Dirty Bad Savage

by Jade West

  Dirty Bad Savage

  Jade West

  Dirty Bad Savage © 2015 Jade West

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

  info@jadewestauthor.com

  Editing by John Hudspith http://www.johnhudspith.co.uk

  Cover design by Letitia Hasser of RBA Designs http://designs.romanticbookaffairs.com/

  First published 2015

  For Nancy

  Thank you for fourteen beautiful years of companionship.

  I hope they have squeakies on the other side.

  Miss you, Baby Boo.

  **Warning**

  As readers of Dirty Bad Wrong will already be aware, I don’t use my warnings lightly.

  This book, like its predecessor, does exactly what it says on the tin.

  It’s dirty, it’s bad, and some parts of the book are pretty damn savage.

  There will be sexual practices some readers may well find offensive.

  All of the acts within this book are performed by sane, fully consenting adults.

  Please don’t try some of this at home people!

  Thank you so much!

  P.S. If you’re sick in your mouth all over again, please don’t blame me. I did warn you.

  Contents

  Dirty Bad Savage

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Acknowledgements

  About Jade

  Prologue

  Sophie

  A deep breath, fists clenched tight against the leather padding of the flogging bench. I arch my back.

  Cain’s voice, practised and gravelly, “Get ready.”

  I’ve been ready all week, craving the bite of the cat o’nine against my skin, craving the hot sting of palm against my thighs. Craving a hard fucking pounding of cock with a side of tongue, and the intrusion of his thick meaty thumb in my asshole. Craving the release he used to give me. Used to.

  “Count for me, Missy,” he says.

  I splay my hands flat on the bench. “Just hit me, will you? I don’t want to count.”

  A swat at my ass. Hard enough to sting, but not hard enough. “You’ll count for me, Missy, and you’ll be grateful.”

  I choke back a sigh through gritted teeth, forcing myself into the zone. “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  I’m not his fucking girl.

  He lands the tails hard between my shoulder blades. Yes! Thank Christ.

  “You fucking love that, don’t you, baby?”

  “Yes, sir,” I manage, but already my nerves are on fire, demanding more. I hear the flogger whirring in the air like a helicopter.

  I stay silent until I realise he’s still waiting. “One.”

  “Good girl.”

  He lands another, but this one is weak, nothing but a tickle. “One point five.”

  “Cheeky.”

  A heavier blow nips at the soft skin of my hip. “Fuck, yes, two.”

  This is it... why I’m here... what I crave... The beautiful rhythm of pain is the only beat that consumes me. My only release. I need this.

  I urge Cain on without words, baring myself wide for everything he has to give. If he notices, he doesn’t respond. His movements, as always, are steady and composed. His breathing even. He strikes, then waits, repeating on loop. Waiting too long, performing too hard. Like an actor. A professional. Like someone who’s played the game too many times.

  We’ve played this game too many times.

  The inevitable line, “Fuck, yes, Missy. Are you ready for me?”

  I know my part—what I’m supposed to say. I’m supposed to be in the zone, endorphin-high and floating on air. Supposed to need more, need cock, need him. But I don’t.

  “Answer me.”

  “I’m...”

  “You need cock, don’t you, baby? I know. I know just what you need.”

  I need to feel alive... out of control... possessed... consumed... out of my fucking mind.

  I wrench my head around, knowing exactly how I’ll find him. His dick is already in his hand, flogger discarded, his eyes on the spectators outside. They know the drill too. Club Explicit, BDSM haven for dirty freaks like us. We come to play and we come to watch, and that’s all great fun, until you realise you’re playing the same movie on repeat, all of us, over and over. And suddenly I’m angry, angry beyond all rationale. Angry with Cain for not being the dom I need him to be, angry that he’s not the man I knew before him—the man who could turn my insides to jelly with one single command—angry with myself for needing everything I need from this place.

  “No. I’m not ready.”

  Cain shuffles, surprised. He shoves his dick back in his jeans and goes for the flogger.

  “Oh, ok, um, sure. You want more of this, then? Is that what you want?” he approaches my head, leaning in close enough to whisper. “You took fifty, I thought that would do you. How about another twenty?”

  And that’s it. Done. Over.

  I’m so far out of the zone I may as well be at the office discussing housing benefit claims.

  “Surely you should tell me how much more I should have? You’re the dom, aren’t you?”

  His cheeks flush pink as he turns to the window, checking out the faces as he considers they may well have heard my criticism.

  “I’m a dom, Missy, not a psycho. You normally take fifty.”

  “I normally take whatever you dish out. I’ve got a safeword, Cain, and a tongue. I’m capable of using them.”

  He retreats, and I hear the flogger whirring. I dare to hope, dare to believe he’ll put me back in my place and give me what I need.

  “Count for me,” he says again, and this time I’m really done. I’m already up, slipping through shackles that are too loose on my wrists, another oversight on his part. “Hey!” he says. “Get back into position! I didn’t give you permission to move!”

  “It’s over,” I sigh. “I’m just not feeling it.”

  “I’ll make you feel it,” he barks. “Just get back in position.” Again his eyes flit to the window and the shocked observers. It’s then I know for certain. He’s scared of losing face, more concerned with what they think than what I need.

  “A couple of lashes would have done it, by the way. Maybe a couple of decent slaps. A fuck you, Missy, I’ll be the one to tell you what you need, and then a proper pounding. Maybe in the ass, that would have been good...” I shrug.

  “And I’m supposed to be a mind reader, am I?”

  “A body reader, a person reader. We’ve been doing this how long? Six months?”

  “Five,” he snaps. “What’s wrong with you these past few weeks? Nothing seems fucking right for you anymore.”

  He’s right, nothing does seem fucking right anymore. Nothing at all. “I’m sorry, Cain.”

  “Yeah, well, let me know if you s
ort your fucking head out, will you?”

  He doesn’t hang around to hear my response, and it’s probably just as well.

  ***

  “Whoa, baby.” Mistress Raven slid her glass along the bar in my direction. “You look like you need this a ton more than I do.”

  “That obvious?” I took a seat, wincing as I sniffed the purple concoction. It smelt like liquid gasoline and gummy bears.

  “A garnet crow,” she said, “vodka, rum and other unimportant shit. Get it down your neck.”

  I risked a sip, keeping my eyes on Raven as Cain stomped away across the main dance floor. She’d dressed to match the cocktail, seemingly. A purple leather mini-dress over fishnets, and the darkest violet sweep of shadow over her eyes. She made my black-PVC ensemble look positively vanilla, her black-and-red-curled mane putting my straight blonde bob to shame.

  “Great outfit.”

  “Cara picked it out.” She gestured to the pretty little minx at her side. They really were a beautiful couple, solid in their love of gothic clothes and hardcore sex. I’d have envied them their solace in each other, but they were just too bloody awesome for bitterness. Some other couples, however...

  Raven raised an eyebrow, mind-reading as usual. “So, what’s eating you, pussycat? Still pining for Masque? I know he’s left some big fucking boots to fill.”

  And there it was, in a nutshell. The real reason for my frustration. Masque, the beautiful beast of BDSM club Explicit. The man I’d been relying on for my hardcore kicks for the past twelve months, and now he was off the market, shacked up in bliss with his green-eyed little submissive, Cat. Monogamous. Faithful. Taken.

  I wasn’t the only one pining for him; he’d left a hoard of frustrated women in his wake. I hadn’t even subbed for him all that much, but he’d been there, available. His shadowy presence on the outskirts of our kinky little community offered absolute dominance, the shattering of boundaries you never knew you had. He was really fucking good. And really fucking gone.

  “How are the perfect couple? Please tell me he’s bored of her already.”

  Raven smiled, and it lit up her face. “They’re doing good. First proper holiday. Mauritius. Sun, sand and a fortnight of filthy sex...”

  “You aren’t helping,” I groaned. But I was smiling. Raven’s smile does that to you.

  “So, what’s gone down between you and Cain? I thought you guys were finding your groove,” she purred.

  “Too much of a groove. I can’t reach the zone anymore. It’s all so... structured.”

  “And you can’t switch it up a bit? Put the sizzle back in the spice, so to speak.”

  “We haven’t talked about it,” I admitted. “Hence he’s pissed. Embarrassed probably. I was a bitch in there.”

  “He’ll get over it. He’s a big boy.”

  “Yes, he is,” I smirked. “But that’s not enough. Not anymore.”

  Her eyes glinted with wickedness. “Maybe you need to show the old dog a few new tricks?”

  “I don’t want to show him anything.” I tried to put my frustration into words, staring out at the familiar crowd on the dance floor, wishing I still felt the magic of the place. “I want something raw... something wild... something... I dunno...”

  “Something dangerous?” she finished. “Someone dangerous? That’s dodgy ground you’re drifting into.”

  “Maybe I need to expand my horizons.”

  Raven moved in closer, red lips tight in an uncharacteristically serious pout. “Masque is a savage, Sophie, but he’s a sane savage. He wouldn’t actually fuck you up, not really. The guys in here don’t match his kind of brutal, sure, but some of the wackos out there, lurking around in the dregs of online chat, they really will fuck you up. Masque’s so good because he keeps his shit together. He’s in control of you, he’s in control of the scene, and he’s in control of himself. There aren’t many like him out there, but there are a shitload of weirdos who’ll get their kicks at your expense.” She waved to the barman for another cocktail. “All I’m saying is keep yourself safe, will you? This place is safe, the people here are ok. They might not give you the adrenaline spike that Masque did, but they’ll leave you in one piece.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m not thinking straight.”

  She touched my hand. “Real life getting too much again?”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “I just know you.”

  I sighed, loudly, letting go some of the tension I’d been carting around all week. “I need this, Raven. It’s the only thing that lets me unravel.”

  “You’re preaching to the converted, Missy. I get it. I’m just saying be safe.”

  “I’ll be safe. Nothing crazy.”

  “You’re lying,” she said.

  I rolled my eyes. “I’ll be safe! Couldn’t have Sophie Harding of the great Hardings veering off the rails now, could we?”

  “Your family own a national property business, not a dynasty.”

  “Try telling my dad that.”

  “Maybe you should,” she said. “Don’t hide under a rock all your life complaining you can’t see the sun. It’s your life. Stand up to them.”

  “Ouch. That’s harsh.”

  She held up her hands. “I’m a tough love kinda girl.”

  “Don’t I know it,” I smiled. “Thanks for the pep talk, Dr Raven. I’ll bear it in mind when I’m next over at family dinner, jousting with Dad over the moral value of choosing social housing over the private sector.”

  “Anytime.” She pulled me in for a kiss. Her lipstick tasted of strawberry, and most likely of Cara. It was at times like this I wished I were gay and Raven were single. “You take care of yourself, Missy, seriously. Promise me, at least, that you’ll bring him here. Whoever your Mr Dangerous turns out to be, make sure you’re here where we can at least keep an eye on you.”

  “When I find him, you’ll be the first to scope him out,” I said. “That’s a promise.”

  I waved goodbye to Cara, and Tyson, and Trixie, and all the other people I’d come to know so well at Club Explicit, and then I turned my back on them.

  Once out in the cold London air, I stared back at the doors that had welcomed me into a whole new world. A world of acceptance and release… of friendship and excitement. Doors to a world of pleasure I’d never known existed.

  I’d never have believed the Explicit excitement would dull. Never have believed I’d need something else, something more than the beautiful games I’d learnt to play in that place.

  Masque had a lot to bloody answer for.

  ***

  Chapter One

  Sophie

  “Have you heard the news?” Christine leant over my desk, armed with tenant files for the anti-social behaviour briefing at midday. Her grey hair was up tight in its trademark bun, glasses perched on her nose in her usual display of tenant-liaison efficiency.

  I hadn’t heard any news, not that my ears were particularly open for it. I’d been glued to my phone the remainder of the weekend, checking out profiles on Edgeplay, the dating network for kinky freaks like me. The handset was now on my lap under the desk, while I compulsively checked for new messages.

  “What news?”

  “You really haven’t heard? Crikey! It’s about your patch as well.”

  “My patch?”

  She tutted condescendingly. “Well, you are the estate manager of the East Veil block, aren’t you?”

  “Last time I checked.”

  “You’d think someone would have thought to tell you, then, wouldn’t you? There’s no communication round here these days, it’s all about email, email, email, no damn given for talking.”

  “What’s the news on East Veil? Someone thrown a fridge from their balcony again? A car-jacking? Piss in the communal hallway? More graffiti?”

  “You need to take this estate more seriously, Sophie, it’s not like Haygrove. East Veil has a damned sight more problems than a bit of urine in the corridors.”

  “I kn
ow, I know,” I said. “Sorry. Let’s start again. What’s happened in East Veil?”

  Her face took on the utmost sincerity, like war itself had broken out amidst the tower blocks. “Callum Jackson – he was released this weekend.”

  Now she had my attention. “I thought he was inside another six months?”

  “Good behaviour, apparently. If you can believe that.”

  If what rumour said about Callum Jackson was even half-true then no, I wouldn’t have believed it. He was red-flagged on our system, a troublesome tenant of the most ferocious variety. Except he wasn’t really a tenant, not officially. He’d been raised on East Veil by a mother well known to our housing association. She’d had two children taken into care since Callum, but social services had come too late on the scene for him. By all accounts he was unpredictable, violent and virtually feral. Hannah Jackson, mother of the year, had thrown her son onto the streets several years back—I’d read about it in the East Veil block file once I’d been assigned the estate—and since then he’d coasted around the place, bedding down in the garage block, or the maintenance huts, or even in vacant properties if you didn’t get them boarded up in time.

  Callum Jackson had been arrested for assault, theft and vandalism more times than the files could keep track of, and finally they’d sent him down last year. A twelve month stint the management had bemoaned wasn’t in any way long enough, and yet seemingly he was out again, on the loose and on my newly-assigned patch. Great.

  My email pinged, and Christine cranked her neck around without any consideration for confidentiality.

  From: Central Hub

  Subject: Hannah Jackson, 57 East Veil.

  Talk about timely.

  “See,” Christine said. “What did I tell you? It’ll be kicking off already, you mark my words.”

  “Weren’t you on your way somewhere?” I asked, trying my best to maintain a civil tone.

  “Meeting preparation,” she said. “Someone needs to make sure these things run smoothly.”