by Pam McKenna
She opened the door and stepped onto the porch, half expecting to see John’s Jaguar parked in front of her house. He wasn’t there yet—if he was even coming. After all, he’d said nothing in his note about showing up in person. He’d simply told her to wait. This could be nothing more than a sick practical joke. In which case she’d take him apart with her bare hands.
Kay sat on her porch steps, trying to appear nonchalant as the tingle between her legs gained in intensity. Her clitoris had never felt so ultrasensitized. Moisture trickled from her pussy, soaking her panties. Somehow she managed to exchange polite greetings with her neighbor Paul as he walked his adorable Westies, Cecil and Eddie. Her face felt hot as a griddle. She caught herself squirming and clamped her arms around her knees. After Paul strolled on, she released an audible groan. Oh God. He could tell—she just knew it.
She was practically climaxing right there on her front porch, in full view of the entire neighborhood. She had to do something about this. Who knew when or even if John intended to show up? She leapt up and stumbled back into the house, on the verge of yanking up her skirt and shoving her hand in her panties when her gaze fell on his note.
Do not touch yourself, he’d written. Go to the front porch and wait.
She leaned against the door and gulped air, struggling to corral her galloping libido. Tingle was far too tame a word to describe what was happening to Kay’s clitoris. Prickle. Tickle. Tease. Itch. It was all of these and more.
She let out a gusty exhalation. John’s orders could not have been clearer. She could do this.
This time when she let herself out of the house, she found his Jag idling at the curb. Relief swamped her and she lost no time sliding into the passenger seat.
“You disobeyed my instructions.” He started driving.
“What? You mean…I was outside waiting. I just had to go in for a moment to, um, I forgot to feed the—”
“I’m not interested in excuses.” He turned at the corner, in the direction of the parkway. “I expect unquestioning obedience.”
“Yes Sir.” Kay’s pussy pumped and it wasn’t due only to the stimulating oil. John’s strict Dom persona went to her core like an aphrodisiac. “I’m sorry, Sir.”
He drove in silence for a while, merging onto the parkway and eventually exiting onto the Long Island Expressway, headed west. Where was he taking her? She wanted to ask but didn’t dare. She’d find out in time. Meanwhile it was becoming increasingly difficult to sit still. John noticed.
“I see you followed at least one of my orders. Obviously you applied the arousal oil,” he said. “Stop squirming. And keep your legs apart.”
“I’m trying, Sir. But it’s…it’s difficult.”
“Show me.”
“What?”
He nodded toward her skirt. “You heard me.”
Kay looked at the surrounding traffic, the cars speeding along at sixty and seventy miles an hour.
“So willful.” He sighed. “Your training will include abundant correction.”
Unquestioning obedience. Kay pulled up her skirt, gathering the soft linen at her waist.
John looked. He frowned. “Did my instructions include putting your panties back on?”
“Um, no Sir, I just assumed—”
“For which you will be punished. Take them off.”
She glanced at the next lane over, where an SUV kept pace with John’s Jag, its driver a burly-looking young man wearing shades. From his elevated perch he had a direct line of sight into the Jag’s passenger seat, if he cared to look. She prayed he wouldn’t as she raised her hips and slid off her underpants. The breeze from the air conditioner cooled her overheated pussy. She held the skirt bunched at her waist, knowing it was expected, the panties now balled in her fist.
“You’ve kept your cunt shaved,” John said. “Good.” He pressed a switch and the passenger-side window slid down, causing the young driver to glance over. He did a double-take, then grinned and rolled down his own window. “Fan-fucking-tastic!” He gave her a thumbs-up. “You have made my day, sweet thing!”
Kay’s face felt scalded. Embarrassment flooded her, mingled with an undeniable thrill as this stranger ogled her hairless, dripping slit, his gaze jerking between her and his windshield as he tried to avoid plowing into the car ahead.
“Give him the panties,” John said.
Good grief. Well, in for a nickel, in for a dime. Kay hauled back and tossed the wadded-up undies from the Jag’s window to the SUV’s. The young man caught them with a triumphant war whoop. On impulse she blew him a kiss. “Marry me!” he hollered, waving the panties as John gunned it, changing lanes and leaving him in the dust.
Kay laughed. Had she ever felt this giddy and carefree? “Well, I can cross that one off my life list.”
Traffic slowed as they approached the tunnel into Manhattan and John ordered her to put her skirt back down. She was to sit still with her legs parted and her hands at her sides, palms up like a proper submissive. She wondered why he was taking her to the city, but more than that she wondered when she was going to be permitted an orgasm. They’d been driving for over an hour, and between that wicked oil, the car’s vibrations and anticipation of whatever John had planned for her, her pussy felt ready to explode.
John handled Manhattan’s congested traffic with the skill of a New York cabbie, heading downtown, finally pulling up in front of a majestic, old, four-story brownstone in SoHo. “A space right in front! I’ve still got the parking karma.” He showed off his talent for parallel parking, shoehorning the Jag into a space Kay would have considered a tight squeeze for a motorcycle.
He exited the car and came around to open her door. She appreciated the gallant gesture, but it wasn’t why she’d lingered in her seat.
“I can’t get out, John—uh, Sir. My dress.”
“Your dress what?” He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
A young family strolled by on the sidewalk. She waited until they were out of earshot. “It’s wet,” she whispered. “On the, you know, on the back.” She just knew there was a dark spot where her juices had soaked through.
“I’m sure it is.” He gestured impatiently. “Out.”
Kay cursed him inwardly as she scooted out of the car, her face flaming. She wished she had a sweater or something to tie around her hips. To her immense relief, John walked behind her as they ascended the steps of the brownstone, just close enough to keep passersby from getting an eyeful of her telltale spot.
He reached around her to ring the bell, his breath hot on her neck as he murmured, “Do you remember your safe word?”
A shiver skated up her spine. What was going to happen to her in this place? She nodded.
“Let me hear it,” he said.
She cleared her throat. “Felicia.”
“If I hear it again, you know what that will mean.”
It would mean an immediate end to the action. She recalled what he’d told her two months earlier. Without that word, no amount of screaming or begging will get me to stop.
The door swung open. Whatever she’d expected, it wasn’t this tall, handsome man with a shaved head and a welcoming grin. He stood aside to let them enter and exchanged a hearty handshake with John, who introduced them with a brisk “Erik Rolvsson, Kay Denehy.”
Erik’s big hand swallowed hers as he shook it. “Welcome, Kay.” He wore snug black jeans and a sleeveless, army-green athletic shirt that displayed a bodybuilder’s physique as well a wicked-looking scar snaking across one bulging deltoid. At six foot four or so, this guy had an inch or two on John. His size and Nordic good looks put her in mind of the Viking warriors who were probably his forebears.
From the foyer Kay spied a warm, masculine living room furnished in dark leather and thick Scandinavian rugs. An enormous walnut fireplace mantel, no doubt original to this late-nineteenth-century building, dominated one wall.
“I just opened a killer twenty-one-year-old single-malt,” Erik told John, before turning
to Kay. “Or a glass of wine?”
John declined for them both. “Thanks, I’d rather we got down to it.”
“No problem.” Erik led the way up the curved walnut staircase, its gleaming beauty capped by an intricate stained-glass skylight four flights overhead.
Kay hung back and spoke quietly to John. “You didn’t bring me here so he can…so he and I will…?”
“I’ve told you before, Kay, it’s not your place to question me.” His expression was stern. “If it pleases me to watch Erik fuck you, he will fuck you and you will submit.” He turned and headed up the stairs.
Chapter Six
More shocking than John’s statement was her body’s response to it. Just the thought of “submitting” to the big, bald Viking—a man she’d met less than a minute ago!—made her pussy pump so hard she had to grasp the carved newel post to steady herself. What did that say about her? What did it say about John that he could even entertain the possibility?
Somehow she made it to the second floor. She followed the men into the first room off the hallway, a large space with walls painted a rich dark red. Like the rest of the house, this room featured a high ceiling rimmed by an elaborate cornice. Red-and-gold window drapes puddled on the hardwood floor. Antique display cabinets lined the walls, heavy pieces constructed of dark wood and glass. Several overstuffed chairs occupied the center of the room, along with an enormous leather-topped coffee table.
She caught the glint of metal as she scanned the contents of the cases, and the luster of polished wood. She saw small items that looked like jewelry and an assortment of elongated abstract sculptures anywhere from five inches to a foot in length. The sculptures varied in size and appearance, but all were longer than they were wide, like bananas or cucumbers or…
“No way,” she muttered, peering more closely at the contents of one case. Several wooden dildos—what else could they be?—lay nestled on navy blue velvet. Though they were all intended for the same purpose, they looked completely different from one another. The one nearest her was made of a reddish wood with a prominent grain and featured a couple of well-placed bends that she imagined might feel quite…interesting, depending on how it was wielded. The one next to it was of paler wood and sported bumpy corrugations from the base to the bulbous tip. Of the seven dildos in the case, only one had been designed to resemble an actual penis.
“Erik is an artist,” John said. “He made everything you see here.”
“This is the showroom. My workshop’s on the third floor.” Erik pointed to the ceiling. “I do all the woodwork up there, start to finish. The steel pieces start off as wax sculptures, then I send them off to a foundry for lost-wax casting.”
“Well, it’s very…impressive,” she said, moving on to a display of steel dildos, butt plugs and a few scary-looking objects whose use she could only guess at. The next cabinet was filled with implements of punishment—wooden spanking paddles of every description, some long and narrow, some wide and solid-looking, several with beveled holes in the business end, which she imagined added to their speed and sting. The collection included a few steel paddles and some wicked-looking canes. Her bottom twitched just looking at them. All the wooden items were beautifully finished and polished to a sheen.
An open door led to another room—from this angle all she could see in there was part of a white countertop with a steel tray and a glass jar crammed with identical permanent-marker pens. The artist’s drawing studio?
Erik addressed John. “What are we looking for today?”
“A chastity belt.” He said it as casually as if he were ordering a blueberry muffin.
Erik sauntered to another case and opened the glass doors. “Are we talking full-time wear?” he asked. “Twenty-four seven?”
“You know me better than that.” John joined him to examine the various designs while Kay stood rooted to the spot. “She’ll wear it for up to a few hours at a time.”
Chastity belt? When did this relic from the Middle Ages come back in vogue? She was relieved but not surprised to hear him say he didn’t intend her to wear it at all times. She already knew he didn’t regard BDSM as a full-time lifestyle.
John examined a belt that looked more like a heavy necklace. It consisted of double chains that circled the waist and went between the legs, secured by small padlocks on either side of the hip. The only rigid part of this device was a curved steel plate just large enough to cover a woman’s pussy. In the center of the plate was a vertical slot about a half inch wide.
“This one seems a little flimsy.” He handed the belt back to Erik. “I’m afraid she could get her fingers in there.”
“Fingers?” she blurted. Wasn’t the purpose of a chastity belt to prevent intercourse? A sharp look from John made her snap her mouth shut. Meekly she said, “I’m sorry, Sir. May I ask a question?”
“No. Take off your clothes.”
Her heart gave a painful bang. She looked at Erik, whose amiable expression never changed. “I…wait a minute…” she said.
Erik nodded toward the display of paddles. “Feel free to borrow anything you like from the stock, John. As a matter of fact, I have a new design that needs testing.”
That got her moving. She dropped her purse, stepped out of her sandals and undid the tie belt of her wrap dress, studiously avoiding the artist’s eyes. I cannot believe I’m doing this. She took a deep breath, opened the dress and let it slide off her shoulders onto the floor. That left her in only her bra, which she unfastened and dropped onto the dress. She had the nagging feeling something else was expected of her. It came to her in the next instant and she opened her legs wide.
She recalled John’s explanation when he’d commanded her always to keep her legs spread. This will serve as a constant demonstration of your submission and receptiveness—of your readiness to be used for my pleasure.
She glanced at Erik, she couldn’t help it. He was looking at her body, his gaze more appreciative than lurid. Meanwhile her heart thudded like a jackhammer.
“Fold your clothes neatly,” John told her, “and put them and the rest of your things in the corner. Then stand as you were.”
Kay did as instructed, feeling the men’s hot gazes on her the whole time.
“Your training will begin in earnest later this evening.” John came up to her and released her hair clip, letting her hair fall around her shoulders. He tossed the clip onto her clothes in the corner and lifted her hands, positioning them behind her neck. He pushed her elbows wide and tilted her chin up. “Meanwhile, this is Standing Position. Remember it. In time you’ll learn all eight basic positions and you will comply immediately when told to assume one of them.” He gave her a crooked smile. “This one is easiest.”
By which he meant what, it was the least humiliating? She could only imagine what the other positions entailed.
Erik opened a drawer and slung a measuring tape around his neck before joining them. “Your slave’s poor pussy couldn’t get any wetter. When was her last orgasm?”
John shrugged. “Ask her. I haven’t fucked her in weeks.”
Erik turned to her. “Well?”
She swallowed hard and murmured, “Um…last night.”
“You will address him in the proper fashion,” John said.
“Last night, Sir.”
Erik gave her an impish smile. “Don’t tell me you’ve been slipping around on your owner.”
“No, I…” Slipping around? How did you slip around on someone who’d insisted there would never be a second time? She decided this wasn’t the time to get into it. “I have a, um, vibrator.”
“Some plastic piece of crap, no doubt.” Erik jerked his head toward John. “I’ll get him to pony up for the real deal. You’ll leave here with the Rolls Royce of vibes.”
“Um…thank you? Sir,” she quickly added.
John turned to Erik. “‘The Rolls Royce of vibes’? What’s that going to set me back? One grand? Two?”
“Two and a half. Cheap fucker.�
�� Erik smiled at Kay. “You telling me this sweet little slave isn’t worth it?”
She asked, “May I explain something, Sir?”
John said, “No.” Erik said, “Yes.” She chose to listen to Erik.
“It was the oil,” she said. “I mean I’m in this, you know, condition because he…my, um…” She’d never said the word before, not in the BDSM sense. “My owner made me put a drop of this weird tingly stuff on my…my clitoris.”
“You have me to thank for that,” Erik said. “Gave him some arousal oil out of my limited private stash—it’s practically impossible to come by.” To John he added, “Try applying it before the belt goes on. Speaking of which, I’d recommend a nice sturdy one that’ll accommodate plugs. Like that little number on the far right.”
Kay looked where Erik pointed and saw a steel-and-leather chastity belt stiff enough to stand on its own. Two steel cylinders, one slightly larger than the other, projected inward from the bottom of it. The location of the “plugs” left little doubt they were meant to fill the wearer’s pussy and ass while she was locked into the belt.
John appeared to be considering it as he returned to the display case. “Maybe next time. For her first one, I’m inclined to go for form over function.”
The belt he lifted from the case fell somewhere between the chain belt and the fill-’er-up model on the sturdiness scale, having been crafted from about a dozen steel plates adorned with delicate cutouts and connected to one another with decorative rivets and hinges. Two dainty round padlocks secured the belt, which, like the others, included a vertical slot in the section that cupped the crotch.
“This is the one,” John said, “except I want a hammered surface and different cutouts. We’ll go over the details later.”
“That one’s my favorite too, for looks,” Erik said. “Hammered is a nice touch. I can have it ready for you in two weeks.”
“Make it one. I know, I know.” John held up a palm. “I’ll pay the rush charge. And I want a pair of long, locking wrist cuffs to match.”