by Anya Summers
Delilah spied a few unattached female subs loitering in the arena. They were gorgeous and, more importantly, thin. Shit. In a nano-second, she felt her good mood begin to slip. With the four of them here, looking stunning in their barely there attire—and did she mention thin?—a Dom wouldn't even look her way. It always happened. Even though she could take more pain in a scene, her tolerance level being much higher than most, for some reason, she was always passed over.
Maybe she should take Jared up on his offer. At least with him, she'd get a killer orgasm out of it. She was just about to call out for him when the deep timbre of a male voice spoke behind her shoulder.
"It's against club rules for a sub to be so overdressed, love. You need to strip and put on something more appropriate."
She knew that voice, ignoring the way the bold tenor made her belly flutter and skin flush. Before her brain connected with her mouth she said, "Bite me, asshole."
Delilah realized her mistake a split second later as Jared's head whipped around at the vehemence in her voice. She hadn't been quiet in her rebuttal. As it was, she had a voice that carried. She held still as a strong set of hands swiveled her barstool until she was staring into the furious hazel eyes of Bastian Dean. Her heart thudded in her chest. She'd just back talked to a Dom. And, more importantly, he was the jerk she didn't like and wanted to punch.
Fuck me.
Delilah should have stayed in her room and watched television all night. Up close and personal, she noticed the faint creases at the corners of his eyes, the rigid set to his stubble covered, square jaw, shadowing a pair of full, kissable lips which were currently compressed in a thin line of displeasure over her words. Dropping her gaze to his chest was the wrong call, even though it was a submissive gesture on her part, conceding him control. His chest was, without question, incredible. His wide shoulders bore the start of a full sleeve tattoo on his left arm and a half sleeve on his right.
The tattoos on both arms made his sculpted and firm chest stand out just a bit more for her. Even the flat disks of his nipples appeared more prominent. She didn't know why, but those tats were sexy as hell. It made her mouth water and she licked her lips. Delilah had always had a thing for bad boys. Her gaze traveled further south, following the black trail of chest hair as it tapered over his abs and disappeared in a single line beneath his leather pants. Why, out of all the men, all the Doms she'd run across since her split with Ethan, was it the one she'd like to bash upside the head that her hormones chose to make kissy noises at?
"What did you say to me, love?" The intense dark flavor of his voice flowed over her, and it galled her that her insides quivered in melty anticipation. It was as though her uterus recognized the dominant, take-no-prisoners, alpha maleness of him, urging her to throw whatever good judgement she had left to the wind.
The man had torqued her too much today, so combined with her desire to fight the crazy magnetic pull his proximity had on her sensibilities, she pushed the envelope further without hesitation. Maybe she'd been pushed too far in too short a time but she couldn't have stopped her response if she'd tried and said, "You heard me. Don't be a jerk and make me repeat it."
"I'd say this little sub has forgotten her manners and needs to be punished. Come with me." The command in his voice brooked no room for arguments, but did Delilah heed the warning in his voice? Hell no.
"I'm not going anywhere with you." She snorted and attempted to swivel her chair back to the bar.
"Delilah, it's Bastian's right to discipline you for offending him. You are blatantly defying club rules with your mouth. And if he doesn't punish you for it, I will, and I won't be gentle in the slightest."
She shot a glance at Jared's rigid stance behind the bar. "I'd rather you do it, Master J."
A muscle ticked in Jared's jaw as he contemplated her, his gaze shooting to Bastian over her shoulder. Bastian's commanding nearness made her blood sizzle. Delilah wanted to believe it was because he pissed her off, but feared it went much deeper and more carnal than that. She tried to keep her expression bland, like it didn't matter who carried out her punishment—which she rightly deserved—even though it did.
"And that's why Bastian will do it," Jared said.
Traitor. She bit back her retort before she uttered it aloud and had two pissed off Doms to contend with.
"Come."
At Bastian's command, Delilah turned her face back toward him, knowing in her heart that Jared was right, she'd given the club rules the finger and had to pay the penalty. But dammit, couldn't it be any other Dom but him? She didn't like him, didn't want him to touch her or give him satisfaction of any kind.
"The longer you delay, the more inventive the reprimand will become, Delilah." Bastian articulated her name like a caress, and her lady parts quaked. She enjoyed being disciplined. Always had. It tended to make her internal engines run that much hotter. And it had been a long time since she had been properly spanked or flogged. Ethan's halfhearted attempts had left her wanting.
She straightened her spine in a defiant gesture and placed her hand in his, sliding off the barstool. Delilah schooled her features so that she appeared unaffected at the prospect. It was what she called her stage face; the mask she'd perfected over years of performances that belied any internal struggle and hid her true feelings.
His hand closed around hers with a vice grip. They were tough, workman's hands, and not what she'd expect from a man who spent his life on stage. She'd known far too many pretty boys in her day, with baby smooth skin, who had never gotten their hands dirty. Not Bastian, though, as he led her through the arena to one of the vacant leather couches. His palm was rough with callouses, his grip solid and immovable, the long fingers easily dwarfing her smaller hand.
Chills raced along her spine as Bastian folded his large frame onto the couch, still holding her hand.
"Strip and then lay yourself over my lap, love, with that sweet ass of yours in position."
Delilah didn't speak, only nodded; her hands went to the zipper at the back of her dress. Her mask in place, she was proud of herself that her fingers didn't shake as she drew the zipper down to her mid back. Shoving the leather down over her body, Delilah stood before him wearing her bra and panties. The bra was the height of fetish wear; black, soft, poly spandex in an open cup bra style, with straps forming an X across each breast, and a center ring embellishment that circled each nipple. The bra accentuated her large double Ds, and her panties matched, with straps clinging to her hips and only a thin swath of material covering her pussy.
Bastian's shuttered gaze traveled the length of her form, turning her insides to putty. Delilah always felt self-conscious about her body. She couldn't help it. Too many times, she'd been made to feel like she was less than or ugly because of her curves. It was times like these she wished upon all creation that she could read minds and knew what Bastian thought.
He patted his leather clad thighs, signaling her to position her body across them. Stepping out from her dress which was pooled at her feet, Delilah swallowed a breath and did as he asked. She cursed herself internally at the moisture already pooling between her thighs. She maneuvered her body until she lay face down across his lap, with her rear over his thighs.
She laid her face on the cool leather, turning it away from Bastian. He might have control of her body, but that didn't mean she would watch him do it. She bit her lip when his hands ran down the length of her back to her hips. He toyed with the spandex material of her panties, her breath clogging her lungs at the interplay of sensations his fingers created.
Then, in a single move, he shoved her panties down over her rear to her thighs, exposing her bare bottom to the club. His big hands caressed her ass, massaging the flesh, and setting her nerve endings on edge. The big jerk was teasing her.
"Can we just get this over with?" Delilah blurted out.
His hands stilled in their exploration of her back-end. "You will address me as Sir or Master B. I was going to go light on you, but after
this outburst, love, you will get thirty strokes. I want you to count each one and say, 'Thank you, Master B,' after each one. Understood?"
Sadistic jerk. Through gritted teeth, she said, "Yes, Sir."
He wasn't, nor would he ever be, her Master. She'd never even called Ethan by that title. In her eyes, you bequeathed that title to someone out of love. She knew other subs might disagree.
He positioned his left arm across her lower back, keeping her from squirming away as he smacked his right hand against her backside with a wallop that made her eyes water.
She gasped at the pain. "One. Thank you, Master B."
The second forceful swat stung to high heaven and stole her breath.
"Two. Thank you, Master B."
Bastian's pattern of discipline, the hard cracks of his palm against her delicate posterior, sounded in the space around them, diminishing the noise from the other patrons. And he waited after each spank, until she had counted the stroke and thanked him for it. By the tenth smack, Delilah's insides had shifted to molten lava as the pain from each blow transformed into pleasure shooting into her core. Moisture poured from between her thighs. Her nipples, in their makeshift nipple rings of her bra, swelled into hard points.
She panted between each stroke as it ignited her hunger, catapulting her need to fever pitch. When he landed the twentieth smack to her bottom, Delilah couldn't contain the pleasured groan that escaped her lips. Her sex quivered and ached underneath his skilled hands. Even as she cursed herself internally for allowing his masterful strokes to play her body, she couldn't escape the passion his touch kindled.
Bastian didn't relent or pause at her outburst. His hand cracked against her bottom again, landing deftly between the two halves and striking against her pussy. The reverberation shot lightning bolts of pleasure spearing through her system. Delilah counted and thanked him, her body glistening and straining toward release.
The last spank landed, his big palm laying into her behind, grazing her delicate folds and striking against her clit.
Delilah unraveled.
"Thirty. Thank you, Master B." She keened as her body shuddered, the walls of her pussy quaking as the orgasm ripped through her body. It steamrolled her body into a trembling, quivering mass. The waves of her climax battered her system. Her hands dug into the couch as she rode the lacerating whitecaps.
His hand cupped her bottom as her body shook, massaging her tortured flesh. The sharp burn from his walloping had fanned the flames, and stoked her desire to riveting heights. She just wished he would stop touching her, because it was sending her body into overdrive, wanting more of his masterful stroke.
"I think you liked my spanking a little too much, Delilah, so your punishment is not yet over with, I'm afraid."
"What? You big jerk," Delilah said as she attempted to shift off his lap. He couldn't do that, could he? Yes, he could, dammit, considering there was more than one infraction to contend with. Between her back talk and dress code violation, she had screwed the pooch. Jared and Declan would back him in his discipline no matter how much they cared for her. Rules were rules.
Shit!
All she wanted was to bask in the hazy afterglow of the best orgasm she'd had in ages, and the jerk had to go and complicate things.
"Careful, love. I have just the thing, too." He pulled her panties up and shifted her in his lap, maneuvering her until she was beside him on the couch.
Bastian stood, unfolding his six-foot frame, put her on her feet, and towed her over to the bar. Delilah's leather dress remained pooled on the floor by the couch. She had no choice but to follow him and retrieve it later. Her stomach fluttered at the thought of whatever new torture he could devise for her when she was still swimming in a hazy, orgasmic afterglow. She hadn't come that hard, if she were honest, in ages—if ever. Delilah found sexual release through discipline, so it wasn't as though the fact that she had climaxed under his deft, sure strokes was a surprise to her. What had blown her circuits was the intensity of his touch, the way he had sparked a firestorm in her veins.
Bastian directed her to an empty barstool, and before she knew what he was about, he hefted her up onto it. Then he took her arms, attaching the cuffs on her wrists to hidden restraints on the back of the stool. He spread her legs, positioning them so that they were splayed wide open, with only a slim black piece of spandex covering her mound. Then he secured her ankle cuffs so she couldn't move her legs at all.
"Jared, hand me a silver bullet," Bastian said, and Delilah trembled.
Whatever he had planned, she wasn't going to like it.
Jared tossed him a package from behind the bar. Bastian ripped it open, withdrawing a silver bullet vibrator. It was small and smooth, no more than two inches in length. She bit her lip as he pulled at the elastic of her panties, his hand delving inside and inserting the tiny vibe into her already drenched pussy. His fingers grazed her over sensitive clitoris, and she hissed as he withdrew his hand. The bullet vibrator was connected to a mini controller that Bastian switched on to a low vibration setting.
"You are not to come, not to speak, not to do anything but sit there until I tell you that you can move. That will complete your punishment. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir." She left out the 'sadistic bastard' part as the bullet vibe set her teeth on edge.
And then Bastian started talking to a Dom she didn't know at the bar, ignoring her completely. It was torture. That was all she could think. Heat spiraled from the vibe into her core, ratcheting her passion to new heights, and making her shake as she fought off another climax. She sat there, completely open, restrained, where any Dom could touch her if they so chose, and more turned on than she'd been in years.
In the last year or so of her relationship with Ethan, their sexual encounters had been tepid excursions at best, and that was when he had stated he couldn't get hard because of her size. Delilah had begun to believe his words, take them on as her truth. That she was undesirable, unfuckable, and worthless when it came to the bedroom.
A simple discipline session with Bastian had rattled that belief to the core and she compressed her lips to keep from moaning as the vibe sent waves of pleasure skittering along her nerve endings. Delilah didn't know how long she would last like this. Her breasts swelled within the constraints of her bra in an almost painful fashion, her nipples speared into hard pebble points in the rings. Her clit throbbed in time to the vibrations of the bullet. Her pussy clutched at the device.
She needed to come, her body stood poised on the threshold, and she fought it back. Breathed deeply as waves of pleasure assaulted her senses. The sounds of laughter and moans swirled around her, but all Delilah could focus on was her breathing, and willing herself not to come.
Chapter Three
Bastian might seem rather nonchalant as he sipped his Jack and coke, discussing the odds and stats of the US men's soccer team competing for the world cup this year, but his entire being was attuned to the delectable sub restrained next to him. He never would have guessed the little opera star was a sub.
Not that he was complaining one bit.
The gorgeous little creature was round and supple in all the right places. He'd been sporting wood since he'd first found her perched at the bar tonight. It was part of the reason why he'd been so gruff earlier in the day. After being greeted by his buddy Jared at the manor door, Bastian had followed the angelic voice filtering through the foyer and corridors of the manor. What musician could resist the soulful sorrow in, by far and away, the best voice he'd ever had the pleasure to hear? Considering he performed and toured around the world, making the stage his home more than his beach house in Malibu, to be awestruck by a voice was a rarity for him. And then he'd sauntered into the conservatory, needing to discover who the voice belonged to, only to be gobsmacked at the haunting beauty that stood amidst the organized chaos. The entire room had been silent and unmoving except for the songstress at the front of the room. Workers held hammers mid-stroke, standing in awe with a bundle of tw
inkling lights, and wore dazed expressions at the sound of her voice flooding the room, knowing they were witnessing something exceptional.
He'd seen Delilah's image before, of course, in magazine photos and on television. He'd always thought she was attractive. Seeing her in the flesh, her voluptuous curvy form, had made him groan internally and had made desire override his common sense. Listening to the last strains of the Ave Maria, the haunting notes tugged at him, sliding beneath his skin and spurring a craving for the songstress to the point where Bastian had wanted nothing more than to shoo everyone else from the room, back her into the nearest corner, and proceed to fuck the daylights out of her until she was screaming his name in ecstasy, with the same haunting loveliness reaching his ears as her voice now caressed the notes like a long lost lover.
The instant lust she evoked made him feel like a horny teenager.
One look at her, and he wanted. It was plain and simple. All his discipline, honed through years of practice, erased in the blink of an eye at her startling beauty, which called to him on an elemental level.
Bastian had women throwing themselves at him. Quite literally; he'd had a woman just the other night in London rush the stage and have to be carted off by security. In his line of work, he had starlets with fake tits and the demeanors of vultures circling him like he was prey. He could and did take his pleasure where he found it. Even while he'd been in a relationship with Eva for two years, Bastian hadn't necessarily been faithful.
But Delilah, hearing her perform and then seeing her in the DFC, had awakened dormant dreams within him with such swiftness and force he nearly staggered to his knees. The longing had grabbed him by the windpipe, rattled him at his foundation.