by Jenna Byrnes
“Yes, Ma’am,” Devon agreed eagerly.
She paced back and forth in front of them, inspecting their naked bodies. Slipping the handle of the whip under her arm, she grasped both erect cocks firmly. “These are my property from here on out. You don’t even look at each other without my say so. Got that?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” both men repeated.
She fingered Devon’s shaft. “Nice. This is going to look lovely in Steve’s ass, I do believe. And you both will have to suck each other off—but not to the point of climax. Orgasms are a reward. Only I dole out rewards.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Steve said, and Devon echoed him.
She tugged Devon forward by his shaft, jerking him as she spoke. “I’m prepared to punish you for the way you handled our introduction. I think that deserves ten swats, don’t you?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” His face reddened as she played with him.
“But now I see I have to punish you for not following instructions. You and Steve will each receive another ten lashes…with the whip.” She snapped the black leather in the air and it cracked.
Devon groaned, his body shrivelling forward.
Steve could see he was close to coming. He wondered how much experience the man had with controlling his orgasms. Perhaps Ginger expected more than the new guy was able to give his first time.
She released her hold and demanded, “Don’t you fucking come yet, worm. You haven’t felt wrath until you’ve come without my permission.” She moved in front of Steve and raised her hand. “He leaked pre-cum on me. Clean it off.”
“Yes, Mistress.” He licked her fingers eagerly. When she used her other hand to caress him, he fought to resist the fabulous sensations. Having Devon in the room had added another dimension, and his dick was hotter and harder than ever before.
“You’re enjoying this,” she said, stroking his erection. “I’d better be careful, or the two of you cocksuckers will slip off without me.”
“Never, Ma’am,” Steve assured her.
She thrust her nearly-exposed breasts in his face. “You need these, too, right? You wouldn’t be happy without my tits to manhandle.”
“That’s part of it, Ma’am.” He eyed her luscious mounds.
Ginger’s eyebrow rose. “What’s the other part?”
He merely smiled. He had something to tell her, but this wasn’t the appropriate time.
She seemed to understand, and dropped the subject. “Turn around, worm,” she snapped at Devon. “Hands on the wall.”
He quickly obliged.
She nudged the whip handle between his thighs. “Spread ‘em.”
His stance widened.
Steve stood back and watched with interest. He’d never been an observer before, and found it arousing as hell.
Mistress cracked the whip in the air before landing the first blow on Devon’s slender, pale ass.
He jumped then visibly relaxed when he realized the strike hadn’t been a hard one.
She whaled away, placing several perfectly spaced lashes.
Steve resisted the urge to stroke his cock. The scene playing out before him was too good to be true. Definitely nothing he’d imagined when envisioning possible outcomes. A few days ago they’d thought they had a problem. Now, it was something so much more…and better than he could have dreamed.
Devon groaned as Mistress’ whip teased and stung his flesh. Beads of sweat formed on his skin.
For a moment, Steve was envious. He craved the attention Devon was getting. Sharing his Mistress might be harder than he’d considered. He smiled to himself. What he and Ginger had was amazing. Adding Devon to their play was a stroke of genius. Not sure who the genius had been, but it didn’t matter. They’d all benefit from the new arrangement.
He focused on his leather-clad lover. Steve watched the care she put into each snap of the whip. Enough to leave a faint red line, nothing more. He’d experienced her prowess from the other side of the whip—from this angle her technique was a thing of beauty. “You’re really good,” he couldn’t help saying. A smile creased his face.
“You asking for more than your ten lashes?” She shook the whip at him.
“Yes, Ma’am.” He grinned. “Permission to make an observation, Ma’am?”
His question seemed to throw her off. “What?”
Steve stepped close to her and spoke softly in her ear. “Look how hard he’s trying not to come. I don’t know how much practice he’s had with self-denial. You might cut him some slack this first time.”
She glanced back at Devon, who was panting heavily. She traced the whip handle down the crack of his ass. “You want to come, worm?”
“Oh, yes, Mistress.” His voice was thick.
“Not yet. You’re doing a good job, so maybe soon.” She turned back to Steve. “You want the same treatment?”
“Oh, yes, Mistress,” he repeated, lust dripping from each word.
“Then tell me what you meant earlier. I know you want his cock. Why should I trust you not to go off without me?”
Steve looked her directly in the eye. “Because I love you, of course. I’d never be complete without you in my life, Mistress.”
She faltered for a brief moment. “You—love me?” Heavily made-up green eyes blinked back the tears he saw forming.
“Absolutely.” He smiled. “And I think it’s time to discuss combining our households. Maybe even making it legal.”
“Oh, Steve.” She gazed at him adoringly. “Yes. I want that, too.” She sniffed. “We have a lot to talk about. I guess you were right, this isn’t the time.”
He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her ruby-red mouth. “Soon.”
“I love you, too,” she whispered.
He kissed her again.
Ginger took one step back. “You realize this isn’t going to make your whipping any lighter.”
“Of course.” He smiled and bowed to her. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Ma’am.”
Strolling to the wall next to Devon, he glanced at the younger man who grinned at him. Steve winked, and assumed the position.
Fight or Flight
Chapter One
The temperature hovered at some ungodly number below zero. Robert Mackenzie wrapped the make-shift scarf tighter around his face and neck and hurried down the alley. In front of the faded, worn sign of the Cock and Bull Pub, he glanced from side to side to make sure the coast was clear. He opened the heavy wooden door and sighed when a rush of warm air greeted him.
“Close that fuckin’ door!” Someone from a nearby table shouted.
“Aw, go fuck yourself,” he muttered, but pulled the door closed and kept walking.
“Colder ‘n a witch’s tit in a brass brassiere.” Mad Dog, the bartender, nodded at him.
“No shit.” Mac rubbed his hands together. Since the ozone layer had collapsed and the sun exploded into two smaller shells of its former self, warm weather was hard to come by. A nice summer day might see thirty degrees. Negative one hundred was common for a winter day in Chicago.
“Summer’s coming. Couple months.” Mad Dog grinned. Two of the man’s front teeth were conspicuously missing. Greasy, black hair straggled around his shoulders. His full beard and mustache were in the same disrepair.
The nickname fit him perfectly, but Mac knew the barkeep to be wilier than he appeared at first glance. “Seems a long way off. Glad to be in here where it’s warm. I’m sure you have some dishes for me to get started on.”
“Always.” The man nodded. “Sloan’s back there. He’s cooked up some fatback and beans. The soup is filling, and it’ll warm your gizzard.”
“Thanks.” In the dingy kitchen, away from the prying eyes of bar patrons, Mac removed his hat and unwrapped his face. Brown hair curled in an unruly manner around his collar. His usual three-day beard growth hadn’t seen a razor in three months.
The small room with a gas cook stove was warm, and he gratefully peeled out of some of his filthy layers.
“He
y.” Sloan nodded in his direction. The huge, bald-headed black man was dressed in rags similar to Mac’s, but he had one additional accessory—an eye patch, covering the nasty gouged-out hole Mac had seen on occasion and didn’t envy one bit.
He tossed his coat and scarves on a stool in the corner and approached the stove. “Hey. I hear you’re serving steak and lobster today. I’d like mine rare, with melted butter on the side, please.”
“Right.” Sloan snorted, and spooned what looked like gruel into a wooden bowl. “Fatback and beans, and we’re damned lucky to get that. Rations are getting harder to come by every day.”
“Damn it.” Mac took the bowl and peered inside. As unappealing as the mixture looked, the aroma of the pork made his mouth water and his belly grumbled, desperate for something to fill the gap. He sipped, discovered the gruel wasn’t half bad, and then swallowed larger gulps. The bowl empty, he held it out and planted a hopeful expression on his face.
Sloan smiled and refilled the dish with another serving.
Mac ate and talked at the same time. “I’ve seen this before. When the supply lines tighten up, the Progressive soldiers are getting closer. I’d really hate to have to leave this place. Mad Dog’s been good, letting me wash dishes in exchange for meals and a sink to rinse off in, every now and then.”
“Don’t I know it? It’s been great having someplace warm to spend my days. Nights get awful long with no heat, though.”
“Tell me.” Mac looked around. Since the Progressive party had taken control of the government, only houses and businesses the ‘Directors’ deemed crucial were allowed electricity. Mad Dog stayed in business because he served liquor, and lots of it, to Progressive soldiers. He kept them drunk during the day in hopes they might not realize he was secretly on the side of the rebellion, aiding their forces whenever possible.
As an officer in the rebellion militia, Mac had witnessed more bloodshed than anyone should have to in one lifetime. He understood why Mad Dog couldn’t let him, or dozens of others, spend the night in the warm pub. Soldiers, drunk by day, crawled all over places like the Cock and Bull at night. They were always on the lookout for resistance fighters, and the rebels were often easier to find hunkered down under the cover of darkness.
Still, it wasn’t easy for Mac to leave each night and go back to the warehouse where he currently slept. Heated by fires burning in large black barrels, the place was barely warm and marginally safe. He slept, at least part of the night, when he buddied up with someone and they took watch in shifts. Unfortunately, most of the people he’d trusted were gone. Sloan occasionally went with him to the warehouse, but the big man had discovered an alternate way to get by and keep warm.
Sloan’s sexual preferences ran to harder bodies than Mac preferred. When the cook found out there were certain Progressive soldiers who were happy to take him home at night, he jumped all over the idea. Sexual favors in exchange for a warm bed didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Mac had been tempted, on more than one freezing cold night, but couldn’t bring himself to side with Progressives. At least, it was what he told himself.
He washed dishes and checked with Mad Dog to see if there were any other chores he needed done. Assured there weren’t, Mac returned to the kitchen where Sloan had already settled into a chair, against the stucco wall, to sleep.
Mac assumed his usual spot, another straight wooden chair next to an equally hard wall. Soldiers would question bedrolls or cots in the kitchen so he and Sloan learned to sleep sitting up, with an eye to the door.
He glanced at the one-eyed man, already snoring, and smiled. He liked Sloan. Wasn’t sure about some of his choices, but they didn’t matter to Mac. He’d never considered himself homophobic, just preferred the only cock in his sexual escapades belonged to him.
He shifted in his chair. Wish I could remember what a ‘sexual escapade’ felt like. It’d been a damn long time since he’d experienced anything even halfway normal. Since the disaster with the sun, life hadn’t been the same.
He’d been told, in the 2000s, people were concerned about the environment. ‘Green’ and ‘eco-friendly’ practices were all the rage. At some point in the early 2100s, energy-saving techniques fell by the wayside as people grew complacent. Before anyone realized what was happening, the sun split in two and heat, water and fuel fell into short supply.
People got scared and turned on each other. A militant commando group ousted the government and killed anyone in a position of authority. With the Progressives in charge, doling out utility services on a whim, the formerly united country was divided into two sections, the ‘haves’ and the ‘have nots’.
Mac’s hometown of Chicago was brutally torn apart by warring factions. Chic-P was the Progressive-protected, brighter part of town. The rest of the city was dark and needy. Labeled Chic-L, the parts of town that received less electricity were cast off to the ousted Libertarians, or Losers, as the residents of Chic-P liked to call them.
Mac scrubbed both hands over his face. He tried to push thoughts of violence from his mind, but it wasn’t easy. When he wasn’t thinking about the war, he was left to ponder his life before the war, and remembering those times was almost worse.
He decided to focus on something neutral. A big, greasy hamburger from one of the chain joints now lying in ruins around the city. A year had passed since he’d had one, but he could still taste the burger, and hot, salty fries. Bliss.
Can’t believe I’ve been living in these conditions for a year. Some days he wondered why he struggled so hard to stay alive.
“Soldiers!” Mad Dog stuck his head in the kitchen door. “Four of them. Bring them something to eat.”
“Fuck.” Sloan rose from his chair and dished up bean soup.
Mac retrieved his scarf and wrapped it around his neck. Usually, the soldiers didn’t give him a second glance. But if one of them did, the scars on his neck would be enough to pique interest. He tried to fly beneath the radar as much as he could.
He loaded the bowls on a tray, along with plates of homemade bread. In the main room, he was pleased to see Mad Dog bantering with the men. Mac served their food and returned to the kitchen without a word from anybody.
“That was close.” Sloan watched him loosen his scarf. “They usually don’t eat here. Wonder what’s up today?”
“No idea.” Mac shook his head. “Feels like the noose is tightening. I think I’ll talk to Mad Dog about moving on. He might know of another place to go.”
“Keep me posted.” Sloan returned to the stove and stirred the big pot.
Mac wouldn’t say anything before he moved on, and Sloan knew it. The fewer people keeping tabs on his whereabouts, the better. Relationships formed in times like these were fragile, and could hardly be called friendships. They both knew, if Sloan saw an opportunity to better his situation by ratting on Mac, he’d sell him out in a heartbeat.
Mac, on the other hand, would let himself be killed before he’d rat on an ally. Unfortunately, the only people who’d known him well enough to realize that were dead.
Nerves on alert, he stayed awake and watchful the rest of the day. He ate again before nightfall, when it was time to go. Sloan took off at about the same time one of the soldiers did. Mac watched him leave, but reserved comment. His life hadn’t been all grins and roses, and he recalled something about ‘judge not lest ye be judged’.
He wanted to speak with Mad Dog, but the barkeep had been busy with soldiers all afternoon and now seemed prepared to walk out with them as the men left.
Tomorrow. Mac bundled up in his warm gear and grabbed one last chunk of bread. The pub stood empty. He thought about having a shot of whiskey before he stumbled out into the cold. He’d resisted the call of alcohol for nearly five years. Sobriety hadn’t been easy. Given his past fondness for booze, he was concerned, once he started drinking again, he might not want to stop. He needed all his wits about him to survive.
Mac hurried past the bar and ventured out into the night. He locked the door
, shoved his hands into his pockets and trudged toward the warehouse. He’d travelled about two blocks before his fingers started to tingle and he realized he’d left his gloves back in the kitchen. He quickly weighed his options, but knew his fingers would freeze and he’d be miserable if he didn’t go back for them.
In front of the pub, he glanced up and down the alley before searching the front wall and digging the hidden key from between two broken bricks. He let himself in and pulled the bulky door closed, inhaling the luxurious warmth of the room. Thoughts about staying for the night tempted him, but he couldn’t. He refused to betray Mad Dog’s trust. He could stay long enough to warm up before going out again. He reached for the scarf covering his face, and froze when a glint of steel flashed in front of his face.
“Take one more step and I’ll cut your nuts off.” The voice crackled gruff, but definitely female.
Mac removed the covering from his mouth slowly. “It’s a fucking hundred degrees below out there. Good luck finding them.”
Chapter Two
Mac heard the woman cut off her chuckle at his remark.
“Point taken,” she replied. “Now who are you, and what the fuck are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing. I work here, washing dishes. Got halfway home before I remembered I left my gloves in the kitchen.” In the dark pub, illuminated only by a dim light behind the bar, he saw her raise a hand and recognized the black glove.
“Nice and warm.” She made no move to take the gloves off. “So you work here? What’s the owner’s name?”
Mac gazed over her small frame. Her head reached his chin, but he couldn’t distinguish anything else as heavily bundled as she was. He focused on her face, covered much the same his. “I know him as Mad Dog. He’s been real good to me. Now, if you’re a Progressive soldier, I’m afraid I’m going to have to kill you.”
She allowed the laugh this time, and lowered the knife she’d been wielding. She removed the gloves and held them out. “Not hardly. I’m guessing you’re not, either, or you wouldn’t have doubled back in this cold for a pair of gloves.”