by Joey W. Hill
"Where is Ma--Logan?"
"Here." He came out from a bathroom, drying his hands. Wearing a button-down shirt loose over his jeans and the heavy tread work shoes, he was as distracting and appealing as other men would be in a tuxedo. She saw his gaze turn to a workbench where an array of coiled ropes in different colors and thicknesses had been laid out. His critical glance suggested it had been Troy's job to arrange what Logan desired to have at hand. She wondered what the consequences would be if Troy had missed anything. As her gaze returned to the chains, the plastic, her stomach tied itself neatly into a tight knot.
"I'm not really sure what I'm doing here." She blurted it out, then colored. He nodded, unperturbed.
"You can leave at any time, Madison, but I'm hoping you'll stay with us throughout the entire session. We'll start with something simple. Troy, go to the shackles. Madison, put them on his wrists."
Just like that. No chitchat, no time for her to get more nervous than she already was. In a way it was helpful, being treated like the assistant she expected to be, something functional and not the center of attention. Though that knot still tightened another notch at the way he told her to do it. It wasn't a please, would you mind kind of tone. It was an order.
Troy obediently moved to the mat. Logan was studying the ropes on the workbench, but she wasn't fooled by the inattention. She knew he was tracking her responses, because he emanated that Master of the Universe vibe she'd accused him of having, primarily because it turned her on so much.
She made her feet move, followed Troy. When she reached the mat, she closed her hand around one manacle, dangling near Troy's shoulder. As he raised a hand so she could put the cuff around it, she noticed a new tension to his face. Not fear. Anticipation. She could feel it increase as she locked the cuff around his wrist. As she did it, her own increased as well. Needing to reassure herself of his wellbeing, she murmured a quiet "Okay?"
The young man nodded. His focus seemed to be turning inward as she completed the task, as if putting on the cuffs transported him to a different plane. She remembered the way her own feelings had shifted when she'd locked the cuffs onto herself at home, knowing the key was behind the ice, temporarily inaccessible. Because of the lack of floor or ceiling cover, the hollow room echoed every noise, including the metallic sound of the shackles being fitted into place.
Troy's wrists had a light dusting of pale blond hairs over them. She slid a fingertip over them, petting them like a cat's fur. When she glanced up at his face, she saw those blue eyes had shifted to hers.
"Finish the task, Madison."
Logan's tone was neutral, but there was a slight reproof there. If he did proscribe a punishment for her transgression, would running be an option?
She stepped back.
"Lift your arms above your head, Troy. Eyes down. She's lovely, but you haven't earned the right or my permission to look at her."
The young man cast his gaze downward, though she noticed his gaze remained on her feet. Logan noticed it, too, because his lips twitched. "So it's going to be that kind of night, is it?"
He pushed a button embedded in a wall plate. At the sound of gears engaging, she glanced up to see the chains were attached to a track. The concept was similar to a garage door opener, only this motor drew up the slack in the chains until Troy's arms were pulled taut over his head. The more the restraints tightened, the greater the stretch of his torso, the more lost Troy's expression became in that inward focus. The abdomen muscles stretched, the chest and rib cage arching as his heels left the ground. Logan stopped him there, only the balls of his feet still touching.
As captivating a picture as Troy was, she found herself trying to watch them both. Logan's full attention was on Troy, apparently gauging the tension he was placing on his muscles, studying the arches of his bare feet. From his position he had the enviable view of Troy's ass, all tight and tilted. Then he caught her attention fully.
"You wanted to touch him, Madison. You can touch him now. Touch him however you wish with your body, but only above the waist with your hands. Until I say stop, he's your possession to enjoy."
Read on for an excerpt from another scorchingly sexy novel from Joey W. Hill
UNRESTRAINED
Available now from Heat
The first time she stepped into a BDSM club, it felt like home. Surprised wasn't the right word for her reaction. Surprise was what one felt toward a party thrown in one's honor, planned on the sly by someone else. When she stepped into that dim environment, inhaled the intangible layers of want and need intertwined with the surface scents of tears and sweat, perfume and leather, her unconscious revealed the secret it had kept for so long. This was where she belonged. It rose up into her chest, an unexpected comfort and validation. Ironic, given that she hadn't been there for herself. Not essentially.
Roy had talked her into giving it a try. He wanted to take the play they did in the privacy of their home into a discreet but more populated world. It had mattered to him, so she'd prepared herself to accept it, no matter how sordid it might end up being.
Everyone knew New Orleans had a seedy side. No one bothered to call it an "underside," since it was broadly displayed in the French Quarter at all hours of the day, and it had worsened since Katrina, when more of the city's criminal element shifted into that section. But then she found there was an actual underworld, and the darkness there was heated, welcoming. Not seedy at all. The perspiration gleaming on marked skin, the cries of pleasure and pain, the glitter of eyes in the dim light, the energy that pulsed in Club Release like its own power source . . . it reminded her of what she'd felt in some of the old churches in the city.
That connection had come much later, when Roy got sick.
Occasionally there would be things at the company she had to handle in person, so she'd leave him with his nurse for the bare minimum time necessary. One day, on the way back home, she obeyed an impulse driven by simple weariness of spirit and allowed herself a fifteen-minute detour into a small Catholic church. It had a trio of archways beckoning the faithful, and the smell of stone and wood over a hundred years old. She'd sat in the sanctuary, stilling her mind, letting everything go for those precious few moments. She realized the ambiance that compelled hushed voices, a still soul, was like what she felt in the club. There was also euphoria, a contained joy, the best kind to feel. Things always felt more intense when restrained. She'd seen it in how Roy reacted to it, though she'd never experienced it firsthand.
Though she didn't share why she'd stopped at the church, not wanting him to worry about her, she'd shared that comparison with Roy. He smiled at her, nodded, his eyes still bright in the gaunt face. They remained bright until the last few days, when he slipped into that pre-death, morphine coma so common to cancer patients. At the end, she'd whispered in his ear, commanded him to let go. She told him that she'd be all right, that his Mistress would always love him. He would like her putting it in those terms, she knew. So his Mistress let him go, even as his wife sat at his bedside, clutching his hand, the loneliness closing around her when his breath stopped and he obeyed her.
"Want another one?"
She returned to the present and Jimmy, who ran the bar at Club Release. He'd drawn her back out of herself. Since it was a private club run as a nonprofit membership group, they didn't serve alcohol, but they had a good selection of drinks, everything from chili pepper cocoa to lemonade or O'Doul's. He gave her glass a significant glance. "I can top that to two-thirds, Lady Mistress, so you can slip in a little more of that vodka you don't think I'm seeing."
She gave him a faint smile. "My sleight of hand's out of practice."
"Naw. You just know that I already know. And you're sad tonight." He hesitated, put his hand on the bar next to hers, no contact, but the offer of connection was there. "You know, it's been over two years. Dillon and Seth are easygoing, gentle subs. Either one of them would help you break the dry spell. It's no different for us than it is for a vanilla person going on that first da
te. It might even be a little easier, because they saw you work with Roy and know how you operate. You can tell me 'shut up, bitch' if I'm way off base, but I can't help but feel you're looking for something."
"Maybe. I'll think about it." It wasn't the first time he'd suggested it, though he hadn't been as blunt in the past. It also wasn't the first time she'd given that noncommittal response.
When she started coming back here, a few months ago, they'd let her lack of participation pass without comment. They'd known her and Roy in a way no one else did, which meant Club Release offered a unique type of sanctuary. However, not only was she no longer playing, she was hardly watching when she showed up. She just closed her eyes and listened, using the club's sounds as the soundtrack to her own personal memory reel. It was bound to invite more pointed comments after a while. Sometimes it could be a pain in the ass, people knowing certain parts of you too well . . . and other parts not at all.
Yes, she'd felt at home here, with Roy. But it was as if she'd lost weight and the mirror showed a core version of herself that other layers had disguised. It made her think it was time to put down the whip and do something different. Be on the other side of the whip. Craving the lash, the pain . . . the release.
The first time that thought crystallized in her mind's eye, refusing to be shrouded, it had startled her. She wasn't used to analyzing and thinking about herself in a solitary way. It was always in relation to something else, someone else. Roy, first and foremost, and then a hundred others lined up after him. Family members, the community, business.
Though this was when she normally would pay her tab and go home, she didn't want Jimmy to pry further, so she would make an effort. She rose, picking up her drink, and wandered into the Fortress of Solitude. In this section of the club, no talking was allowed. A safe gesture replaced a safe word, and submissives were gagged. Their bodies, eyes, and faces broadcast what was happening to them. A Master or Mistress ordered them through touch: a hand on their shoulder to guide them to a restraint, a tug of the leash, a pressure to put them on their hands and knees. It was a good place to avoid conversation.
With it being Tuesday night, she'd hoped no one would be in there, that the few members in attendance had gravitated toward the more social rooms, which also had more popular equipment. Her hopes were short-lived.
At least it was only one couple, a Master and his female sub. She didn't recognize the Dom, but she hadn't been to the club in over a month, too busy with other things. He wore a black eyemask and bandanna knotted at his nape. Together, they hid all of his features except his mouth, the line of his jaw. He wore tight black gloves.
Practitioners of BDSM came from all walks of life, many of them average Janes and Joes whose unremarkable facets became polished gems when their true natures sparkled in these rooms. She'd seen it happen with lean Goths, bikers, comfortable middle-class types, military, and then those like her. Her infallibly ladylike demeanor, the old Southern money roots she couldn't and wouldn't try to conceal, had earned her the nickname Jimmy had spoken tonight. Lady Mistress.
Despite the diverse club population, she was fairly certain she'd never seen a Master quite like this one. Unless it was in one of the confusing, erotic dreams that had been teasing the edges of her sleep of late, dreams she didn't feel comfortable sharing even in this venue. Perhaps especially in this venue.
She'd handled fund-raising for the USO charity ball three years running. During that time, she'd become friendly with a variety of military wives. One night she and Roy had the pleasure of hosting a dinner party for them and their spouses. Several of the husbands were Navy SEALs. She'd noted a unique stamp to the way they carried themselves, the look in their eyes. On top of that, each had an impressive physique. It was understandable since, in the SEALs, the body was pushed to the max in terms of endurance, speed and strength. One of the wives told Athena that many of the men, even those who'd never been injured, ended up requiring some disability benefits by the end of their career, due to the punishing demands on joints, muscles, skeletal system.
"They never quit. They just go until the body is completely worn out." The wife had said it half jokingly, though her eyes had followed her husband with that combination of fierce love and quiet acceptance military wives had to possess for the marriage to last.
This Master had that unique stamp to him. If Athena was right and he was a SEAL, he definitely wasn't at that worn-out point. The black jeans and unmarked black T-shirt defined a body that said he was capable of pretty much any physical demand. She wondered at his age, his hair color. He wore silver-tipped cowboy boots. There was no other ornamentation on him. His concentration was on the woman dependent on his mercy.
If it wasn't a Tuesday, with such sparse attendance, she expected he would have had far more of an audience, but maybe that was why he preferred a quiet weeknight. Maybe he considered her as much of an intrusion as she'd initially considered him. But though Athena sensed his awareness of her presence, he didn't seem distracted by it.
Willow, his submissive, was a regular at the club, one who craved heavy punishment from a Master, hence the pseudonym. A willow bent under any punishment, but didn't break. She was tied spread eagle to an upright metal frame. This room had several frames like that, as well as a pegboard of whips, floggers, paddles, thumpers and uncomplicated restraint options. The Fortress of Solitude tended to attract those who preferred to use the basics and let psychological domination do the rest.
At the moment, this Master was utterly still. He held a cane in one large hand, the end resting in the half-curled palm of the other, while his gaze coursed over his captive's body. Willow was stripped to the skin, which would be a viewing pleasure for anyone watching, but his body language said that was irrelevant to him. Even more importantly, it told Willow she was stripped for his pleasure alone.
He stood with feet evenly braced, T-shirt pulling across his shoulders and chest, his ass and thigh muscles taut beneath the mold of the denim. The tilt of his head, as if he was listening to something no one else could hear, made the rule of silence not a guideline, but a mandate that would incur punishment if broken. Athena wet her lips.
His profile could have been etched from granite, his jaw looked that resilient. She wanted to see the rest of his face. She thought he'd be dark haired, because the scattering of hair on his arms was dark, and his five-o'clock shadow was a blue-black that made a woman think of pirates. Since the shadowing in the room made it impossible to determine his eye color, she imagined them as green, then brown or blue. A dark blue, like a cold ocean, hiding pleasures and dangers both.
He moved then, sweeping the cane across Willow's buttocks, a strike across the widest part. She jerked, biting down on the gag. He did it again, creating an X, and then kept doing it, focusing on her ass and upper thighs.
The girl was a pale-skinned, white-haired blonde with a soft, pretty body. She had the tattoo of a rose on the back of her shoulder, the thorny stem winding its way around her shoulder blade and to the front. When she twisted in pain, reacting to the cane, Athena glimpsed the rest of the tattoo. The stem ended at her left nipple, which was pierced with a barbed barbell.
He stopped. The girl panted behind her gag, her fingers opening and closing in the cuffs that held her to the frame. She wore a blindfold, but Athena saw the tears that had trickled down to the corners of her mouth. Her body was shuddering. Athena's stomach was quivering in response, a sympathetic tingle in her thighs and buttocks where she had them pressed against the wall. She could sit down on the couch in the corner, but she preferred to be here, part of the ungiving and cool cinder block wall.
The masked man planted a boot between Willow's spread feet. Caressing her biceps, he slid a gloved hand over the tender bend of her elbow before he dropped his touch to her hip. Willow's head turned toward him, the attitude of her body one of yearning, desire for his attention. Wanting to please him.
Was he a consistent sadist, or had he tailored his skill set to Willow's
need for pain? He might be the type of Dom who chose a different sub on each visit, enjoying the challenge of exploring various techniques, anticipating the needs of different playmates. Even so, he'd have a personal preference; most Doms did. Athena wondered what it was, wondered what it would be like to be bound to him uniquely, such that he would reveal his own desires and let her be the willing recipient of serving them.
"Her" meaning a special sub, bound to this faceless Master. She didn't mean herself, of course, except in the comfort of her fantasies.
Subs had their own preferences as well. Roy had liked the psychology of being dominated and enjoyed some pain to reinforce it, but the restraints, the sense of helplessness, that was what he truly needed.
Willow shuddered in the man's grip. From the slackness of her mouth, the jerky movements of her body, as well as the flushed look of her swollen clitoris, she was soaring. Teetering on the edge of climax, caught in mindless submission, the state a Dom loved to see.
He put his mouth against her ear. Speaking was permitted if the Master or sub had a safety issue to clarify. He spoke so softly, however, that Athena couldn't hear him. Willow did, her trembling increasing. She shook her head, a whimper escaping her. Though the sound was muffled by the gag, he gave her marked ass a sharp smack, and she stilled, obeying the rules. His touch now became more gentle, though his tone increased enough that Athena caught the rumble. He had a deep voice. She found that pleasing, soothing. Apparently, so did Willow. The girl nodded at last, more tears leaking out from under the blindfold. Anything for you, her body language said. I will give you anything. I will fly for you.
Athena swallowed.
The man moved back, switching out the cane for a six-foot single tail. It took considerable skill to wield one well, but Athena had no doubt he had that skill. When he assumed the proper stance, it was as if the room bent inward toward him like one of the Matrix movies, responding to his focus. Athena was a peripheral, no different from the wall itself. Everything for him would be about Willow's reactions, monitoring them, making sure this went where Master and sub both desired, until it became organic, a spiral where intuition was guiding every action and reaction.