At first she’d let Kartane lead her down some stairs and through the club’s labyrinth of chambers. She’d been infatuated with his looks, his attentiveness, his sympathy after Martin rejected her.
He’d taken her to that one dirty chamber with the old furniture. A storage room, she’d thought at the time, but on second thought it’d looked more like a dusty museum. Strange shapes. Old things. It was while looking at what could only be an open iron maiden with real spikes that she’d finally come to her senses. Balked. She’d surreptitiously speed-dialed Charlotte.
He’d never even slowed. The phone fell from her hand when he slung her over his shoulder and simply carried her the rest of the way. She’d bumped her head on a sharp edge on a sloped ceiling, but despite the dizziness that threatened to drag her into unconsciousness she heard the sound of wood grinding against rock. A door, a secret door. There’d been a tunnel beyond it, twists and turns, then this place. Wherever it was.
She eyed the buckets. Her scheduled date hadn’t been as politically progressive as she was—she found that out right away, since she liked to ask about it first, get it out in the open. It was a priority for her. Things had sure gone downhill fast. She resolved anew never to have anything to do with men who didn’t share her politics. It never worked out.
It was all Charlotte’s fault. Gail would tell her so right before firing her, then maybe having her arrested by the police who’d show up soon.
Any minute.
Kartane actually expected her to use a bucket. It would be unhygienic. Simply the idea was the most humiliating thing ever to occur to Gail in her entire life. Where the heck were the police?
She jumped at the door the moment she heard the footsteps. “Help! I’m in here! Over here, can you hear me?” She banged her fist against the metal roughly bracketing the thick door.
The door flew open and more light illuminated her cell. She backed away.
Kartane stood, his eyes narrowed. “I believe I told you to be silent.” The now-familiar spicy scent of his cologne wafted from him. His shirt was streaked with brown dirt. His blond hair no longer lay neatly, instead tufting up in unkempt little spikes. He still seemed angelic-looking, but like a fallen angel now.
There had to be some mistake. No one so pretty should look at her with such anger and contempt.
His lovely eyes pinned her. “You will do what I say.” A simple statement of fact.
He looked at her crossing and uncrossing her legs. His smile made her heart leap inappropriately, and his voice was pure caramel in its amusement. “You have to use the bucket. Proceed to do so.”
Gail tried not to be too obvious about squeezing her thighs together. Tried to speak with dignity. “I have to urinate, yes. May I use the facilities, please?”
“Manners. Very nice.” Kartane examined his perfectly manicured nails. “A good start. My answer is no.”
“Why not?” she shouted. She couldn’t help it. Her need was urgent. His denial unfathomable.
“This is your last warning: No more loud noises. I find loud noise in women unappealing unless I’m causing them more directly. To answer your question, because you will leave your old life behind. The bucket is a symbol. One of them.”
She glared at him.
He smiled politely. “You thought you were so sneaky. Your phone call to Charlotte failed. She was the only person looking out for you, wasn’t she?”
She tried to hide her dismay. “How do you know her? Anyway, no, she’s not the only one. As a matter of fact, I have a number of people who will miss me very shortly. My . . . I was supposed to meet my friend for drinks later tonight. She’ll call the police.”
He smiled more widely. “You’re lying. Lying is punished severely.”
Gail edged away from him until the wall of metal pressed against her back. “Punished?” She hated feeling so intimidated. She’d thought herself insulated from such unpleasantness as this. Through the ugly fear and the pressure in her bladder, she found the strength to push her body straight and tilt her head up at Kartane with what she hoped was coolness. “Charlotte got my call before you disconnected it. She’ll look for me, it’s her job. And you, if you’re not completely stupid, you’ll realize I don’t belong here.”
Kartane ticked off another finger. “Disrespect. Another punishment.” He tilted his head, and the wavy blond hair caught the dim light. “You have spirit. It’ll be a pleasure to break you.”
Before she could ask what he meant, he continued. “Did Charlotte tell you we were once married? Earth-style, legally and all? I didn’t think so. We were meant to be together from the moment I hired her at the magazine.” He twisted his fingers together, then turned his interlaced hands so one set of fingers lay on the bottom, crushed by the top. “She was my secretary. Like in the movie? No, of course you haven’t seen that one. But I knew when I spanked her she wouldn’t quit or sue. She knew when I tied her up and took a whip to that sweet ass I’d never let her go. But then, ultimately, I did,” he mused. “I’m beginning to regret letting her go.”
“You let her go because she needed something different?” Gail guessed. “She got tired of playing games?” She couldn’t imagine Charlotte enjoying being whipped and dominated. Not for very long, not even to stay married to this handsome man. What woman would?
Kartane laughed with abandon. “Tired of playing games? Quite the opposite. I wasn’t playful enough for her.” His laughter faded. “Not nearly enough.”
His gorgeous blue eyes, bright white teeth, and his profile when he angled his head back to check on something outside her cell, astonished her anew. Such a handsome man. He could be a model. He’d sire beautiful children. He’d told her he was politically progressive and that he liked kids and wanted a large family. He couldn’t be all bad. Or be that good of a liar. Could he?
She supposed he could. She still had to pee.
She recalled one other thing he’d said. “You’d told me you were a switch!” Switches didn’t have to be in charge, they could be the submissive and obedient ones in BDSM. She’d read about it online.
Maybe all she needed to do to get out of this horrible place was show a little assertiveness.
Not a difficulty for her. “You, worm!” She assumed a pose she’d practiced early tonight before her mirror, widening her stance, throwing her shoulders out, and putting her hands on her hips. She knew she looked stern and impressive. “I don’t belong in a cage. Get your ass over here, kneel, and beg my forgiveness. Maybe I won’t punish you too hard.”
Her heart leapt with sudden hope as he immediately moved forward.
His fist crashing against her cheek knocked her sideways. She clutched at the smooth metal walls to control her slide to the dirt floor. She saw stars as she shook her head, trying to focus. Her cheek flared with pain.
She fingered her face experimentally. “You son of a bitch!”
“Disrespect will be punished. You’ll learn. Or you’ll die.” He was as impassive as a cruel master training a puppy. Worse. Puppies were too cute and fragile to hit that hard. She wasn’t cute.
Horror began to sink its poison talons into her. She’d miscalculated severely. “I’m afraid,” she whispered.
He nodded. “You’re not entirely foolish.”
“I’m not f-foolish. I’m dyslexic but I have a genius-level IQ.” Her voice was subdued.
He patted her on the head, distracted. “The lesson was necessary. You’re a spirited animal.”
“I’m not an animal.” You asshole, she wanted to add, but bit the words back. She looked up at him, cautious.
He nodded again, approving. “Better. And, you’re wrong. All women are animals. Men as well. All of us culturally indoctrinated to believe ourselves otherwise. Women are simpler animals with slave hearts. A real man knows his mastery of females. A female such as yourself, who’s never been forced to be a woman, will naturally have difficulty adjusting. You have nowhere to run. Eventually you’ll submit to me, beg to be my slave, and str
ive with every fiber of your being to please the one who broke you.”
“Broke me?” She scrambled sideways to put distance between them, struggled to stand.
He was on her immediately, his hand tight around her throat as he threw her down onto her belly. His voice remained calm. “Down, bitch.” When she didn’t stop struggling, his grip tightened.
In her fear, her bladder let go. As she felt the warmth of moisture soaking her pants, she heard him laugh. “Just an animal. A smart and spirited animal. One of an ill-trained lot of runaways, throwaways, and hookers nobody will miss. If you’re fortunate, you might aspire to become my First Girl. After you’re broken, of course, my silly genius.”
He was crazy. Charlotte had once been married to this insane monster? Rage and fear and humiliation hovered in her mind like bees circling each other, buzzing, distracting. It made her thoughts more sluggish than normal. Kartane was no switch. He was nothing she could immediately understand. But she had to try to reason with him. “Please, Kartane. You don’t want to do this.”
He shook his head regretfully, and she dared to hope again. But when he laced one hand into her hair, pulled her up to her knees, and yanked her head back to examine her face, she couldn’t miss the insane light that sparked and whirled in his beautiful blue eyes. “Slaves address all men as ‘master.’ ”
She sealed her lips stubbornly.
“You refuse? Do without dinner.” When he let go of her hair she slipped back to huddle in a befouled, smarting ball, snot dripping from her nose, afraid to look up or say a word.
“Excellent.” He cocked his head, listening. A smiled played about his lips.
Through the haze of pain and confusion she heard it.
“Master! Master! This girl would serve you tonight.”
“Master! This girl would please you better, with a sensual whip dance!”
“Master! This slave girl bellies to you, craving only your touch! I crawl!”
Gail looked up at him slowly, horrified.
He smiled down. “Yes. Others. You’ll have to try harder next time if you want to hold my attention. Much harder.”
The words popped out of her mouth before she could censor them. “I’m better off without your attention.”
“Then I’ll simply have to make the alternative worse. Enjoy your evening. I’ll return when it suits me. Maybe in an hour. Maybe in a week.” That diabolically charming grin again. “Eventually you’ll beg to be my slave. You’ll beg for my collar. And you’ll beg for my brand.
“Think on it. In the meantime, I have to go look for something important I’ve misplaced. Good-bye for now, slave.”
His steady gaze was the last thing she saw when he closed the door. She jumped when the latch clicked shut.
His eyes floated in her mind long after his departure. The eyes that horrified her now despite their beauty. How could he have fooled her so completely? For all her intellect, all her justifiable pride in her education and selectiveness, she’d been stupid. As dumb as the bitch he’d called her. She’d wanted to believe, but look where it had gotten her.
Her jaw hurt where his fist had connected. She shifted. Her moist cotton slacks peeled away from her inner thighs, leaving an unpleasant coolness.
At least she didn’t need to use the bucket anymore.
Gail started to laugh. Quickly it turned to wild tears. She wiped at her face furiously, miserably.
She had only one hope. She whispered it, plaintive. “Charlotte, get me the hell out of here.”
6
Charlotte marched away from Martin, but her steps faltered when she saw Rollie again.
Across the sparse crowd of this dungeon’s room, behind their own rope partition, Amethyst allowed Rollie to beat her.
Maybe Rollie had seen Gail. Charlotte debated the wisdom of interrupting him at his play.
No question, Amethyst allowed the beating rather than endured it. The rise and fall of Rollie’s thin arm with the flogger showed his exertion. It made the sequins on his colorful coat flash like the stars on the ceiling. Rollie seemed to give the exercise every bit of his strength, but Amethyst all but yawned.
The blond woman glanced back over her shoulder at Rollie, her gaze contemptuous.
It brought Charlotte up cold. That expression triggered a familiar response.
Rollie paused and scowled at Amethyst, clearly not liking the way she was looking at him.
Was her expression similar to Martin’s? To Cory’s? No. It was something else.
It was the X-rated visions. One began to play in Charlotte’s mind.
Charlotte swayed as her normal vision faded. She lifted her hand to feel for a faux-rock wall, then noticed too late this one wasn’t faux at all as a sharp chunk of granite did its best to cut her palm.
She couldn’t care less. The movie played: Rollie sitting naked in a chair, pale legs spread, his erect cock and vulnerable balls the subject of Amethyst’s sadistic attention. Colored pins zippered his scrotum in an alternating red/green pattern. As she carefully threaded another tiny, sharp pin through the loose skin at the base of his shaft, Rollie yelled. It didn’t sound like a horrified yell, or a complaining one. Just a yell, meant to express his reaction.
Amethyst smiled slyly in response, running a fingernail down the ladder of pins, laughing at his whimpering response.
“Charlotte? Charlotte!”
Martin’s voice. Charlotte shook herself free of the vision. She didn’t dare look at Martin.
His voice had brought her back to reality.
Amethyst and Rollie? Charlotte gazed at them. They didn’t cling together in affection or mutual passion. In fact they’d squared off, facing each other with angry expressions.
“Charlotte!”
It wouldn’t be the least bit appropriate to interrupt Rollie and Amethyst now, she realized. Charlotte pushed herself away from the wall, refusing to look back at Martin.
She absolutely wouldn’t look back.
Would. Not.
She looked back.
Martin’s eyes were hooded like those of a hawk, but she could feel the power of his gaze hit her. His displeasure radiated out in nearly palpable waves.
She shivered, glad he wore restraints.
Sorry, too.
She fled. Purely by luck, she avoided bumping people or hitting her head against the chains dangling from wood beams or knocking herself out on the low ceiling before the doorway to another short tunnel.
She still quivered with desire. She hated herself for it.
He’d called her submissive. Cory had called her that, too. And worse.
Maybe they were both right. What else could explain the erotic tingle of excitement at the thought of being totally at Martin’s mercy?
Of his having no mercy.
She groaned softly.
The scar on her thigh throbbed its warning.
That night with Cory’s brand had destroyed everything.
Did being a submissive mean she belonged in chains at a man’s feet, a slave to his whim? If so, she might be destined to be alone forever. No way she’d let a man do that to her again.
And if her wayward body wanted to fling itself at Martin it was just a damn good thing her brain overruled her body.
As soon as Charlotte disappeared into the short tunnel connecting the second dungeon to the third, Martin reviewed his options.
They weren’t extensive.
He glanced about. He rattled his restraints.
Here he was, owner of all he surveyed, abandoned and secured to one of his St. Andrew’s Crosses.
His too-slowly fading hard-on pushed the crotch of his pants to prominence. No denying his enjoyment of his kinky diversion with Charlotte.
He enjoyed less her parting words, the ones about contacting the police.
He saw Amethyst still arguing with Ratty. The smaller man did have ratlike features, if one felt uncharitable, which Martin did just at the moment. Not that his grumpiness was in any way Ratty’s faul
t. Ratty wasn’t that bad looking, Martin decided. Just a little too small and sharp-featured for common taste. And odd tattoos decorated his bald skull that Martin was too far away to see. Martin wondered what the guy’s out-ofscene name was. It couldn’t possibly be Ratty.
Was his hard-on going down yet? Slowly, too slowly.
Martin’d call Amethyst over in a moment to release him. Just as soon as his erection didn’t declare to all and sundry he’d been ditched at a most awkward time.
He frowned. Embarrassment was the least of his problems.
There was the blackmailer. Normally Martin would laugh at threats to reveal so-called incriminating fetish pictures—he simply didn’t play often enough, and God knew there were plenty of wilder people to watch inside of Subspace. He hadn’t done anything worth snapping a picture of in ages. But recent unfortunate ones had surfaced, to his chagrin. Ones of Martin testing his newly created adult toys at a brief appearance in a Subspace pet-play scene. The images were cropped to imply bestiality. They made him look sleazy and depraved. In a bad way.
The blackmailer had to know a lot about Martin’s schedule. He must’ve bribed one of the women to secretly shoot the pics. Now the jerk threatened to send copies to the worst possible person: Martin’s conservative partner at Pavlov’s Pet Joy, the wholesome, mainstream pet toy company he’d helped start long before discovering his true passion.
The older man who was his partner would be scandalized, possibly disgusted, certainly unable to continue with their plan to sell to Savior Industries, a huge company rooted in religion and specializing in “clean, family-friendly” acquisitions. Their business relationship would sour and Martin’s share of the company, if his partner was willing to buy him out, would bring a shadow of the profit it should’ve.
And Martin had to get his hands on a big influx of money.
But unless Martin capitulated to the blackmailer’s demands and sold the asshole his club, that’s what would happen as a best-case scenario. Adding injury to insult, the sneaky bastard demanded Martin’s club for a pittance. A larcenous, token pittance.
Martin scowled, made a galvanized movement of frustration. Chains rattled against wood. How he’d love to get his hands on the blackmailer.
Rough Play Page 7