by Nia Farrell
She’d told herself that until she nearly believed it.
But things had changed. She’d changed. All because of files on a flash drive, erotic videos sent by the Dom who starred in the ones that stirred her the most.
If she was honest with herself, she already felt tempted to join in. She was vetted. Investigated, examined, and tested, with contract pages initialed and the bottom line signed. She might start out her evening in Wonderland as a budding wallflower, but the promise of a kiss from the enigmatic Piers St. Leger would be enough to make her blossom.
Suddenly, Sunday night couldn’t come too soon.
Chapter Four
Piers had his hands full, with Micheil MacDonald’s triple play coming up and the BDSM ball at Netherfield scheduled the weekend after that. They’d had to contract out some of the wardrobe production, but all in all, things were progressing as well as could be expected.
The billionaire’s first guests arrived Monday, with most coming in on Wednesday, in time for their final fittings. The wardrobe warehouse was packed with additional garments and accoutrements for MacDonald’s three scenes. The first was Imperial Rome. The next was 1920s Prohibition Chicago. The last night should have been Replay’s first fantasy scene, but Lewis Carroll’s Wonderland was being constructed off site and the game had been changed to something different.
Something tamer.
Piers wondered if Ms. Benoit would be disappointed or relieved.
He was already in full costume when Ms. Benoit and Rowena/Regina emerged from wardrobe, dressed as the White Queen and Alice. MacDonald, dressed as the Mad Hatter, swept Regina into his arms and kissed her with a passion that surprised Ms. Benoit. Evidently the conversation in the limo ride that they’d shared here had not included an update on the couple’s growing attachment.
“Later,” Regina whispered to her, then left with the Scottish Dom billionaire.
Piers nodded to Marcus Vos, the ex-Navy SEAL who’d been providing security for Regina. Tonight he was the Knave of Hearts, with a gauntlet covering his hi-tech prosthetic hand. “Vos, Geoffrey will see your group to the site. Ms. Benoit will be riding with me.”
Ms. Benoit put on a brave face, but the hand she pressed to her stomach suggested that she was attempting to quiet her nerves. “My Queen,” he said, proffering his arm.
Bracing herself with a fortifying breath, she lightly placed a gloved hand upon his sleeve and fell into step beside him, unusually quiet for someone whose mind was so very, very busy. He was certain she had questions but, perhaps, like him, she preferred to delay any discussion until they were alone.
The limousine afforded them privacy, but the ride was short enough, he had no wish to begin anything they could not finish. He did not encroach on the distance she established when she slid across to the far side of the seat. He offered her a drink, asked questions about her week, about her job, about her volunteer work at the Veteran’s Center. She talked about the group she was involved in, dedicated to finding remains of American soldiers and bringing them home for burial. She’d regretted that her schedule had not allowed her to be at Pearl Harbor for the thirty-six who’d died at Tarawa, and spoke of the five hundred twenty still missing in action from that battle.
“Because of your father?” he asked softly. She intrigued him even more, now that he’d read her entire file, looking for potential triggers if she were tempted enough to join a scene.
Other people’s secrets weren’t the only ones she kept.
In the low lights of the passenger compartment, there was no hiding her surprise. “Yes.” She looked at her lap, brushed an imaginary speck off the tea-length skirt of her dress, designed like a ballerina’s costume that would allow freedom of movement and the closeness he craved. Her trim ankles were primly crossed. Her exquisitely arched feet were adorned in supple white leather slippers that kept her height at sixty-seven inches. “He was shot down in the Persian Gulf when I was a month old. His name is on the headstone at the cemetery but he’s not there. He may never be. My mother still has a hard time accepting that she’ll probably be lying there alone. He died without ever seeing me, which explains my early abandonment issues.”
She bit her bottom lip and glanced his direction. “If you’ve read my file, you know that I have trust issues, too. And potential triggers, from that time in college.”
Piers tamped down the rage he felt, the need to hurt the ones who’d hurt her…including the roommate who’d abandoned her at a party, where she was drugged her, bound, blindfolded, and sold her, with top dollar paid by the one who went first—or so she had later heard.
The rumor mill said that he’d paid a thousand dollars to end her virginity. Just one of the many who’d raped her every orifice, he’d stolen what she had been saving for marriage. The others had paid less, but some more than others, depending on what they did, or how they took her.
“I suppose that’s why BDSM holds some appeal for me, personally,” she confessed. “The choice to submit. The power to end it with a single word. The freedom of letting go with someone you can trust. I…”
She fell silent, looking away when her cheeks grew flushed. With embarrassment, or heat? he wondered, suspecting it was a combination of both.
He wanted to touch her face, raise her chin, and insist that she look at him. Instead, he reached for her gloved hand, and stroked the back of it with one finger in the barest of contact, nothing that would threaten her. “Trust,” he said, “is a gift. Never to be betrayed. And never to be taken for granted.”
She caught her breath and released it slowly. Finally she lifted her gaze enough for him to catch and hold it, refusing to let go once she’d given him that much.
The stories she held in her eyes were nearly too much to bear. “Oh, princess.”
He could not erase her past, and it was too soon to tell her that her submission was a treasure—hers to give, and his to honour and to cherish, should that day ever come. He offered her the only thing he knew that she would be comfortable with, companionable silence until they arrived at their destination.
He handed her the cloak that she’d laid in the seat. “You will want to wear this. The path to the entrance is not long but the temperature has dropped enough to bring a chill. Come, my queen. It is time.”
The size of the tent should have told her that something very special awaited. When the door opened for them and they stepped inside, Piers only had eyes for Eleanor, his White Queen, whose face was alight with the magic of the night. No expense had been spared to create “Wonderland.” Paths wound past bushes, flowers, and trees. Costumed as the Cheshire cat, his assistant Samael smiled from the branch of one of them.
Piers proffered his hand and was pleased when Eleanor placed hers within it, without hesitation. They made their way to the center of the tent, where a long table, set for a tea party, was ringed by twenty-four chairs.
At the sight of the Dormouse, Eleanor’s eyes registered her confusion. “But…”
“There will be time later for your observation, once we return to Replay. Here, our first duty is to young Alexis, who learned to walk again a year ago. To encourage her recovery, her father promised her whatever she wanted, and this was one of her wishes. There,” he said, “is the other.”
Micheil MacDonald was introducing his five-year-old daughter to Rowena Campbell aka Regina Wright, who (as Ginger Owens) had written and illustrated a children’s picture book called The Brave Little Pony. Little Alexis was in heaven, more from meeting her favorite author than being surrounded by storybook characters.
Piers was pleased to present his White Queen to the child, even more so when Eleanor knelt to speak to her, earning a kiss on the cheek and a hug from the little girl. Her Aunt Janet stood close by and seemed as captivated as her niece. He did not, however, care for the speculative gleam in her uncle’s eyes.
Xander MacDonald, the White Knight and a billionaire in his own right from video game designs, had been looking longingly at the entrance when
they arrived, no doubt wishing himself back at Replay and the BDM ménage scenes that he had been enjoying each night of his birthday celebration. He had brightened considerably upon their entrance as the White King and Queen. If the White Knight was hoping for a threesome with his sovereigns, he was doomed for disappointment.
No expense had been spared—her father’s insistence and Piers’s great pleasure. Fanciful plates held delectable treats. Colorful platters offered healthier fare, as did centerpieces of edible arrangements. An hour into the evening, the chamber orchestra began to play. The first tune was a waltz. Micheil had his daughter dance standing on his feet, then sent little Alexis back to the hotel with her aunt Jannet, who’d come as the White Rabbit. Once the child had gone, there was nothing to impede the pursuit of pleasure for the adults still in attendance.
Except there were no plans for play here. The MacDonalds had agreed to do a tame version of Wonderland for Alexis. The serious players were still at Replay, most of them on the RACK side tonight.
Ah, well. If they could not play, at least they could dance.
Wardrobe mistress Jewell Fraser had created their costumes as if she were designing for a ballet performance. The ladies’ gowns had tea-length hems and draped the body, allowing closeness for dancing and other pursuits. As Queen, Eleanor outshone them all.
The orchestra struck up the next tune. “Shall we?” Piers held out his hand. Eleanor took it, stepping into the frame he created, the perfect picture of elegance and grace as he led her around the dance floor in a series of dance steps that became increasingly more difficult.
She followed him flawlessly.
Lowering her into a throwaway oversway earned him a brilliant smile. “Lessons?” she asked, beaming with delight.
“From age five on. Mother insisted. Father agreed. He said that dancing was the surest way to impress a woman. Of late, I find eight meter lengths of rope and artful knots to be more of a draw.”
“I’m certain you do,” she said, following his lead. She was perfection, from the feel of her in his arms to the way she moved for him, allowing him to guide her into ever more challenging waltz dance moves.
There were far more male than female characters in Carroll’s book as well as here, and Eleanor’s grace and skills had drawn everyone’s attention. As soon as their dance ended, men were lining up to partner her. Vos, of course, was a friend of sorts. They both did volunteer work at the local veterans’ center. But when the gauntlet over his prosthetic hand hindered his ability to lead her in the more complex steps, the White Knight Xander MacDonald cut in.
There was no mistaking the look of masculine appreciation in Xander’s eyes, both for Vos and for Eleanor. Given his proclivities, he might be hoping to scene with them both. It would have been simpler if the brothers shared, but Micheil had eyes only for Rowena and she for him, so there would be no help in that quarter.
Piers partnered Eleanor again, taking no small pleasure in the fact that he was her best, most polished partner. She shone like a crown jewel, sparkling as he led her across the floor, her face flushed with exertion and aglow with delight. He wanted more than her joy; he wanted her cheeks pinked with pleasure.
Like a chess master, he maneuvered her across the boards in a sequence that left her wrapped in his arms. With his right arm behind her back and his left hand in front of her, with her arms crossed in front of her body and his arms encircling her, it was the closest they had been all evening.
He tightened his hold, drawing her deeper into his embrace. At this point it was no longer about the dance. It was about the two of them, how their bodies moved together, and what he wanted from her.
Her trust.
Her submission.
Her pliant body, bound in rope; her suspended form…his to pose, to tease, to use. He pulled her back against him, letting her feel just how much he desired her.
She stiffened slightly, thrown off balance by being kept in the wrap instead of transitioning to the next step.
“Relax,” he crooned into the delicate shell of her ear. “Trust that I can keep you safe. That I can control myself. Believe that I can deny myself the pleasures of your body until you choose to share them with me. Anything that happens between us will be because you have allowed it, princess, but I need to hear the words. Tell me what you want, and I shall give you what you need….”
Chapter Five
What she wanted was him.
Fear closed Elly’s throat, bottling the words before she could spill them. More than her acquiescence, he would want her submission, and she still wasn’t certain she could give him that. But he’d promised to give her what she needed, and what she needed most was to conquer her fears.
She turned her head and tilted it to look into the blue steel of his eyes. “Show me the ropes, Sir. Somewhere private, please,” she added. “If I’m going to do this, I want to be the only woman you tie up in knots tonight, metaphorically or otherwise.”
His lips curved in a soft smile. “As you wish. Tell me, princess. Would you be more comfortable using a private play room at the resort, or do you feel safe enough to come home with me?”
When she caught her breath and trembled, he knew her answer before she spoke it. She saw resignation, perhaps disappointment, but also quiet acceptance in his eyes.
“The resort.”
It was obvious that he’d hoped for more, but he had to know what a huge step this was for her. She could have asked to observe the scenes that were going on now at Replay and which would continue until two in the morning. Instead, she’d chosen bondage with him.
Back at the resort, they returned to the wardrobe department and changed into their own clothes. In deference to the chillier weather they’d been having, Sir Piers had come in a sweater and slacks. Elly’s little black top provided the perfect complement for her fair skin and ginger hair. She’d paired it with black form-hugging pants and carried the bare minimum in a small black purse.
Sir Piers smiled when he saw no panty lines.
He placed a large hand at the small of her back and guided her down a series of halls and up two flights of stairs. Just the touch of his strong, capable hand, and the firm yet gentle pressure of his fingers, was enough to set her senses on fire.
The third floor hall was lined with doors that anything could be happening behind. The air was thick with the smell of sex.
Sir Piers stopped in front of Room 9, inserted an electronic key, and opened wide the door. “Entrez.” The sexy rumble of his voice registered on the Richter scale and sent shockwaves through her system. Fighting to extricate herself from a tangled web of trepidation and anticipation, she broke its hold and stepped inside.
She’d seen the Red Room of Pain and recognized things she’d found online while researching BDSM and the lifestyle. There was a four poster bed, a sofa, a chair, and a spanking bench. A sex swing was hung near a St. Andrew’s cross. A padded table, large enough to lay someone on, had strategic holes cut out and was studded with O-rings on its legs and sides. The walls were lined with racks of toys for impact play, and she was certain that the chests of drawers were full of erotic surprises.
“Come. Sit.” With his hand on the small of her back, he guided her to the sofa, where they sat near each other, but not touching. “Before we begin, we need to discuss the scene and what you are comfortable with doing.”
It was too soon for sex, and she told him so.
“I understand,” he demurred. “But if you become aroused to the point of asking for relief, perhaps even begging for it, I need your permission now, while you are thinking clearly, to do so. It would be your choice: external stimulation, internal manual stimulation, or cunninlingus—with or without a dental dam. I will go no further than what we have discussed and agreed upon, even if it means not touching you except incidentally, while wrapping lines and tying knots. Not nearly as much fun, mind you, but the decision is yours.”
Oh. My. God. He won’t kiss his bondage models, but he’ll go down
on me? Either that, or get me off with his hand? Given the choice of a rub off, a finger fuck, or oral pleasure, she’d prefer option three, but it was too soon for that, too. “External, Sir,” she said, blushing profusely.
“Clothes on or off?”
“I’ll keep mine on, thank you, Sir.”
“I’d like permission to photograph you, so that you may see how beautiful you are. I’ll give you the SD card to take with you so there is no question of the pictures being seen by anyone else, but again, it is up to you.”
How beautiful you are. A bevy of butterflies launched at his words. Pressing a hand to her stomach, she searched his steadfast gaze and saw nothing but raw and open honesty and the gift he was offering.
His photography would allow her to see herself through his eyes.
“Okay, Sir,” she said. “Take them.”
He smiled, pleased with her choice. “And so I shall. Next. I’ll be constantly monitoring your status, checking for any issues with circulation or pressure points. You must tell me immediately if you feel anything unusual—tingling, numbness, discomfort, pain, any unnatural color, or chill in your extremities. I need to know your safe words: one word to slow down, another to stop immediately and assess. Some submissives use green to go, yellow to slow down, and red to stop, but whatever you choose should be words not normally used during foreplay or intercourse. Now, tell me your safe words, princess.”
“Tofu,” she blurted, then giggled, surprising them both. “I hate it, Sir,” she explained. “I don’t know anything nastier.”
He crooked a grin. “So…tofu to stop. What, then, to slow?”
“Um...kale, because it’s a close second?”
He chuckled, a rich, warm sound that wrapped itself around her like a blanket. “Tell me your safe words again, princess.”
“Kale to slow down. Tofu to stop.”
“And when do you use them?” He arched a brow when she didn’t immediately answer.