“Do you think I didn’t catch it?” he asked, his tone gentler too.
“Catch—?”
“Don’t be coy, Simone.” He was back to his silken whisper. “Every time I make you come, I’ll know it.”
She decided again not to speak.
“Wise of you,” he said softly, like he could read her mind. Then he brought her face closer to his, and since there were but inches between them, there wasn’t far to go—but he took her there to the point she could almost feel the tip of her nose brushing his. “Until we have our negotiations Saturday evening, we’ll get something perfectly clear.”
He said no more, so she took a chance and gave a quick nod.
“Excellent, darling,” he murmured. “Now, what we’ll be clear on is that you can look, but you cannot touch. So obviously, you cannot play. Not anywhere. At the Honey, nor should some other opportunity cross your path. And if you need to look, you do it at my side. In other words, should you feel the need to watch, you contact me, and I’ll attend you. Is that understood?”
“I won’t—” she fought clearing her throat, fucking failed, had to do it, and hated that she loved the flash of satisfaction she caught in his eyes when she did, “need to do that.”
“I’ll leave you with my card just in case.”
She again remained silent.
“Say, ‘Thank you, Stellan,’” he ordered.
She stared in his eyes.
“You can say it,” he began, giving her more silk, “or I’ll carry you out to my car, bind you at ankles and wrists, gag you, take you to my home, cut your clothes off, tie you naked down to a bed and stripe you from the soles of your feet to your shoulders. To avoid that, I’d advise you now to say, ‘Thank you, Stellan.’”
Different urges warring within her, battling it out in extremes that kept her body perfectly still, her mind a maelstrom of chaos unleashed, she stayed quiet.
“You may think you have the skills to best me,” he whispered. “But I know you have the intelligence not to try. Last chance, Simone,” he warned.
“Thank you, Stellan,” she gritted between her teeth.
“Beautiful,” he murmured reverently, his gaze dropping to her mouth.
She knew that reverence, having a headstrong sub offer obedience through clenched teeth.
It was transcendent.
Oh God.
Another orgasm loomed.
Fortunately, she was successful at beating it back.
He held her gaze, and she didn’t know if she missed him being remote and detached or if she’d instantly become addicted to him being everything but.
Then he let her go, settled back in his chair, and reached for his Scotch.
Sixx had to take several deep breaths to steady herself before she reached for her own drink.
And when she took it to her lips, she sucked back half of it.
Stellan chuckled when she did.
Seriously.
What was happening?
She sat there, staring at the now empty mats before her, trying to understand what was going on, how things had changed so quickly, and how she’d let it get so out of hand.
Before she got close to getting anywhere with any of that, she found her fingers captured, and along with her arm, her hand was pulled Stellan’s way. He rested it held in his on the arm of his chair, his fingers curled around the back of her hand, his thumb caressing the inside of her wrist.
As heavenly as that felt, in an effort to wrest some control over the situation, she started to remove it from his hold, but the instant she did, his grasp intensified, the pads of his fingers biting in.
She let her hand relax.
“You never pull away from me,” he said softly, easing his hold and again caressing her wrist with his thumb.
She stared at the mats.
“Assure me I’m heard, Simone.”
“How do you know my name?” she asked.
“I’ll answer that when you assure me I’m heard, darling.”
She turned her head to look at him, seeing she already had his attention, loving and hating having his beautiful eyes in his handsome face aimed her way with that kind of extreme focus where she knew he didn’t miss anything.
Not a thing.
“You’re heard.”
“This once, I’ll allow you to get away with not giving me the word that should conclude that statement,” he murmured.
She knew how he expected it to conclude. He was a stickler with his slaves.
They referred to him only as Master.
However, she was not his slave.
She was a Mistress.
And yet she’d just become his slave.
Oh yes, most definitely yes, things were precarious.
Cataclysmically so.
“My name?” she prompted.
“I’m assuming, considering I went to the trouble of establishing a gladiator pit for your amusement, that you’re aware of my interest in you. Taking that further, it wasn’t very difficult to ascertain your name.”
“So you looked into me,” she stated blankly, not about to share that over a year earlier, she’d seen him in D.C., done the same, and had the skills to do that thoroughly.
Skills he probably knew she had.
And more chaos infested her brain.
“We’ll talk more Saturday evening,” he replied.
“And should I tell you to go fuck yourself, get up and walk out of here, and there is no Saturday evening?” she inquired.
“You have no intention of telling me to go fuck myself, sweetheart.”
Her breath caught in an odd way, a way she’d never felt, this coming from his tone, the look on his face and his endearment.
All of a sudden this was not Master Stellan expending an overwhelming amount of effort to flip a certain kind of switch on Mistress Sixx.
This was Stellan talking to the woman at his side, a woman only two people in her life—him now being one of them, the other one appropriately rotting in prison—knew as Simone.
Okay, okay, okay.
What was happening?
“There are things—” she started on a rush.
“We’ll speak Saturday.”
“Stellan—”
Again he was in her face, his palm in hers, his fingers holding her hand steady and warm.
“Honey, I’ve waited a long time to give this to you, so please, enjoy this evening, and we’ll speak Saturday.”
She knew this side of him too. The charmer who slides in after the tyrant, assessing the challenge he was facing with a recalcitrant sub and doing what he must to assure he got exactly what he wanted.
He could be affectionate, demonstrative, even tender and gallant with his subs.
Although she’d rarely heard him speak to them inside a playroom, she’d been in booths with him when he had one close, or booths around him where she could overhear, and she’d never heard him use a single endearment except softening the term “slave” with a “my” or an additional “beautiful” or something akin to that.
“Yes?” he prompted.
“Yes,” she agreed.
Still facing her, he turned his head to look over his shoulder, and when he turned back to her, he was smiling.
Nope, not wanting the blank back.
Yep, instantly addicted.
And yep times two, her situation was cataclysmically precarious.
In the extreme.
“Your gift arrives,” he declared.
She stared.
He sat back.
And she saw that two men were walking in at the narrow part of the oval, and like the last two combatants, they were tall, large, powerfully built, and although one wasn’t difficult to look at, the other, bald, taller than his opponent but leaner to his adversary’s stocky, was very handsome in a harsh, rough, craggy way.
They hit the edge of the pit, jumped down, and the mildly attractive one moved in the opposite direction.
The bald, craggy, handsome one moved their way
.
“His name, for the purpose of these proceedings, is Flamma.”
“Flamma?” she asked as the man’s gaze swung from Stellan to Sixx, back to Stellan, then settling on Sixx as he continued toward them.
“Considered second only to Spartacus as the fiercest gladiator in history,” Stellan explained. “As the tale is told, he was apparently awarded his freedom four times due to his popularity, skill and success in the arena. He declined, continuing to fight until his death in the Colosseum at age thirty.”
Whoa.
Choosing Spartacus was way too obvious.
So good choice in name.
The man stopped in front of them, dipped his head to Stellan, then looked to her.
“Your assumption is correct,” Stellan said, and Sixx looked at him to see he was addressing the warrior. “You’re finally meeting your Mistress.”
Oh God.
Her gift.
She fought her eyes rounding as Flamma nodded to Stellan before he shifted only a foot to the side so he was positioned directly in front of her. He then dropped right to his knees, bowed his head, his hand going directly to his flaccid cock, and he started pumping.
She’d missed this part before.
She hoped she didn’t miss it again.
Stellan’s thumb was back to stroking the inside of her wrist, undoubtedly feeling her response through her pulse.
At the sight before her, she was way beyond caring.
“Do you like your gift, my darling?”
Sixx tore her eyes from the masturbating gladiator in front of her and aimed them at Stellan.
“He trains for you. He fights for you. He fucks for you,” he carried on.
And yet again, she couldn’t stop herself from squirming in her throne.
Stellan smiled. “I see I don’t need an answer to my question.”
She looked back to the gladiator who was now hard but still stroking, and what he was stroking had grown highly impressive.
“He never loses, so when he wins, he’ll come to you, give you his harness, and you’ll tell him how you wish him to celebrate his victory,” Stellan explained. “You also need to tell him when he’s ready to fight, Simone. Or he’ll come on the mat at your feet.”
She was very good at sensing when enough was enough with a sub. It was integral for every Domme to have a precise handle on sensing just that.
But she’d never met this man, was not all that close to him in terms of proximity. She couldn’t see his face, hear his breath, and he was so built she couldn’t tell if the tension in his body was due to excitement at what was happening between his legs or he was just made that way.
However, he had a physical battle on his hands, and that was imminent.
She couldn’t have him making an offering prior to that.
“Should I tell him to stop now?” she asked Stellan.
“I would.”
“Stop,” she called.
He stopped, took his feet, and glanced under his thick, dark lashes at her. Otherwise, he didn’t move.
Stellan leaned into her and said in her ear. “He fights for you, sweetheart. So you might want to tell him to get on with that.”
Good Lord.
The man called Flamma was entirely at her command.
She had a frigging sexual gladiator at her command.
This was …
It was …
Fucking spectacular.
“You may fight,” she ordered.
He dipped his head to her and turned toward the pit.
Stellan stayed leaned into her, lifting their hands and rubbing her knuckles against his jaw as he shared, “Although gladiator battles are held the first and third Tuesday of every month, gladiators only fight once a month. It can get extreme, no rules except no blows to the groin area, so they need plenty of recuperation time in between bouts. All the fighters are different, and we have new ones approaching to sign on regularly, which is excellent as the audience enjoys fresh meat. They train different ways. Boxing. Various disciplines of martial arts. MMA. Wrestling. But in the end, stamina, strength, strategy and a good grasp on a combination of disciplines takes the win.”
Flamma’s opponent was in a crouch, hands up, circling him, but Flamma was simply standing straight, eyes locked on his adversary, pivoting as his challenger moved.
“Flamma is retired Mossad,” Stellan went on to share.
Uh.
Mossad?
“God, really?” she whispered, impressed.
“Really,” Stellan answered. “Now he owns a gym where he teaches krav maga. His real name is Ami. He is not bi, and he’s also not homosexual. He’s a combatant and an alpha-submissive who has yet to be claimed by a permanent Mistress. When we were recruiting, he came forward without that requirement, which normally would mean we could not use him. I met with him, thought you’d like him, so he’s been battling under my command, and not liking it due to my gender, though I assured him he’d eventually be owned by a female. Now that he’s doing this for you, although he hasn’t disappointed in the past, I’ve no doubt tonight he’ll put on quite a show.”
Stellan was not wrong.
Within seconds after Stellan stopped talking, Flamma’s opponent decided to strike.
He clearly knew who he was taking on.
But he was no match.
It wasn’t over quickly. But Flamma managed to keep himself almost entirely protected. In fact, she could count on one hand how many blows he sustained, at the same time moving lightning quick to land devastating strikes that had pained noises exploding from his challenger and awed “oos” and “ahs” emanating from his audience.
It was a dance, and he was the expert faced with a beginner. It was grace and power and patience and perception. He knew where he was at every second and could predict his opponent’s moves before his challenger had even gotten into the stance to attempt to deliver them.
Flamma never lost the upper hand and seemed to only pounce on his adversary with a hammering succession of destructive moves to end the match after he felt he gave a good enough show but was beginning to get bored with the effort.
This might have been the case, but he clearly wanted to offer his Mistress a grand finale because he did just that.
Sixx sat motionless, her hand still held in Stellan’s, and as he remained leaned her way, it was tucked to his neck where she could feel his pulse, Flamma picked up his now bleeding, and also flailing, opponent upside down. He stomped toward her and held him, with one arm at his hips, displayed full-frontal to her while he ripped the straps off his genitals with the other hand. He tossed them aside, pounded the man facedown to the mat and landed on top of him with a booming thud.
The crowd shouted their approval, and the gong sounded.
Yes, a stunning finale.
Well done, Flamma.
Like the loser was part of the mat, Flamma got up, stepped over him and walked to her.
He ripped his straps off and tossed them to the floor at her feet.
Oh yes.
Well done, Flamma.
He waited, perfectly inert.
Damn.
Now what did she do?
“Whatever you want him to do,” Stellan said into her ear, again like he read her mind.
She gave a short nod and called, “We’re learning each other, so why don’t you show me the kind of offering you wish to give your Mistress?”
He nodded just as short, stomped back to the man who’d brought himself to his knees and took hold of his hair.
Sixx made a note to give more detailed instructions next time as he dragged the man across the mats by his hair, something she wasn’t keen on, though fortunately it wasn’t far.
Then he bent, and she jumped in her seat, hearing Stellan’s chuckle come again, when he lifted him bodily and dumped him facedown right at her feet.
He bounded up out of the pit, kicked the man’s legs apart, sank to his knees between them, jerked up the man’s hips and leaned
over him, shoving his face down next to her pump.
Okay, yes.
One hundred and fifty percent yes.
Best.
Gift.
Ever.
His voice was a grating rumble when he asked, “My Mistress, do you want him to offer his cum?”
Seeing as he wasn’t bi, or gay, she wondered what he wanted.
But in her position, she couldn’t ask.
“No,” she told him.
Another curt nod but then nothing else.
“Darling.” Stellan’s voice was trembling with humor. “You’ve done this before. He’s yours. Command him.”
Oh.
Right.
“Carry on,” she ordered.
His eyes locked to hers, he positioned his cock to the ringed ass before him and drove deep.
She watched his jaw flex, heard the grunt float up from the mouth at her feet and heard more as the loser took the winner’s cock.
“You don’t come until I say,” she demanded, her gaze also locked to Flamma.
Another curt nod, more tension in his face, a flash of excitement in his eyes (alpha-sub indeed), and a rumbled, “Yes, Mistress.”
She sat motionless, feeling Stellan now stroking her knuckles with his thumb, and she alternately watched her gladiator’s face and his shaft sinking in and out of the flesh of the defeated, thinking again this was by far the best present she’d ever received.
The truth was none of the few she’d gotten were any good.
But it would take quite something to be better than this.
“Faster,” she whispered.
He went faster.
Fabulous.
“Harder,” she ordered.
He pounded harder, the grunts got louder and started coming from two throats.
And then the tension wasn’t only in Flamma’s face, but beating from the cords of his neck, into his chest, down to his boxed abs.
She knew what that meant.
“Pull him into you,” she commanded.
The slapping flesh got louder as Flamma followed her command.
Sixx saw the pain mingle with devotion on his face, devotion for a Mistress he did not know, but who he did know was serving his needs, and she knew it was time.
“Let go.”
His head jerked back, the veins and muscles in his neck along with the column of his throat standing out as his fucking turned savage.
He roared loud and long when he came.
The Greatest Risk Page 6