Taggart stepped behind her, his blood moving hot in his veins, his cock pulsing. “What’s your safeword?”
The woman twisted back to look at him. “Who needs a safeword? I trust you. You have soulful eyes.”
Taggart shook his head. “Everyone needs a safeword, even if you never have to use it. Especially in a public scene like this where we’ve only just met.”
“Okay, yeah, whatever. My safeword is”—she paused for several seconds, as if thinking it up on the spot—“pickle.”
“Okay. Pickle,” Taggart repeated, wondering how she’d gotten this far without a safeword. Or maybe she was just jerking him around, it was hard to say. No matter. She wanted to scene, she wanted it rough, and he was more than ready to give it to her.
“Ready?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I’ll start light.”
“Just start already.”
Clearly she wasn’t submissive—just a masochist, pure and simple. Nothing like Bonnie Wilson, so graceful in her erotic submission to her Master.
Taggart banished Bonnie from his thoughts, turning his focus fully on the bound, willing woman before him. He whipped the tail through the air and let it land with a satisfying flick against her pale skin.
“Ah,” she said. “Yes.”
Two long pink lines appeared, turning quickly to red. He struck again, and again she voiced her approval. He struck harder, several times in a row until she gasped, a shudder moving through her frame.
“You okay?” he queried, not sure how to read this stranger.
“Yes, Sir. More, please. More, more, more.”
He struck harder, letting the whip slice across both cheeks. A long, angry welt rose over her flesh. She moaned. He settled into a steady, flicking rhythm, the whipping sound of leather striking flesh punctuated by her panting cries.
He moved to her thighs, tearing the stockings as he painted red welts in a crisscross of fire over her flesh. He flicked experimentally across the thinner skin of her back, just between her shoulder blades. She squealed and he took a step back, but then she said, “Don’t stop. Whip me bloody, shoulder to thigh. Give me what I need.”
Taggart obliged, stippling her back and ass with tiny welts left by the knotted tips of the whip, and painting longer, ridged welts with the length of it. Her skin was tough—he’d made women with more delicate flesh bleed with a less intense whipping, and yet the woman gave no sign she was in distress.
Again Bonnie slipped suddenly into his mind, Matt joining her. They were staring lovingly at each other.
Taggart couldn’t see this woman’s eyes.
Shit, he didn’t even know her name.
All at once, the strength went out of his whip arm, his cock deflating, his spirits plummeting. He glanced around the club. People were scening around him, or clumped in groups, gawking at the players. If he looked in the mirror, would he see that same hungry, vacant look?
I’m twenty-eight and this is the life I’ve made for myself. I live alone. I scene with strangers. When I’m on the road, I fuck strangers and forget them before they’ve even left my motel room. What the hell am I doing?
“Hey, earth to Stud Master. Where’d you go?”
Taggart looked at the woman cuffed to the post. She had twisted back to regard him. Her mascara was running down her cheeks, her dyed hair falling into her face. She grinned at him, revealing a red smudge of lipstick on her front tooth.
“That’s it,” he said, moving in front of her to remove the cuffs. “Scene’s over.”
“Just like that?” She reached back a hand to touch her back and brought it back to her face. “I’m not even bleeding yet. I said I wanted to bleed.”
“Sorry. I just remembered there’s somewhere I need to be.” Aware he was being a prick, he added, “Um, do you need some aftercare? I have some arnica in my bag and—”
“Fuck, no,” she snapped. “You only need aftercare after a scene is over. What we have here is scene-interruptus. Not sure what your problem is, stud boy, but I didn’t take you for a cunt tease.”
Embarrassed and now completely turned off, Taggart tossed his gear into his bag and hoisted it to his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “It’s not you, it’s me.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she retorted. “That’s what they all say.” Turning away from him, she called out in a loud voice, “Next?”
Taggart drove home, his head aching. He entered the house through the workshop, inhaling the rich, welcoming scent of leather. What the hell was wrong with him tonight? Why had he quit in the middle of a scene like that? Why had the experience, one he normally would have enjoyed, turned to shit?
He walked into the dungeon and took out the whip for cleaning and conditioning. He looked at the whipping post, that odd, unwelcome sense of longing once again assailing him as a phantom Bonnie and Matt appeared once more.
Walking back to the kitchen, he poured himself several fingers of scotch directly into a glass and returned to the workshop. He took several gulps, enjoying the blooming burn as it moved through his chest. It had been a mistake to go out tonight. He hadn’t been in the right headspace for casual scene play.
He took what remained of his drink and settled down in a rocking chair on the back porch. Tomorrow he’d give Harlan a call over at the ranch. He needed to get out of his own head. A long ride on the back of a spirited mare, surrounded by the vast sky, mountains in the distance, at one with the animal beneath him—that would re-center him. With a contented sigh, he breathed in the jasmine-scented air as he stared up at the sparkling stars in the inky sky.
Chapter 5
Rylee waited on the porch of Taggart Fitzgerald’s home, just behind Marco and Jordan, equipment bags over both her shoulders. His old Southern name notwithstanding, she had imagined the Leather Master’s workspace would be housed in a trendy converted warehouse in one of Portland’s hipster neighborhoods.
This place, some twelve miles away from the heart of the city, was a country cottage, complete with a babbling brook, an unruly profusion of wildflowers and climbing vines, and plenty of large, old shade trees. It seemed more like a bed and breakfast than a BDSM workshop.
Jordan rapped on the door and it was opened a moment later by a tall, imposing man wearing a faded flannel shirt over a black T-shirt, three days of stubble on his rugged face. The man was young, probably only a few years older than she, and for a moment she was confused. Where was the white-haired Southern gentleman she had imagined?
Jordan stuck out his hand and the man took it in his big paw. “Taggart,” Jordan said as they shook. “Good to see you. You ready to make a movie?”
“Hey there. Nice to see you again, too.” Taggart Fitzgerald stepped back, indicating with his chin that Marco and Rylee should also enter his house. As they moved into the large workspace, Rylee saw nearly every available surface was covered in leather at some stage in the process of whip construction.
“Come on in out of the rain. Can I help you with that gear?” Taggart’s voice was deep and gravelly, its masculine rumble pleasing to the ear.
“No, we’re good. My two assistants have everything.” Jordan glanced back at Marco and Rylee, adding, “You remember Marco, my partner, and this is our friend, Rylee Miller. They’re here to help with sound and lighting.”
Taggart Fitzgerald wasn’t classically handsome, his nose a little too large for his face, his gray eyes deep set beneath heavy brows. His mouth was wide and drooped slightly, as if he carried some quiet but constant sorrow, yet laugh lines radiated from the corners of his eyes. It was a complex face, a face Rylee would have liked to examine at her leisure.
He had dark hair, thick and wavy, in need of a cut. Several inches over six feet, Taggart wasn’t fat, but he was solid, his chest wide, his forearms, what Rylee could see of them beneath the rolled up sleeves of his flannel shirt, bulging with muscle. What would it be like to be held in those strong arms, or better yet, to be held down, completely under his dominant control?<
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Rylee dropped the heavy bags from her shoulders to the floor as Marco stepped forward, a broad grin on his face, his hand extended. “It’s fantastic to see you again, Leather Master, Sir,” he gushed. “I’m so excited to be a part of this project. Your work, your whips, your collars, everything—it’s just to die for.”
“Thanks for the kind words,” the man replied with a faintly embarrassed smile. “Please, just call me Taggart.”
He turned his gaze from Marco to Rylee, who still stood back, just beside the door. Something in his penetrating stare seemed to rip right through her, as if she were made of flimsy material instead of flesh and bone.
Rylee was suddenly keenly aware of her outfit, which consisted of her usual T-shirt and jeans, sneakers on her feet. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, not a trace of makeup on her face. Why had she thought the Leather Master was some old guy? Why hadn’t Marco warned her he was so fucking hot?
Straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, Rylee stuck out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Taggart. I’m a great admirer of your work.”
“The pleasure is mine,” the tall man replied, still undressing her soul with his eyes as he shook her hand.
“This space is great,” Jordan said, breaking whatever strange spell the Leather Master had cast over Rylee. Dropping his hand, she took a step back as Jordan continued, “We’ll just get our gear set up. It won’t take long. For a start, I’m thinking I’d like to get some footage of you at work, you know, right here in the workshop. This space is so organic, so authentic. All this delicious leather. I just wish we could include the intoxicating scent of it in the video.”
“I’ll do whatever you suggest,” Taggart replied. “I doubt you’ll want to include too much of the actual process, though. Cutting leather, honing steel and wood handles and braiding and dyeing, it has to be kind of boring to watch, no?”
“Don’t worry,” Jordan said. “I promise it won’t be boring. I just want to see you in action for a few minutes at these various tables. I’ll cut and edit the video and you’ll of course approve the final product before we do anything with it.”
Jordan began to remove camera equipment from one of the bags. “Right now I just want to get a lot of stuff on video. After we shoot a little of the Master at work, we’ll move on to the dungeon and get footage of your inventory display. Can I see that space again?”
“Sure. Right through these doors.” Taggart led the way, Marco and Rylee following behind the two Doms. As they stepped into the space, Taggart said, “This is where I keep all my finished inventory. Sometimes folks like a demonstration before they actually buy. Works out well—I’ve got everything they need here.”
“I’m thinking we’ll focus on your whip and flogger display,” Jordan said. “We can pick two or three to showcase.”
As the two men walked toward the display, Marco nudged Rylee and stage whispered, “Meu deus, isn’t this heaven on earth?”
Rylee nodded as she looked around the room. The dungeon contained the usual torture devices and gear, a recovery couch set discreetly in the corner. Her gaze came to a rest on a smoothly polished wooden board that looked like a one-inch balance beam, suspended on its side from the ceiling by rope at either end.
“What is that?” she asked Marco, intrigued.
“I’m not entirely sure,” Marco said, following her gaze. “I think you straddle it.” He cupped his crotch and made a face. “Ouch!”
“Come see these awesome whips, slave boy,” Jordan called from across the room. “I think it’s time we added another piece to our collection.”
Marco didn’t need to be asked twice. He fairly flew across the room to Jordan’s side.
As the two lovers touched and stroked the beautiful leather implements, Taggart walked over to where Rylee stood. “So, Rylee, are you in the scene or just part of the crew?”
“Both, actually. Marco’s my Jiu Jitsu trainer and good friend. He said Jordan could use some help with the shoot.”
“Jiu Jitsu,” Taggart said. “Impressive.”
Rylee shrugged. “I’ve always been athletic. I got into martial arts for self-defense and the physical workout, but I’ve fallen in love with it. Believe it or not, it’s like meditation, when you do it right.”
“Isn’t it a kind of wrestling?”
Rylee nodded. “Yeah, but it’s way more than that. There’s a thing that happens when you’re doing it right. Marco calls it mindfulness. It’s this focused alertness on the here and now that shuts everything else out.” She gave a small laugh, adding, “When you have a two-hundred pound guy sitting on top of you and trying to choke you into unconsciousness, you really don’t worry about the bills or deadlines or anything else. You’re there, fully in the moment. It’s an intensity of experience like—”
“Like BDSM,” Taggart interjected.
“Yeah,” Rylee said, surprised. “Yes, very much like that.” She was quietly impressed with his observation of the similarity, one she’d never made, at least not consciously.
“I take it from your response you are in the scene. Submissive?”
“When guys learn I do Jiu Jitsu, they usually assume I’m a Domme.”
“But you’re not.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Well,” Rylee said, trying to gather her thoughts, which Taggart Fitzgerald kept scattering with his intense, brooding gaze. “I wouldn’t really call myself submissive either. I definitely enjoy, even require, erotic pain and bondage, but I’m not sure what submission really is. I mean, it’s always struck me as more of a game than anything.”
“How do you mean?”
“Because the sub is in ultimate control. She’s not really submitting, because she wants what’s happening. And she can always stop the action.” All at once, the still raw memory of Simon ignoring her safeword and jamming that ball gag into her mouth jittered through her, but she shook it away.
Taggart nodded slowly, as if he were really thinking about what she was saying. “She can always stop the action, sure. That’s where the submission comes in. She can, but she doesn’t. She has power and she willingly gives that power to her Dom. To my way of thinking, that’s what makes it submission, as opposed to something nonconsensual.”
Before Rylee could respond, Jordan appeared in front of them. “Sorry, we got distracted with those gorgeous toys. I don’t want to take up too much of your time. If it’s okay with you, let’s start with the workshop. I’ll just do some visuals while you talk about the process. Then we’ll come back in here and get some footage.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Taggart agreed.
They spent the next hour setting up and shooting video of Taggart doing some brief demos of cutting strips from a hide, balancing a handle and braiding some tails. It was surprisingly interesting, and Rylee forgot her duties as lighting assistant as she stopped to watch the Leather Master at work.
Finally they returned to the dungeon, where Taggart first focused on the floggers and whips, but then brought out other items, including slave collars and leatherwear. Rylee was especially intrigued by something called a breast binder, a leather bra with tiny spikes inside the cups, holes cut out to expose the nipples. Gazing at it, she could almost feel the sharp poke of the spikes against her skin as the soft, supple leather hugged her breasts.
Taggart glanced at her as he was describing the item and she turned away, hopefully before he saw the blush that suddenly washed over her cheeks.
“Cut,” Jordan said, lowering his camera. “Now, for the fun part. I was thinking, it would be really cool if you could do an actual demonstration. My slave boy is definitely game, but since BDSMConnections is primarily a straight site, you might want to demonstrate on a female as well.” He looked over at Rylee. “That is, if you’re up for it.”
Marco stepped forward and put his hand on Rylee’s arm. “If you two Doms will excuse us, we need a private consultation.”
“Of course,” Taggart replied to Marco, though h
e fixed his gaze on Rylee.
Marco put his arm around Rylee’s shoulder and turned her away. Speaking very quietly, he murmured, “They don’t know what you’ve just been through. Is it too soon?”
Rylee looked at her dear friend. “Thanks, Marco. You’re such a good guy. But if I pass up this amazing chance to scene, however briefly, with a pro like the Leather Master, then I’ve let Simon the Asshole win.” She didn’t mention how her nipples had leaped to instant, tingling attention at the thought of a scene, however contrived, with Taggart Fitzgerald.
“That’s the spirit, girlfriend,” Marco replied with a grin. Turning back to the waiting men, he said, “Okay, we’re both on board.”
“Great,” Jordan said, raising a thumb in approval. “No faces of course. Just bare asses.”
“Is nudity okay on this site?” Taggart asked.
Jordan grinned. “Sure. It’s a BDSM personals site, albeit a tasteful one. And anyway, it’s not like we’re making a porn video. It’s a whip demo, designed to sell merchandise. I’m sure Bob would be cool with it.” He looked at Marco. “My boy will go first.”
“Okay,” Taggart said. “We can put him on the cross, and I can use a couple of different whips and floggers.”
Marco stripped down to his thong underwear without a trace of self-consciousness and positioned himself at the St. Andrew’s cross, his arms raised, his legs spread. At five feet six, Marco was two inches shorter than Rylee, his frame wiry, his muscles long and lean. Despite his slender appearance, he was surprisingly strong, as Rylee well knew from their Jiu Jitsu sessions. He could easily flip and pin a man a foot taller and hundred pounds heavier than he.
Taggart shrugged out of his flannel shirt, leaving on the black T-shirt, which hugged his strong, broad back. He had a nice, well-rounded butt, his legs long and sturdy in his faded jeans. Rylee had a sudden, ridiculous impulse to kneel behind him and wrap her arms around his legs, resting her chin against the back of his thigh.
She pushed the thought away. A guy like that, so masculine and dominant, a professional who was active in the scene—there was no way he wasn’t attached. In fact, he probably had a whole stable of sub girls waiting somewhere, maybe even somewhere in this house, for him to use and play with at his whim.
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