Wallbanger

by Sable Jordan

  The car turned off one main street and onto another, and every scene appeared the same: people flocking to evening entertainment. Here she was, dressed in a cupless corset, hooker heels, and a heavy, fur-lined velvet cloak, on her way to a party that was all part of a job.

  It’d be funny if it weren’t so tragic.

  Maybe it was time she got out of the clandestine operations business; cut her losses after this gig. She had a nice run, but this rush from one crazy extreme to the next just wasn’t healthy. She needed to find a man, settle down, have a couple rug-rats, and learn to love domestic life like sane people. Screw 3-19 and Connolly. If he wanted it so bad, let him get his own ass spanked for it.

  It was a pointless conversation, she knew. Kizzie was a finisher. It was in her blood. She was dedicated to the job because she didn’t know life without it. All she had at home was laundry and Panamanian beer—one of which she could do without. There wasn’t even sour milk to go back to. She’d never bought any after Mauritius.

  Feeling Xander’s gaze on her she sighed. Then there’s this. Why couldn’t she be a normal girl going to a normal party—that involved wearing normal clothes—and attending that party with a normal guy? Noooo. Nothing about this situation was normal. You had to go and be attracted to a frickin’, freak-boy criminal!

  Kizzie cracked her knuckles and wiggled her fingers.

  “You ready for this?”

  “Ready as I can be, Sir,” she said softly.

  Xander chuckled. “You said that like you meant it.”

  “Then I guess that means you trained me well, Sir,” she answered, managing to keep the sarcasm from her tone.

  The overhead lights went on. “Final touch. Couldn’t be my sub without a collar.” He opened a velvet box and removed the item inside. “Usually there’s a ceremony and…” he shrugged, “Like it?”

  Kizzie paused at the sincerity in his voice; glanced down at the neckwear he held in his hands. Thickly woven gold chainmail, about 18-inches in length. One end stopped in a large gold O ring, the other end a smaller O.

  “It’s beautiful, Sir.” And she meant it. She caught a hint of a smile on his lips and almost returned it, but pulled back before she forgot herself.

  He set the open case on her lap. “Lift your hair for me.”

  Kizzie did as instructed, shuddering when his fingers brushed her neck and barely registering the cool slide of metal along her skin. He passed the smaller ring through the larger, the gold rope tightening like a slipknot at her throat, a stopper in the O preventing the necklace from choking.

  “The lock,” he said, teasing her collarbone.

  She looked down at the padlock she hadn’t noticed—gold with a large ruby in the center—and plucked it from the box. A soft snick sounded when he affixed it at the trailing end of the chain, the tiny noise blaring like a claxon in her head.

  “Let me see.” He centered the charm between her breasts and smiled. “Looks good on you, Princess.” Then he fixed her tresses around her shoulders and pulled the hood up on her cloak. Taking the box from her lap, he palmed the key and dropped it in his left breast pocket.

  She said nothing, just stared at him in a half daze. Normal might have been nice.

  And thoughts like that would get her killed.

  Humanity was something that that passed through a fine-mesh filter in training. Connolly had drummed into her head the aspects of an ideal agent: mission first, emotion absent, trust no one, survive at all costs, adapt or die. Normal didn’t even hover near the list.

  Xander’s hand dipped beneath the fabric he’d righted to cup her cheek. “Listen, if Sacha takes you on and things get out of control, do what you have to do to come out of this alive, okay?” She snorted at the feigned concern in his voice and he frowned. “You might not believe me, Kizzie, but I have no intention of getting you killed.”

  Kizzie wouldn’t delude herself. She was expendable; always had been. To Duquesne…to Connolly. If she came out of this at all she’d be nothing more than a thorn in Xander’s side. She’d know too much. “Not until you have to kill me, Sir?”

  He dropped his hand as though she’d burned him. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Don’t get to be you without burying a few bodies, X.”

  His response never came. Perfect. The last thing she needed was to be scatterbrained on a mission, and Xander had very nearly done that. She faced forward, catching Marchande watching them in the rearview. Kizzie caught the smirk on the big man’s face before the rear lights went out and the cab was again plunged in darkness.

  As the vehicle pulled up to the entry gates of the chateau, Xander’s voice penetrated the many thoughts in Kizzie’s head.

  “At play parties like this,” he began, voice ice cold, “the doors lock at ten, and don’t open again until three. That’s five hours to either find info about Harvey and where it’s located, or convince Sacha to keep you on. While we’re here, don’t eat or drink anything I don’t personally give you.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “We’re on Sacha’s turf, so keep your head down and your ears open.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Make a good impression and you’ll be his in no time.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Stop—”

  “Is something wrong, Sir?” Kizzie interrupted. She could almost feel the anger building from the other side of the SUV. She angled her head to look at him as the Rover stopped on the arch of the drive, but Xander was staring at something outside the window.

  To her left, the passenger door came open and Marchande steadied her on the stilts she wore on her feet. The snow had been cleared away, but the pavers were still a bit icy. Freezing cold air focused her on the mission, wiping away the errant, wispy ideas of normalcy.

  Taking short, efficient steps, Kizzie rounded the rear of the car and opened the door for her Master.

  * * * *

  He had to get his mind straight.

  Xander stepped past Kizzie while she held the car door. She persisted in finding ways to get under his skin, her subservience being the latest in a long string of irritants. It shouldn’t have bothered him—she was only doing what he’d instructed—and, being a Dom, he should have been pleased. But knowing it was an act gnawed at him. Criminal or not, there was a code he lived by as a Dominant, and this charade shattered it.

  Submission in any form was a gift, and all of his subs had a choice whether to give him that gift or not. Kizzie didn’t.

  But she’s not your sub—That wasn’t the point. No fun in dominating someone against her will. He wanted her to—

  “Dobrii vecher, Xander.”

  Sacha’s thick voice brought him clear out of his thoughts. He wasn’t sure when he’d mounted the steps to the chateau, or when Marchande had driven the car away. Sensing Kizzie on the step below him, he pasted a smile on his face and extended his hand, clasping the other man’s in a firm grip.

  “Good evening, Sacha.” His gaze shifted a hair to the two near-naked women standing behind the tall Russian. Both wore nothing but ropes on their bodies, knots tied at various intervals pressing into their skin, nipples erect from the cold weather. A cord circled each slender neck, a black “S.S.” pressed into a square of white leather dangling there. Kizzie discreetly handed him a package, and he presented it to his host. “A gift, for your hospitality.”

  “Thank god it’s not vodka. You wouldn’t believe how many people bring me, a Russian, vodka!” Sacha boomed a laugh and took the bottle of expensive wine. “Is this gift for me too?” he asked in perfect English, eyeing Kizzie.

  “You might get to play with her.” Xander offered a tight smile. “This is Gigi. She sometimes requires a heavier hand.”

  “I can always use more puppets.” Sacha’s grin widened as he stepped aside to allow them into the foyer. “That brown skin will redden nicely.”

  Xander barely heard, eyes on the men inside. Just as Phil had told him, guards flanked either side of the
room. One stepped forward to pat him down, the other three with their hands on holstered weapons.

  “Is this necessary?” he asked, arms going out to allow the man to do his job. He’d expected it but didn’t want to risk Sacha’s suspicion by not feigning offense.

  “A small precaution,” the Russian said jovially. “You understand.” He handed the wine to one of his henchmen. “Put this in my office and return to your post.”

  The goon touching Xander pulled the phone from his pocket. A cursory glance at the unresponsive display and he handed it back. Done with the pat down, the man advanced on Kizzie.

  “Not her,” Xander said firmly. He caught Sacha’s gaze. “You know better than to touch a collared sub.”

  “What happened to the other one you had, Xander? Pretty little bitch. What was her—?”

  “She’s no longer my sub.” He removed Kizzie’s cloak, leaving her in the collar, skimpy outfit and boots.

  “I don’t think she can hide much in that,” Sacha laughed, then to Kizzie, “Take off the shoes.” Kizzie didn’t flinch. “Your bitch doesn’t listen.”

  “Because she’s mine, Sacha. You want the boots off, you ask me, not her.” It wasn’t a small matter; it was a blatant test of power. Had Kizzie responded, Sacha would have determined Xander didn’t have control. First test passed, the tension eased from him a bit.

  As for Sacha, he determined the man didn’t have any of the finesse his father did, more accustomed to getting things by brute force. It was why Xander loathed having to work with him on Harvey. Sacha would no doubt try to change the terms Nikolay had established. But he’d find himself against a steel wall where Xander was concerned.

  “Have her take the boots off, please.”

  He paused a beat, whispered a command in her ear. Kizzie bent over, hair falling forward and goods on display around the little thong she wore, making slow work of unfastening the stilettos. One bare foot touched the ground, and she repeated her tease with the other. More than he’d expected, and Xander shut off the emotion it roused in him. By the look on Sacha’s face, he definitely enjoyed the view.

  “Oh, I’m going to like this puppet.”

  “I thought you might.” Xander noted the guards blocking the door, standing like bouncers outside of a club. Their job: keep the people in for the next five hours. A sound came from deeper in the house. “Care to give me the tour?”

  The other man sniffed, rubbed at his nose before guiding them toward the first playroom. A scene was already in progress, a woman shackled to a St. Andrew’s cross, her back to the small crowd gathered in the area. The same rope-and-tag collar Sacha’s subs wore hung from her neck. The Dom in the situation wielded a heavy paddle, striking the woman across her upper thighs. Any noise she made was done around the bit gag in her mouth.

  “One of my puppets,” Sacha said proudly. “You can play with her, too, if you’d like. Or any of the others. Yank them any way you want; pull their strings. No difference to me. Won’t even charge you.”

  “Thank you for the offer, but—”

  “Will you be sceneing, tonight?”

  “No,” Xander said, “Just here to watch.”

  Sacha sucked a disappointed breath through his teeth. “Pity. I remember how good you are with a whip. I’d like to see your bitch jump.”

  The paddle connected with a sharp smack and Xander winced. This guy had no business here, had no idea what he was doing to the girl. By the way she slumped on the cross she was either in subspace—which he doubted—or was sniffing whatever kept Sacha’s nose itching and couldn’t feel a thing. The bruises would be nasty in the morning.

  A heavy exhale and he angled his head to check Kizzie’s reaction. The last thing he needed was her protective instinct to flare. She stood behind him, just to the right, peeking at the actions taking place. By the stiffness in her stance she wasn’t enjoying this, and he wasn’t either.

  “You might want to check her,” Xander said. “Your sub looks hurt.”

  Sacha glanced at the girl and then called to the sceneing Dom. “Get her down from there.”

  “Any other rooms going?”

  The small group left the first area and entered another, all the while Xander making note of his way through the complex. The interior was huge, doors and other corridors flanking either side of the wide main hallway. A look in one room revealed a man thrusting and bucking against the unresponsive body of another dazed girl; leather tag shifting to and fro against her skin.

  She appeared drugged—not surprising to Xander since it was the same way Sacha ran his prostitution rings. The two subs trailing his host seemed to be the liveliest of the few he’d seen so far. The one of East Asian descent appeared a touch more alert; the European one wore a blank expression.

  Coming into another room, he witnessed a puppet—as Sacha seemed inclined to call them—having hot wax dripped on her. Unlike her sisters in this sad sorority, she flinched and screamed, trying to move away when the multicolored liquid hit her skin. Clearly it was too hot, but this poor excuse for a Dom had no idea, or didn’t care. Pretending in the Lifestyle usually got someone hurt.

  Xander ignored the irony.

  They continued through the house, coming upon the largest and most crowded room. “I think you’ll like this room the best,” Sacha said.

  With what he’d already seen, Xander wasn’t so sure. He followed the man to a set of chairs and took the offered seat. Kizzie knelt at his side, resting back on her heels. Her back was straight, head slightly bowed, hands in her lap. He stroked her hair and she didn’t jerk. She might pull this off after all.

  In the space before them, a thick wooden plank was secured to a crossbeam, dangling horizontally from a carabiner clip and a length of chain. At either end of the board were two metal rings, each supporting durable, leather-lined restraints. The blonde in the confines—one of Sacha’s tagged marionettes—was face up, legs parted in a wide V; wrists similarly spread and connected to the bindings as well. Apart from the ball gag in her mouth, she was completely naked, pussy, anus, and the fear in her eyes exposed to the many onlookers.

  Dressed in black leathers, the thin Dom in the circle had a bullwhip in his grip, holding it with a measure of uncertainty Xander immediately noticed. He shook his head; this wouldn’t end well.

  With a menacing crack the Top struck the girl’s buttocks, a glancing blow, and she jerked. The crowd seemed pleased, and he mimicked the move on the other side, this time connecting firmly with flesh. Blondie screeched, the sound dampened by the gag. A dark welt bloomed in seconds.

  The whip landed on her leg, bringing another horrible moan and a matching red mark.

  Sacha laughed. “Make her dance!”

  The Top reared back, landing the tail on the delicate skin of the woman’s cunt. Instinctively she tried to pull her legs together to soothe the harsh sting, but there was no getting out of the restraints until her temporary Master was good and ready.

  Kizzie stiffened beneath Xander’s touch. She was probably on the verge of jumping in, and he couldn’t blame her. This was not the way the Lifestyle worked. This was abuse, plain and simple. The whip wasn’t for everybody. Sure it sounded good to make it crack, but to get it to strike skin in a pleasant manner, it took a great deal of skill and practice. When a Dom jumped into it without that practice, as this brute in the circle had done, they ended up with an injured sub unwilling to do it again. The man had started off too heavy-handed, not giving the sub a chance to feel the sweet bite of the tail. Now, less than ten lashes in, she was bleeding from the cuts across her ass and legs.

  He’d had seen more than enough, but the doors wouldn’t open for a long while. Add to that he couldn’t offend his host—the same host who had Harvey—and he was forced to bite back his outrage.

  A few strikes later the sub jerked with all her might to be let out, and the Dom looked nervously about the crowd of people. Realizing he’d lost them, he released the bottom from her restraints, first lowering the
wooden plank to the ground via a pulley system.

  “Go help,” Sacha ordered. His puppets left their spot and helped the girl collect herself. “He could learn a thing or two from you, Xander.”

  “Can I still fuck her, Sacha?” the man asked.

  “Do what you want,” he answered. “It’s your euro.”

  Freedom was short, the Dom quickly yanking the girl to her feet. She rolled unsteadily, trying to gain her balance and breath, before being dragged through the door.

  “Let’s talk.” Sacha stood, his dolls returning to their place behind him.

  Thankful it was over, Xander lifted himself from the chair, extended his hand to Kizzie. She eyed it a brief moment before accepting his help. He steadied her on her feet, let the numbness he knew would be there work its way from her knees. Then he turned to Sacha, who shook his head, disapproving of the act.

  “Too nice to your bitch. She’ll forget her place one day. Or maybe you like beating her back into it, eh?”

  “Lead the way,” Xander said, ignoring the comment.

  “I’ll show you how to treat these things, Xander.” Sacha strode from the room, making the short walk to his office. At the door, he said, “A demonstration.” He yanked the European girl forward and threw her to the ground.

  She fell hard onto her hands and bumped her face on the floor. Then she rolled to her knees, dipping low to kiss both of her Master’s feet.

  “See,” Sacha said, “The perfect bitch. Keep the hand heavy and they won’t step out of line. Know what else?” he continued without waiting for an answer, “She’ll be right here when I get back. She’s a good puppet.

  “Sumi, show that one around,” Sacha ordered, motioning to Kizzie, “if it’s all right with you, Xander.”

  Sacha turned to enter his office and Xander glanced at Kizzie, angry eyes watching him from beneath her lashes. He mouthed, “Keep cool.” She winked and he almost smiled.

  Once in the office, Xander admired the art on the dark walls. All were depictions of women in bondage, and he recognized Nancy Peach’s Two Knotty Boys dominating the space over Sacha’s desk.