BDSM Club Series Box Set

by Claire Thompson

  As the hours had passed, however, Jordan realized they wouldn’t be getting together before work. Several apologetic texts from Donovan confirmed this, and Jordan tried to keep her disappointment at bay. After all, they had all the time in the world, right?

  “And you’re alone now, right?” Annette demanded. “What happened? Did he suddenly make up an excuse and hightail it out of there? Shit, Jordan. Guys like that need to be kept at arm’s length for a while. They have to think they’re the ones who came up with the idea to get together. No offense, girlfriend, but you’re a slow study when it comes to snaring a man.”

  Jordan laughed, shaking her head, though Annette couldn’t see her. “You’ve been a great friend, Annette, and I really appreciate it. You helped me understand what Donovan’s issues are and that what he was doing wasn’t personal, but I just can’t play that kind of girl-tricks-the-guy-into-a-ring game. It’s not my style. Either he wants me or he doesn’t. I don’t want a man I have to trick into being with me.”

  Annette snorted. “Spoken like a true Domme. Hopefully Donovan manages to get his head out of his ass so he doesn’t lose you. Because you’re a definite keeper, Mistress Jordan, make no mistake.”

  Any seeds of doubt Annette had planted during their phone conversation were washed away with Donovan’s kiss that night at the club. He came in just a few minutes after Jordan arrived, looking incredibly sexy, as always, in black leather and boots, a lock of his dark hair falling over one eye.

  Without preamble and right in front of the new waitress, Suzanne, who was preening in the mirror in the changing room, Donovan had pulled Jordan into his arms. He had kissed her lightly at first, a brushing of his mouth against hers, but after a moment he pressed her lips apart with his tongue, exploring her mouth as his hands moved greedily over her back and ass, pulling her tight against his hard body.

  Gene had entered the changing room just seconds after Donovan had let her go. He took in the scene with a knowing smile, though he made no comment. “Jordan, glad you’re here. Let’s go over the equipment and protocol in the red room one more time. I have a feeling you’re going to be very busy tonight.”

  Once the club opened for the evening, Jordan, dressed to kill in a red leather mini-dress and matching thigh-high red leather boots, had been swarmed by submissives, male and female alike, all eager for a private session. As Gene had predicted, apparently word had gotten out overnight that there was a smoking hot Mistress on the premises, and attendance was at weekend levels though it was only a Wednesday night. Maybe the novelty of it would die off after a week or two, but meanwhile Jordan was having a blast.

  Finally she managed a break, having thought to block out the ten to ten-thirty slot so she could watch the Master’s first show. She stood toward the back of the room, glad for a moment not to be the center of so much submissive attention. She watched Donovan scan the audience for a potential volunteer.

  “Amy,” he said, pointing to a woman with long, straight hair whose hand was raised high. “Let’s show them what you can do.”

  Amy was tall, nearly as tall as the Master in her black boots. She was wearing a long black gown with slits cut high along either leg. She was in her twenties and while her makeup was a little heavy and her platinum blond hair probably from a bottle, she was quite striking, especially from a distance.

  Jordan felt a sharp pang of jealousy when Donovan took the young woman’s hand and led her to center stage. While she didn’t dismiss the feeling, she told herself it wasn’t necessary. If they were to become lovers and even, someday, partners, she would need to accept his active involvement in the scene, just as he would need to accept hers.

  Donovan murmured something inaudible to Amy and then turned to face the crowd. As he spoke, he seemed to be scanning the audience. Jordan, preferring to remain unseen, shrank back in the shadows.

  “Tonight,” Donovan announced, “you will be treated to watching a true pain slut take a serious caning. For the Doms out there, let me caution you in advance—this is not something to try at home, not unless you really know what you’re doing, and your sub has a high threshold for pain. Canes can cut the skin, and it’s easier to do than you might think.”

  He turned to Amy, who had unzipped and stepped out of her gown. She stood in a black push-up bra, a black lace thong, and stockings and garters, her boots still in place. Without a trace of self-consciousness she reached behind her back and unclasped her bra, letting it fall to the stage. She stood straight, her heavy breasts tipped with large brown nipples, hands on her hips as she stared down at the crowd gathered around the stage with an enigmatic smile.

  “Arms overhead,” Donovan instructed. Amy lifted her arms high, standing patiently while Donovan locked them into soft leather cuffs that dangled from ropes that were secured to a pulley over her head. There was play in the rope that allowed Amy to turn, which she now did at Donovan’s command, turning until she was facing away from the audience.

  Even from where she stood at the back of the room, Jordan could see the faint crisscross of purple and pink lines covering her back, ass and thighs, evidence of prior and repeated whippings with a single tail or a cane. She found herself wondering if Donovan had been one of the Masters to mark her in this fashion, and pushed the thought from her head. If he was, or he wasn’t, it didn’t matter. No more than it mattered that she’d just whipped, flogged, cuffed, clipped and clamped half a dozen subs in the red room. It was just part of the job, part of the scene.

  Donovan selected a long, thin cane, whipping it in the air several times for effect. Amy didn’t flinch or make a sound. What she did do was bend forward as far as her wrist cuffs allowed, thrusting her bottom out, a clear invitation for the cane.

  The Master began slowly, tapping her ass lightly with the flat of the cane until the skin turned pink. He moved the cane in a rapid, circular motion, the rattan barely touching the skin.

  Then a sudden flick of his wrist raised the first welt along her left cheek, a long white line that darkened almost immediately red. The audience offered a collective gasp, though Amy remained still as stone.

  Again and again the Master struck her, adding easily a dozen more welts to her ass and thighs, each one expertly placed just above or below the last in neat, horizontal lines.

  “More?” the Master asked the bound woman.

  “Yes, please, Master! More!” she cried.

  “Turn,” he instructed, touching Amy’s shoulder. She pivoted as gracefully as a dancer, the rope above her wrists winding as she moved. Donovan placed the cane in the rack and selected a shorter, thinner cane. He returned to Amy, murmuring something inaudible to her. She nodded, smiling at him with a look of submissive adoration Jordan knew so well.

  Donovan began to tap her breasts, the cane landing skillfully above and below but never directly on the nipples. It wasn’t long before he was again painting white lines that quickly reddened as the welts rose on the woman’s bare breasts.

  Amy was breathing hard now, no longer the perfect picture of calm submission. Jordan could see the sweat sliding down her sides and shining on her forehead. Her large nipples were fully erect, her body trembling ever so slightly.

  “Ready?” Donovan asked.

  “Yes, please, Master!” Amy shouted, surprising Jordan with the force of her reply.

  Donovan paused a beat, taking aim, and let the cane come down directly on Amy’s right nipple. Still she didn’t cry out, though her face crumpled with pain, her eyes squeezing shut, her lips pressed hard together.

  “And again?” Donovan asked, as he moved behind her to her other side.

  Once again Amy shouted her agreement, and Donovan flicked the tip of the cane against her other nipple, drawing another anguished expression from the pain slut.

  “More?”

  “Yes, please, Master! More!”

  Donovan turned Amy so her back was again to the audience. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, including Jordan. The Master flicked the cane against
that delicate spot where the ass meets the thighs and then added several more strokes to each thigh.

  “More?” he queried.

  Again Amy shouted her agreement. Jordan realized she was never going to tell him to stop. Donovan would have to gauge when the girl had had enough.

  He turned her again, painting the fronts of her thighs with angry red lines, and adding a few more strokes to her already welted breasts. Amy’s entire body glimmered with sweat beneath the stage lights and her face had taken on the glazed, unfocused expression of someone who was soaring through subspace.

  Donovan nodded toward the side of the stage and Gene came quickly forward, going to Amy’s other side. While he released the cuffs, Donovan caught the girl, who sank, with his help, to her knees. She continued the forward movement until her forehead touched the stage, extending her arms along the stage floor in a classic position of slavish homage to the man who had given her what she longed for, what she craved.

  After a moment of hushed silence, the crowd burst into applause. A man, probably Amy’s owner, vaulted up to the stage, not even bothering with the stairs. He crouched beside Amy and pulled her gently up into his arms. She looked at him with a dazed expression. She managed to wrap her arms around his neck, allowing him to lift and carry her from the stage while the audience stamped and hooted its approval.

  Donovan looked past the crowd, his gaze landing directly on Jordan, though she’d thought he couldn’t see her in the shadows. “You’re next,” he silently mouthed, and then he smiled, a slow, sensuous smile that sent shivers from Jordan’s head right down to her toes.

  Chapter 16

  As happened each morning since Jordan had been with him, Donovan became aware of her presence before he came fully awake. A kind of mystified wonder suffused his being, a vague but persistent happiness that still startled him with its newness. He felt the curve of her warm body against his and smelled the perfume of her scent. Happiness fanned into a hot, steady fire that radiated from his heart to his loins. His cock hardened, despite the fact they’d made love several times the night before. He pulled her closer, seeking the wet, hot sweetness at her center.

  “You must always be ready for me,” he’d told her that first night he took her home after their brief separation. “If you are to belong to me, you will always be in a state of constant arousal, ready, eager, even desperate to serve me.”

  “But—” she started to protest. He’d stopped her with two fingers pressed against her soft lips.

  “If you’re not wet and aching for my touch, it won’t be your fault, darling Jordan.” He took his fingers from her lips, staring deep into her sage-green eyes. “It will be mine.”

  It had been years since Donovan had found someone with whom he connected on so many levels. He’d always enjoyed playing the scene, selecting a new girl as whim and desire dictated. But this felt different. It felt right. For the first time in his life one woman was enough, as long as that woman was Jordan.

  They’d been together for twelve days, though due to their full schedules they hadn't focused as much on Jordan’s training as Donovan would have liked. Jordan had spent a few nights at her apartment during the first week, but Donovan had convinced her that her place was at his side, and in his bed. He literally could not get enough of her. She’d only paid rent through the end of the month, and he was hoping to convince her to move in with him at the end of that time, as he was longing to claim her fully, 24/7, 365.

  He was looking forward to the two weeks in August when they closed the club. He planned to take Jordan on a vacation to somewhere secluded, where they could fully indulge in their D/s relationship without any distractions.

  Jordan and Annette had referred to him as a wild horse, one not easily tamed. Maybe that was true, but so far with Jordan he didn’t mind wearing the saddle of a relationship. He felt as wild and free as he ever had. Or he almost did. In his completely honest moments he had to admit there was a little burr beneath the saddle, one he hadn't really been willing to face, hoping it would work its way out on its own.

  He didn’t really understand his own reaction in this regard, and wondered if maybe it was because he was falling in love with Jordan, something he’d never done before, not ever. Sure, he’d been incredibly fond of and certainly wildly attracted to, various women over the years, but this love thing was new.

  The issue was this: he had a hard time watching Mistress Jordan in action. Though he’d never thought of himself as jealous, each time he saw Jordan leading another guy into the red room it was like a knife jabbing into his gut. Intellectually he knew he had no right to feel this way. Jordan was her own woman, strong, confident and independent. Indeed, that was part of his attraction to her. But emotionally it was a whole other ballgame. She was his, damn it, and he’d never been very good at sharing.

  He worried there was something even more insidious beneath his possessiveness, but each time he tried to fix on it, it would slip away.

  Jordan stirred beside him in the bed, stretching like a sleek cat. Then her head of tousled red hair disappeared as she burrowed beneath the sheets. Donovan sighed with pleasure as his shaft was sheathed in her warm, wet mouth. He surrendered to her sensual touch, his mind emptying as his cock hardened.

  When the pleasure was nearly too acute to bear, Donovan gently pushed the suckling girl away from his groin and pulled her up into his arms.

  “I wasn’t done,” she protested, though she was smiling.

  “No,” Donovan replied with an answering smile. “You’re just beginning.” He rolled Jordan onto her back and hoisted himself over her. He kissed her forehead and then her eyelids, one at a time. He kissed her nose and then her lips. He kissed her cheeks and her chin before moving down to nuzzle her neck. He kissed the delicate hollow of her throat and then the tops of her breasts. He licked, suckled and then lightly bit her engorged nipples until she moaned.

  Finally he shifted downward and crouched between her legs. Jordan was watching him with hungry eyes. “Put your hands over your head,” he ordered. “Grasp your wrists and don’t let go, no matter what I do to you, understand?”

  Jordan nodded, and Donovan’s cock hardened even more, if that was possible, as she lifted her arms and grasped each wrist with the opposite hand. She held them aloft for several seconds before letting them fall back to the pillows.

  Donovan ran his tongue lightly down her belly, purposely bypassing her cunt as he covered each thigh with butterfly kisses. When she was begging with everything except her words, he finally relented and pressed her thighs apart, the warmth of his breath against her sex making her shiver.

  He ran his tongue along the folds of her labia and licked in a teasing circle around her hard little clit. It wasn’t long before she was panting and moaning, begging him for permission to come.

  “Not yet,” he said huskily, now desperate to penetrate her heat. Roughly he pushed her thighs apart with his knee. Grabbing his throbbing cock, he guided the head to her entrance and gently nudged, only barely resisting the powerful urge to plunge into her with one thrust.

  Almost the instant he entered her, Jordan began to buck. Her skin was hot, as if she had a fever, and her eyes were wild. “Yes, yes, yes, yes,” she began to chant. And then, as he pushed deeper into the tight clutch of her cunt, “Please! Please, please, please, please, oh, can I, oh…!”

  “Yes,” Donovan managed to hiss, before his orgasm left him deaf, mute and blind.

  That Saturday night at the club Gene and Donovan sat side-by-side in Gene’s office, their chairs turned toward the glass wall at the back of the room, which was actually a one-way mirror into the red room, where Mistress Jordan was now working with one of her clients.

  Gene had chosen the red room for her sessions primarily so Tommy, the bouncer, could spot check to make sure the men she was domming were behaving themselves. So far there hadn't been any problems of that sort, and hopefully there never would be, but Donovan and Annette had agreed it didn’t hurt to err o
n the side of caution.

  Donovan was between shows, and while he’d generally tried to stay away from Jordan’s turf, sometimes he just couldn’t help himself. It was like picking the scab over a fresh wound. He knew he should leave it alone, but it wouldn’t leave him alone.

  “This is working out even better than we thought,” Gene enthused, his eyes glued to the scene as they watched Jordan select a heavy flogger from the whip rack. She moved toward a large, bald man in his sixties who was cuffed to a St. Andrew’s cross on the far side of the small room. “I knew she would be a popular addition,” Gene went on, “but I had no idea it would take off to this degree. The first weekend I thought maybe it was the novelty of it—a flash in the pan—but here we are at weekend two, and she’s as popular as ever. Attendance is up overall. We are, my friend,” he turned to Donovan with a broad grin, “the latest new thing. Thanks to Mistress Jordan.”

  “Uh huh.” Donovan managed. He tried, but failed to tear his eyes away from the scene in the red room. Jordan leaned over the man to whisper something in his ear. From the way she was standing, her breasts must be pressing against his back.

  Stepping back, Jordan began to flog the man, her arm an extension of the whip handle as the thick strands of black leather smacked against his back and ass. The guy’s head was tilted back toward the ceiling, his hands opening and closing over his wrist cuffs. Though they couldn’t hear much from the other side of the mirror, Donovan bet the bastard was moaning.

  “Jesus,” Donovan swore under his breath.

  Gene glanced sharply at him and then chuckled. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “What?” Donovan demanded, aware he sounded defensive.

  “You’re jealous. Donovan Cartwright is jealous. Which is pretty rich, given you do the same thing night after night, though, granted, you mostly do it up on the stage.”

  “Ha!” Donovan retorted. “I respect Jordan’s right to practice her craft, same as I do. What makes you think I’m jealous?”