A thrill of excitement leaped through Jordan’s gut. Here she was her first night in San Francisco and she already had a job! So, the money was shit—she liked that Gene was upfront about that—but she also knew from her waitressing days that the tips could be pretty substantial. True, she didn’t yet have anywhere to live, but hopefully Mary’s cousin would be calling shortly and she’d get the garage apartment.
Had she really managed to leave the rat race of corporate America four thousand miles behind her? Was she done with always doing exactly what was expected of her? Was she finished taking the safe but deadly dull route?
Shit, yeah! Betsy was right—it was time to follow her dreams.
Now if she could just figure out what those dreams were, she thought wryly.
“So what do you say? You want the job?”
Jordan leaned over the desk and extended her hand. “I sure do.”
Chapter 2
It was her first night at the club, and she’d been working nonstop from the minute she had arrived at eight, helping set up the bar, and then serving customers drinks as well as snacks from the limited menu. She had forgotten just how physical waitressing was. It was nearly eleven and her feet were killing her.
Note to self: buy comfortable shoes first thing in the morning.
Gene came by the bar just as Jordan took a tray of beer bottles and glasses from the bartender. “You’re doing good, kid. Once you finish that order take a ten minute break. I’ll cover for you.” He waved toward the dungeon. “Check out the action if you want. The Master is gearing up for his first show of the night.”
“Thanks.”
A glass of ice water in her hand, Jordan slipped in among a crowd of leather- and latex-clad customers, some of them engaged in their own scenes at various play stations around the dungeon, but most of them gathered in a semicircle around the bondage wheel.
Jordan moved closer, standing on the edge of the crowd. The Master was turned away from her as he strapped the woman onto the wheel. His dark hair was glossy, his broad, muscular back rippling beneath the soft black leather of his vest. A tattoo of three intertwined snakes curled around the bulging biceps of his left arm.
Though Jordan couldn’t see his face, something about the man tugged at her senses, jump starting her heart into a hard, steady beat. Not my type, her brain attempted to inform her, but her body wasn’t listening.
A spotlight flicked directly over the bondage wheel, drawing Jordan’s eye reluctantly from the Master to the bound woman at its center. The woman had a red satin sleep mask over her eyes. Her blond hair hung to her shoulders. Her skin was deeply tanned, her lips painted a vivid red. Jordan guessed from the softening at her jaw line and the slight sag of her breasts that she was somewhere in her forties, though she appeared toned and athletic. She was naked, save for shiny red high heels and a pair of black leather panties held in place with thin silver chains over her hips. Her wrists, waist, thighs and ankles were locked into the thick black leather cuffs that were strategically placed along the X.
The Master reached out his hand, on which he wore fingerless black leather riding gloves, and stroked the woman’s cheek. “Are you ready to suffer for me, slave?”
Jordan still couldn’t see the Master’s face, but something in the timbre of his rich, deep voice made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and she found herself, absurdly, wanting to answer for the woman.
Yes.
The room felt suddenly too close, the press of people around her sucking the air from her lungs. Jordan lifted the glass of ice water to her temple and closed her eyes.
“Yes, Master,” the woman answered in a husky, raspy voice Jordan associated with a heavy smoker.
The Master turned at last to face the crowd that had assembled around the bondage wheel. He had piercing blue eyes beneath thick, straight brows. His nose was prominent and slightly crooked, his jaw square and covered with a few days’ stubble. Jordan guessed him to be in his late twenties or early thirties. Though he wasn’t precisely handsome—his eyes set a little too close together, his nose a little too large—he was compelling in a way that made it impossible for Jordan to take her eyes off him.
She could feel the power radiating from him like an aura. He wasn’t a player, but the real thing. Which was too bad, since she had already placed him on the bondage wheel in her mind’s eye, stripped of the leather trappings, his naked, muscular body spread taut along the X in its center.
The Master addressed the group gathered before him. “Tonight this slave will endure a full body caning while being stimulated with a butterfly vibrator. I need a volunteer—someone familiar with rotating the wheel.”
Several men stepped forward, calling out in their eagerness to participate.
“Fred.” The Master pointed to a short, heavyset man, who came quickly forward and stepped to the opposite side of the wheel from the Master. “Turn her slowly once I begin the caning.” Fred placed his hand on the edge of the wheel, his eyes moving hungrily over the restrained and blindfolded woman.
The Master pressed a button on a small remote Jordan now saw he held in his hand and turned to address the audience. “Beth’s stated goal is to remain silent during the erotic torture, without the aid of a gag. I’ve worked with Beth before, and she has a high pain threshold but is easily stimulated.”
Selecting a short, thin cane from a rack containing dozens of canes, whips, paddles and floggers, the Master began to tap the tops of Beth’s breasts, leaving small horizontal red marks just above her erect brown nipples. Save for the humming sound of the vibrator tucked into the woman’s leather panties, the dungeon had grown silent, as if the crowd held its collective breath.
Though there was still the sound of conversation and clinking glass from the bar in the room beyond, Jordan focused on the swish and tap of the cane held in the Master’s easy, confident grip. Fred turned the wheel slowly. When Beth was upside down, the tips of her hair sweeping the stage, the Master ordered, “Stop. Keep her there.”
He focused the cane on Beth’s upper thighs, his strokes firmer now, the lines left behind on her skin longer and darker. Her lips had parted and Jordan noted that her hands were clenched into fists above the leather cuffs, but so far she’d managed to remain quiet. A fiery stroke across her left nipple caused the woman to hiss in a sudden intake of breath, and droplets of sweat were visible on her chest and upper lip.
The Master nodded toward Fred, who again began to spin the wheel in a slow, easy motion while the woman shuddered and twitched in her bonds, her mouth opened in a perfect O.
Jordan wasn’t usually much for public play. Her scenes at Betsy’s place were generally prearranged with one of the sub boy regulars there. She liked to have them ready and waiting in a private play space on their knees, forehead on the ground when she arrived. On the rare occasions she did watch someone else’s scene, it would be a Dominatrix and her boy—Jordan had no interest in watching women submit to men.
So why was she unable to tear her eyes away from the scene before her?
When Beth began to tremble, her hips gyrating in time to the vibrating butterfly between her legs, the Master whipped her harder, each stroke of the cane leaving a ridged welt in its wake on the woman’s breasts, belly and thighs. Small guttural sounds came from her throat, keeping time with the whoosh and cut of the cane.
Jordan pressed her legs together to still her throbbing clit. She was clutching the water glass in both hands against her chest, her teeth worrying her lower lip, her nipples hard against the leather bustier.
She gave a small, involuntary gasp when someone’s hand rested heavily on her shoulder. Jerking back toward Gene, she accidently sloshed the water in her glass, causing it to spill in an icy splatter between her breasts.
Gene’s lips lifted in a half smile, his eyebrow cocking. He bent close, his mouth near her ear. “You’re needed at the bar,” he said softly. “A party of six just came in. Break’s over.”
~*~
She was a hot little number, with short reddish hair streaked with gold, and large soft green eyes the color of sage. She wasn’t tall, even in those fuck-me high heels she was wearing, but she was every bit a woman, curving in all the right places, her breasts offered up in her black bustier like luscious round peaches.
Gene slid onto the stool beside Donovan. “A good night for a Tuesday,” he said, a cash resister tape in his hand. Gene was the money man of the partnership, which suited Donovan, who much preferred providing the entertainment. Together they made a good team, and the club, now entering its fifth year, was firmly established and finally turning a nice profit, despite the insanely high rent of the upscale San Franciscan neighborhood.
Annette, who was wiping down the bar, leaned over it to kiss the top of Gene’s head. She had dark, curly hair and snapping black eyes. Gene twisted back and reached for her, kissing her mouth. Donovan smiled as he watched them. Though you wouldn’t know it from looking at them, Annette called the shots in the relationship, which was a 24/7 Mistress/slave love match that Donovan almost envied.
He’d had plenty of sub girls in his day, some of them even live-in lovers, but he’d never experienced the kind of intense devotion Gene and Annette seemed to share. Not that he really minded—it was good to play the field and keep his options open. Life was too short to tie yourself down with one person, at least for him.
Gene was nodding toward the new girl. “How’d she do?” he asked Annette.
“She’s terrific,” Annette replied. “Fits right in, bantering with the customers, filling the orders and staying on top of things. She can actually count, which is handy. Remember that girl last year, Rhonda? She could not make change to save her life.” Annette shook her head at the memory. “Seems comfortable in the setting too, which is a good thing. Where’d you find her?”
“She’s a friend of Betsy Hanover, remember her?” As Annette nodded, Gene lifted his chin to include Donovan. “Betsy owns a BDSM club in Manhattan. Apparently Jordan was a regular there. I gave her an interview as a courtesy, and hired her out of desperation.” He laughed. “I’m glad she’s working out.” He smiled wide at Annette. “You know I defer to you in that department.”
“As you should, boy,” Annette said, her dark eyes twinkling as she patted Gene’s curly head. “And all other departments, too.”
“Mistress,” Gene sighed happily, nuzzling against her like a puppy.
Donovan reached for his bottle, draining it as he watched the girl approach the bar, carrying a tray filled with empty bottles, plates and crumpled napkins. He stood and lifted the hinged opening in the bar so she wouldn’t have to walk around the side.
“Thanks,” she said, moving past him and Annette, using her hip to open the swinging doors behind the bar that led into the kitchen.
“Frank’s already gone for the night,” Annette said as Jordan passed her with her tray. “Just put that stuff by the sink and he’ll take care of it tomorrow. Want a beer before I shut down?”
Jordan reappeared, pushing her bangs from her forehead, though they immediately flopped back. “No, thanks. I’m so wiped out, if I had a beer I might have to spend the night here.”
“How about a lemonade then? I have some left from a shandy I made earlier tonight.”
Jordan hoisted herself onto the stool one down from Donovan. Without seeming to notice him, she leaned forward, placing her elbows on the bar. “Sure. That sounds great. Thanks.”
Annette took a clean glass and scooped some crushed ice into it. She poured the lemonade over the ice and dropped in a maraschino cherry. While she was preparing the drink, Donovan turned to Jordan, extending his hand over the empty stool between them. “I’m Donovan Cartwright. Welcome aboard.”
“Jordan Heller.” Her grip was cool and firm, almost masculine in its assurance, which surprised Donovan. He realized he was expecting something softer and more demure and it threw him off balance.
Annette handed the drink to Jordan and Donovan noticed the girl’s fingernails were short though nicely manicured and painted a pearly pink. As she lifted the glass, Donovan found himself watching her drink. Something about it was supremely erotic—the way her lips closed over the edge of the glass as she tilted her head back, her eyes closing, the long lashes brushing her cheeks, and the small, satisfied sigh after she’d drained the glass.
Donovan experienced a sudden nearly overwhelming urge to place his hand on her throat, thumb and forefinger tightening just beneath her jaw line, forcing her head back as he gripped a handful of her hair and lowered his mouth to hers. The image was so startlingly real that for a horrible moment he thought he’d actually done it. He must be more tired than he thought. He shook his head, shaking away the fantasy as if it were a physical presence in his brain.
Annette stepped out from behind the bar. She nodded toward Jordan and Donovan. “See you tomorrow.” Turning to Gene, she added, “I’m going to change. See you in a minute?”
“Yes, Mistress,” Gene said quietly, and Donovan noted the sudden lift of Jordan’s eyebrows, though she gave no other outward sign she had heard him.
As Annette headed through the dungeon door, Gene stood and walked around Donovan to Jordan. “Annette’s pleased with your work, Jordan. We’ll see you tomorrow at eight?”
“You will.” Jordan smiled, and Donovan noticed the deep dimple in her left cheek. Her skin looked satiny soft. His fingers, rough and calloused from years of working with his hands, itched to stroke her cheek.
Bending over, Jordan pulled off one of her high heels. “But these have got to go. I think I crippled myself tonight.” She laughed, a full-throated laugh that made Donovan wonder if she was as vocal in bed.
“No problem,” Gene agreed. “Flats are fine.” He turned to Donovan. “Front door’s locked and everyone’s gone for the night. Will you set the alarm and see Jordan out to her car?”
“Of course,” Donovan agreed, watching Gene leave. He looked at the clock behind the bar. It was 2:20 and normally at this hour he was done, but for some reason the fatigue he’d felt a moment before had lifted. A kind of nervous energy moved in his blood, as if he’d just had a double shot of espresso. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize it was the sexy little sprite sitting one stool over that was the cause.
Though he had no particular plans to take it further, there was no harm in a little casual flirtation. He’d just push a few of her buttons—test the submissive waters, as it were.
He slid to the stool next to hers. “I saw you watching me tonight during the bondage wheel scene. You looked like a little girl in a candy store. Ever been on a wheel?”
“You saw me in that crowd?”
He grinned at her diversion tactic and ratcheted the flirtation up a notch. “I saw the longing in your face even from a distance. You were imagining the snug grip of those cuffs around your wrists, your thighs, your ankles and waist. Your body was aching to be stretched taut, at the mercy of my dominance. Your skin was tingling with the need to feel the stroke of my cane.”
He paused to see if he was getting to her, looking for the flush on her cheeks, the dilation of her pupils, the parting of her lips in startled but aroused surprise.
Instead, to his chagrin, she tossed her head and snorted. “Ha! Are you ever off the mark. I eat boys like you for dinner and spit out the bones. I’m as dominant as you are. If I looked like a kid in a candy shop, it was only because I wanted to be the one with the cane in my hand, a boy toy strapped to the wheel as he begged me sweetly for another lick of fire. In fact, I bet you would fit up there quite nicely.”
For a moment Donovan was speechless. Admittedly he’d laid it on a little thick in an effort to get a rise out of her. But when he’d seen Jordan in the crowd clutching her water glass to her chest as if in prayer, her eyes shining, her expression rapt, he’d pegged her for a sub, no question about it.
Now he just shrugged, only the lift of his eyebrows suggesting his disbelief. “My mistake,” he said, standing and bowing slightly in her direction. “I’ll wait for you by the changing room, Mistress.”
“Glad we cleared that up,” Jordan replied with another saucy flounce of her head.
But then he saw it, and he knew what he was seeing, no matter how much she protested to the contrary. She couldn’t hide the telltale flush that was indeed rising along her chest and throat and pinkening her cheeks, even as her green eyes flashed with defiance.
Donovan followed her through the dungeon, stopping to spin the bondage wheel as they passed it. They locked eyes. Jordan was the first to turn away.
Donovan just smiled. He always did love a challenge.
Chapter 3
Jordan stood in the middle of the garage apartment and did a slow three-sixty of the small space, spreading out her arms as if she could embrace the room. Who knew it could be so easy to uproot her life? Was finding a job and a place to stay right off the bat some kind of good omen? Jordan chose to think so.
Mary’s cousin, Lucy, called two days after Jordan had arrived in San Francisco and gave Jordan directions to the place. Jordan showed up armed with plenty of cash. Lucy had rented the apartment to her on the spot, tucking the wad of bills into her bra with a broad grin and a handshake. “Mary says you’re good people,” Lucy had informed her. “That’s good enough for me.”
It was a single room over a garage with a small bathroom tucked into one corner and a galley kitchen along one side of the room that consisted of a mini refrigerator, a counter with a microwave, a small electric stove and a few cabinets bolted into the wall.
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