Indulgence

by Liz Crowe

  “I love you, sir.” She gazed up at his rugged face, seeing the love shining in his brilliant blue eyes. “Welcome home.”

  About The Author

  USA Today bestselling author Cynthia Sax writes contemporary, SciFi and paranormal erotic romances. Her stories have been featured in Star Magazine, Real Time With Bill Maher, and numerous best of erotic romance top ten lists.

  She lives in a world filled with magic and romance. Although her heroes may not always say, “I love you,” they will do anything for the women they adore. They live passionately. They play hard. They love the same women forever.

  Cynthia has loved the same wonderful man forever. Her supportive hubby offers himself up to the joys and pains of research, while they travel the world together, meeting fascinating people and finding inspiration in exotic places such as Istanbul, Bali, and Chicago.

  Email: CynthiaSax@ymail.com

  Website: http://www.cynthiasax.com/

  Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3292466.Cynthia_Sax

  If you enjoyed Releasing Rage, sign up for Cynthia Sax’s release day newsletter at http://tasteofcyn.com/2014/05/28/newsletter/ and receive a notification when Crash’s story becomes available.

  My Last Dom

  by

  Deanndra Hall

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Names of characters, places, and events are the construction of the author, except those locations that are well-known and of general knowledge, and all are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental, and great care was taken to design places, locations, or businesses that fit into the regional landscape without actual identification; as such, resemblance to actual places, locations, or businesses is coincidental. Any mention of a branded item, artistic work, or well-known business establishment, is used for authenticity in the work of fiction and was chosen by the author because of personal preference, its high quality, or the authenticity it lends to the work of fiction; the author has received no remuneration, either monetary or in-kind, for use of said product names, artistic work, or business establishments, and mention is not intended as advertising, nor does it constitute an endorsement. The author is solely responsible for content.

  Cover design 2015 M.D. Halliman

  Disclaimer:

  Material in this work of fiction is of a graphic sexual nature and is not intended for audiences under 18 years of age.

  A message from the author . . .

  As BDSM and kink have been drawn into the limelight over the last few years, the lifestyle has become more of a curiosity. And if there’s some general confusion, allow me to clarify.

  A Dominant is not a king; rather, he is a leader and instructor, one who is steady, dependable, and conscientious. A submissive is not a subject, a serf, or a slave; rather, their submission is offered freely and without coercion. Discipline and punishment are not abuse; rather, they are the means by which lessons are learned and reinforced. A proper Dominant’s first commitment is always to the welfare of their submissive; with that in mind, there are times when a submissive asks for pain in such a mindset that it becomes a Dominant’s responsibility to decline in the submissive’s best interest. Both SSC (safe, sane, and consensual) and R.A.C.K. (risk-aware consensual kink) exist to serve as guidelines under negotiation between parties, with trust, communication, honesty, and genuine care and compassion being critical.

  That said, if a particular story or book takes on a sinister bend, know that it’s a story – fiction – and nothing more. True submission is a gift that a submissive gives to a Dominant/Dominatrix, not something that is required or demanded. The submissive has the power to comply or decline. Anything else is abuse. There has been a proliferation in recent years of so-called “Dominants” who declare themselves such solely for their own pleasure, with no regard for the submissive. These Dominants/Dominatrices give the lifestyle a horrible reputation and the community a black eye, just one more thing kinksters don’t need.

  Keeping all of this in mind, please enjoy this story of one couple’s journey through the minefield of the lifestyle. And as I’ve said so many times, there is no such thing as a BDSM expert. Every partnership decides what the lifestyle is to them, and in what capacity and to what degree they’ll serve. Make the lifestyle your own, make it glorious for you and yours, and accept nothing less.

  Brightest blessings.

  Chapter One

  It’s a gray day. There are lots of those in my world these days, but this one is particularly gray. It’s a weepy, can’t-get-out-of-bed kind of day. The wind is blowing like gangbusters, and it’s all I can do to keep my bag on my shoulder as old leaves and fast food wrappers skitter around my feet in the barely-out-of-winter bluster.

  Measure twice, cut once. I keep hearing that in my head, the mantra of my father as he worked around my childhood home. I can still hear the steel tape measure retracting, feel the grain of the wood, and smell the sawdust.

  I’m the same way with my work. My customers are paying for quality, and I aim to deliver. I’m careful with the leather, making sure it’s stored so that it’s supple and soft but doesn’t get moldy, which is a real danger. There’s no warp or weft in leather, so I can place my patterns wherever I want and don’t have to worry about stretching or binding. My scissors are always razor sharp, and they cut through the pliver like butter. In my hands it’s velvet, and I can manipulate it to make the most glorious of shapes, but none more glorious than the female form.

  Cut, stitch. Cut, stitch. Two more hours and I can clean up this rat hole of an office and go. But I’m not sure why I want to go anywhere. There’s nothing for me anywhere else. This is as close to having a place in the world as I ever get. And I like this space too. It’s in an old high rise office building, and I can see far out over the city. The walls are old paneling, and they’re real wood, not that fake stuff they make nowadays. It’s small and cramped, but I still love it.

  Every time I move, I have to yank up on my corset. Either the damn thing is getting bigger or I’m getting smaller, and I know which it is. Food doesn’t interest me anymore. Once it’s in my mouth and I start to chew, it gets more soured and bitter with every passing moment until I can’t even swallow it. I quit eating weeks ago. I just don’t care anymore.

  When the buzzer sounds at the door, I already know who it is. Everything I do is by appointment only, so surprises are rare. Sometimes the maintenance guy comes in to do something, but once he looks around, he high-tails it out of here. I think I scare him. Good. Opening the door reveals exactly who I expected. They both smile, but as quickly as I can, I drop my eyes to the floor respectfully. I know my place. But Michael puts a finger under my chin and tips my head back, then bobs his head back and forth, trying to catch my gaze.

  “Kimberly?” His voice is strong but soft. “Kimberly, look at me.” I don’t want to, but my eyes finally go to his face and I know he can see everything there. “Honey, you aren’t eating, are you?”

  I just shake my head. “No, sir.”

  He takes my chin in his hand again. “Quit, Kimmer. I’m not your master. I’m your friend. So is Robyn. And we’re concerned about you, honey.”

  “No need.” Managing to escape his grasp, I busy myself shuffling pattern pieces around and generally trying to look too busy to talk. Then I remember and look back to him, my hands pressed against my ribcage. “Could you help me? This thing is so loose.”

  He turns to the woman with him. “Robyn, please help Kimberly with her corset. Further proof that I’m right,” Michael snorts out.

  “Yes, Sir.” Robyn moves behind me and, after untying the corset, pulls hard to make it tighter. She’s strong and I gasp. “Any more and you’ll just need a new corset.”

  “I can make one,” I giggle.

  “I’m sure you can,” Robyn replies with a sly little smile.

  “Now that the two of you have that little chore taken care of, let’s get down to it. I want Robyn to have a
new underbust corset. Red. With some fancy stitching. I drew a little picture of what I want.” Michael pulls a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and places it on the workbench even as he motions for me to join him. “See? I want these little things added to it. Can you do that?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  I’m still making little notes when I hear his voice from across the room. “There’s nothing in this refrigerator.” I look over to see Michael staring into the little apartment-sized fridge I keep in the shop. A lot of people would consider that snooping; Michael considers it a wellness check.

  “There’s water.”

  “Water’s not food. What are you having for lunch?” I just shrug and Michael sighs again. “You’re not taking care of yourself. You need to find another Dominant, a decent one. Just because Phil was a prick doesn’t mean that . . .”

  “Don’t care.” I can feel the hot tears collecting in my lower lids.

  Michael turns to lean his ass against the workbench, folds his arms across his chest, and glares at me. “Okay. Let’s just not talk about this anymore. I’ve tried to talk to you and I’ve gotten nowhere. You resist my every attempt to help you. You won’t listen to reason. You keep coming to the club and letting yourself be used like a piece of meat. I feel like I’m beating my head against the wall. So let’s drop it, okay? But quit starving yourself.”

  “Yes, sir,” I nod but, deep down, I know that won’t change. I don’t care what happens to me anymore.

  He harrumphs at the way I’ve addressed him, but says nothing. “Okay then. You need anything from Robyn? For the corset, I mean? Measurements or anything?”

  I shake my head. “No. Looks like she hasn’t changed in size since the last time I measured her.” I start to say something else, but Michael interrupts me.

  “Why don’t you come to our house on Sunday for dinner? I’m sure Robyn can whip something up, right, honey?”

  “Yes, Sir. We’d love to have you, sweetie.” With a smile that could light up a mall, Robyn waits to see what I’m going to say.

  I take a long look at the two people in front of me. Michael and Robyn have been my only friends. When Phil walked out, they held my hand, brought me food, helped me pack up his things, and have just generally been here for me whenever and however I’ve needed them. And they seem such an unlikely pair too, her all curvy and delicious with those big icy blue eyes and long blond hair, and him, short and heavy with all that dark, curly hair and the scruff on his jawline. Robyn always looks like a supermodel, and Michael always looks like a reject from the cast of The Big Lebowski. But they get along unbelievably well, and when Michael collared Robyn and asked her to marry him, everyone at the club had cheered, slapped him on the back, and hugged her.

  I know full well why: Michael is one of those guys who’s a caretaker. That’s just how he operates, simple and clean. If there’s a woman anywhere around, he’s watching out for her, keeping an eye on her, making sure she’s safe and cared for. Phil had been like that once upon a time . . .

  Tears sting my eyes as I think about him yet again, and a prickly mess grows in my stomach. I want to hate him, but I still miss him every day. I’d pledged my life to him, as his submissive and as his wife. I’d done whatever he asked, I let him to do anything to me that he wanted, and I never used a safeword in all the years we were together.

  I remember that night like it’s happening this very instant. My forty-third birthday party. Phil had planned a huge party for me at my favorite restaurant. I thought it was weird that, among the people he invited, he’d included a woman from his office. After all, it was my birthday party, and I barely knew her. But when I caught them in the back hallway up against the wall, arms and legs in a tangle, their tongues down each other’s throats, I knew why the woman was there. Two weeks later, I found a slip of paper on the floor and picked it up – a receipt from a florist downtown for a dozen red roses delivered to Phil’s office building. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together.

  And that was just the tip of the iceberg. What followed was a veritable Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade of younger women, most barely thirty-five. At the end, where Santa Claus always makes his appearance, Phil told me he wasn’t interested in me anymore, that he was leaving, and rode away in his brand new Corvette, red like a sleigh. But that wasn’t the worst part.

  He told me he’d never loved me.

  I haven’t gotten over that, and I don’t think I ever will. But it was his answer when I asked why he’d stayed with me through the years that laid me low and cut through me like a razor blade.

  “Because I didn’t think I could do any better.”

  The idea that I’d sacrificed my body to him, his cane, his whip, his flogger, his hands and mouth and cock, for all those years, and he’d simply settled for me, ripped a hole in my heart that the space shuttle could’ve flown through. I remember throwing up for hours, drinking until I was almost blind, and wondering how I could kill myself in a way that would make it look as though he’d done it. Bitterness has grown in my soul like cancer, and I can’t stop it. There’s no cure. There’s no drug. There’s no hope.

  So I spend my evenings at the club as one Dom after another, sometimes more than one, uses me. Yeah, I know what they think of me, but I don’t care. It’s the only time I feel alive. It’s terrifying and exhilarating at the same time, and I’ve gone back over and over until I’ve worked my way through the entire membership and then started over. Michael has begged me to stop or, at the very least, let him be the one to administer whatever I think I need, all in the name of safety.

  Safety isn’t what I want. It’s pain, just pain. Pain to make me worthy, to make me wanted, to take the other pain away. And it works . . . until the cane or the whip or the flogger stop. And then it comes right back.

  A home cooked meal – I guess I could use one of those. “What time would you like for me to come?” I ask, but I never look directly at Michael.

  “Oh, I don’t know, anytime you want, I guess. Robyn?”

  “I can have it ready by one o’clock. Would that be okay?”

  I think for a second before I answer. “Sure. That would be fine. Thank you so much for having me, sir.”

  I hear Michael sigh. “Kimmer, look up at me.” Even though I don’t want to, I turn my eyes up to his face, and I’m surprised at the misery I see there. Is that what I’ve done? I never meant to hurt anyone but myself. “I’m glad you’re coming. We’ll enjoy having you.” That’s all he says before he tells Robyn, “Let’s go, babe. Ice cream on the way home?”

  “Ooooo, thank you, Sir!” Robyn’s practically dancing. “Bye, Kimmer! See you Sunday if not sooner.”

  “Sure.” I know Robyn means the club. And I’ll definitely be there.

  *****

  The music is a little too loud for my taste, but it covers up the sounds of the submissives crying out during play. Ronnie, the DJ with the chain running from his earlobe to his nose, chose heavy bass beats to work the crowd into the mood, and it’s getting the job done. Even outside the play areas, there’s already a lot of bumping and grinding going on.

  After I’ve changed into my fetwear, I stroll out into the main room. All the usual suspects are hanging out at the bar, and most of them eye me as I head that way. Angus and Ross are standing there, and I hope one of them has plans for me when they see me. If not, there are plenty of other guys who’ll be interested, but those two are long-time members and I know them to be clean and recently-tested, and I prefer that when possible. I’ve intentionally worn my school girl outfit, knowing that if I want to play, it will garner plenty of attention. Sure enough, it doesn’t take two minutes for Angus to march up and smile. “Were you planning to scene tonight?” he asks as he leans against the bar. Most of the club members don’t like him. They think he’s crazy. Yeah – crazy enough to give me what I need.

  “Maybe, sir. What did you have in mind?” My eyes never leave the floor as I speak.

  “I think
you’ve been a naughty girl. Have you been a naughty girl?”

  “Yes, sir. Very naughty.”

  Angus laughs. “And what did you do that was so naughty?”

  I think for a second, then improvise by blurting out, “I did the whole football team.”

  Ross hears what I say and he starts laughing too. “Well, well, well, that’s quite an accomplishment, young lady,” Angus chortles. “I think we’re going to have to find an appropriate punishment for that.” He leads me by the arm to a nearby table and sits down. “Let’s negotiate.”

  I set my lips in a firm line. “No negotiation.”

  “No negotiation?”

  “No.” Out of pure nervousness, I lick my lips and finally look up into his eyes. “Whatever you want, however hard, for however long.” Then I repeat, “Whatever you want.”

  “No safeword?”

  I shake my head. “No safeword.”

  He laughs, a sound that has a menacing edge to it. “You’re a sadist’s fucking wet dream, girl. Let’s do it.” Glancing around, he points. “Platform three is open. Let’s go.”

  When we’ve mounted the platform, Angus looks out into the crowd and pinches the back of my neck in his hand. “This is Ashley. She’s been a bad girl. One of the guys told me she did the entire football team last night after the game. Ashley, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  Involuntarily, I shudder, wondering what he’s setting me up for. “I’m sorry, sir. It was a bad thing to do, but it felt so good. But I know I deserve to be punished.”

  “Very well. First things first. Turn around and pull up your skirt.” When my hands find the hem and I pull it upward, the cool air hits me through the waist-high cotton panties I’ve put on. “My, my, my, little girl, look at those panties. Those look like panties a virgin would wear.”