nose and deep brow have certainly made for an admirable disguise, but none of that would’ve made a blind bit of difference if I had actually seen his eyes before now.
They bore right through me with so much…so much of what? I have no idea. He left me. I can’t breathe. My head is spinning, and my heart is the only sound I can hear thumping and pounding in my ears. I can feel my skin tingle, and a wave of sadness surges from my guts to just behind my eyes. I hold his gaze because I can’t do anything else. I’m rooted to the spot, an intangible force holding me there. My heart is breaking all over again with him being here, so very close, in front of me, in front of everyone. That thought is like a slap to my face, a sharp awakening, and suddenly I don’t feel heartbroken. I feel ambushed, and I’m instantly pissed off. This is not how fucking adults behave. I’m carrying a baby! I pull my hand back and strike once more completing the pattern and watch to see the blood rise to fill in the cross I have cut across his heart. His jaw twitches and still nothing. I lose it.
I swing my arm out to the side and strike once more, only this time, he steps into the line of the whip. The momentum of the throw makes the whip coil around his outstretched arm, capturing the remaining leather in his hand. I stumble two steps with the jolt, right myself, and pull back on the handle so the whip is taut between us. Fuck that, there is more than just whip tension.