Had he somehow known that would be Case’s preference?
“Strip,” Zeke commanded.
I admired Case’s physique as he stripped off the jeans he was wearing before walking closer to the spanking bench. The dragon on his back seemed to come to life when he moved, arching and shifting. It was a masterpiece, really, something I had admired since the first time I saw it.
My focus moved to the spanking bench. It wasn’t quite as intricate as the one Zeke had in his basement, but it was sturdy enough to hold Case’s large body. He stood there, still as a statue while he waited for Zeke to instruct him what to do next.
Zeke joined him, then motioned him into position, assisting as needed. Rather than have him kneel on the padded leather bars, Zeke had it turned the opposite direction, allowing Case to drape himself over the bench while his feet remained on the floor. His head was angled downward, but only slightly. Enough to ensure his ass was in the air.
“Do you prefer to be restrained?” Zeke questioned.
“Yes, Zeke.”
I noticed Zeke was taking this very seriously. He wasn’t smiling or laughing and he wasn’t taunting Case the way he normally did. I found that interesting.
He moved around Case as he secured his wrists and ankles to the metal frame. Zeke checked the restraints a couple of times before he went over to the table, where his toy bag was sitting.
When he picked up the long, thin cane, my breath halted in my lungs. I’d heard that thing left bruises when done correctly. I had yet to get to that frame of mind when I wanted to wear the stripes of my master. I enjoyed some pain, but I couldn’t handle even remotely close to what Case craved.
And now, I was forced to kneel here on the floor and watch as the man I desired beat on the man I loved.
TWENTY-FOUR
ZEKE
THERE WAS A TECHNIQUE TO caning. While most submissives, even masochists, would enjoy the thud of the rattan cane against their backside, it was one of the more impactful tools. It would leave bruises under the skin and welts on the top provided it was used correctly. But it wasn’t about the visible marks it would leave as much as it was the pain it would cause. A Dom had to be mindful of how hard and how often they were striking the submissive in order to have the desired effect.
When it came to caning, it wasn’t about constant hitting. If struck too quickly, the submissive wouldn’t experience the full impact. The point was to allow the submissive to feel the thud of the cane and the reverberation that came from it. Striking too quickly defeated the purpose. The same went for how the cane landed and where.
I’d done numerous canings in my BDSM lifetime. I’d even been caned myself more than once. I found it important to understand how the tools felt in order to deliver what was needed for a particular submissive. Hence the reason I’d endured having every tool in my arsenal used on me and by more than one Dom. It was about understanding the various techniques and the outcome.
I took my cane—I preferred a three-eighths-inch rattan cane—and held it firmly in my hand as I walked around the pretty boy. I admired the lines of his body, the way he looked restrained to the bench. His ass and the backs of his thighs were on display and very soon everyone standing near would be able to see the wicked stripes delivered by my hand.
Due to the height of the bench, the pretty boy was exactly where he needed to be for my swing to land perfectly on the fleshy part of his body. It would allow me to hit him accurately and as easy or hard as I chose.
I wouldn’t be going easy on him.
Because I knew my submissive well, I didn’t feel the need to confirm his safe word for club protocol. Although he technically didn’t have one, he would know I would heed it should he need to use it, so I trusted him to do so. My only objective was sending him into subspace.
It was easy to block out everyone and everything around us. Out of respect for me, no one was speaking. The only sounds were the music pulsing through the speakers and the noises from the other scenes taking place a short distance away.
After one more pass around the bench, I placed my hand firmly on the pretty boy’s back, silently signaling I was ready to start. After a light squeeze of my fingers, I removed my hand and placed the cane against his ass, exactly where I intended to land the first blow.
I pulled back and delivered perfectly, allowing the cane to bounce lightly and remain on the mark I’d made. As for whether the pretty boy experienced the white-hot heat that bloomed on the line I’d made or if he’d focused on the searing sensation or the vibration through his body, I didn’t know. I turned and landed another blow on the opposite side in the same place. After allowing it to sink in for a moment, giving the pretty boy an idea of what he could expect from me, I decided it was time to proceed.
I focused on pacing and rhythm, delivering each blow in a different spot along his ass and the backs of his legs. The marks were appearing beautifully, red welts marring his skin. Every so often, the pretty boy would grunt or groan, a definite sign he was enjoying himself.
I allowed myself to drift into that mindset some called Domspace. It was a high unlike any other, the ability to deliver pain to someone who craved it. These were the moments I looked forward to. The way I felt, the invincible feeling. My cock swelled behind the zipper of my jeans, pure pleasure pulsing through my veins. Like the pretty boy, I, too, craved the endorphin high more so than the release.
As I moved along, I began dragging the cane over the mark I’d just made, drawing an agonizing groan from the pretty boy. My eyes never strayed from what I was doing, paying attention to the marks, ensuring I hadn’t split the skin. My cock twitched and jerked with every mark that appeared, proof that I was taking my pleasure from his pain. I’d been taking my time, purposely keeping him from soaring too high, but I knew he was ready for the encore.
Pure, raw satisfaction radiated from my insides as I released the last of the vicious blows that would send him into subspace, his mind detaching from his body as endorphins flooded his system, that natural high he worked so hard to receive taking over.
When I was finished, I set the cane down and returned to the pretty boy. I ran my hand over the marks, admiring my work, enjoying the way he hissed and flinched. I couldn’t wait to see the bruises that would appear later on.
I caught Mistress Jane’s attention and motioned her over. She brought along two male submissives who went to work unhooking the belts holding the pretty boy down. When they got him upright, I looked into his eyes. They glittered with heat, his cock rock hard from the experience. For the first time, I was tempted to lead him into an aftercare room and finish what we started. I could take care of him while he took care of me.
My gaze strayed to the cowboy, still kneeling at Ransom’s feet, and I decided against it. Aftercare was for someone else to handle. Once he was feeling more like himself, I would take them home and lose myself in the pretty boy for a little while.
Mistress Jane nodded toward me, her signal that she was taking my charge into her care. I didn’t nod back, choosing to go back to my toy bag and load up my gear, forcing my mind to detach from the scene.
The pretty boy was in good hands. I had to dispel the absurd discomfort I suddenly felt knowing someone else would be touching what belonged to me, caring for him. There was a reason I’d selected a Domme. My fuck toy would find her care clinical at best, nothing arousing.
For some reason, although I knew that deep down, it did little to assuage that strange possessiveness that erupted in my gut.
“Master Zeke? May I clean up for you now?”
Without looking at the submissive, I growled a confirmation, my eyes remaining on my bag. I inhaled deeply, let it out slowly. This wasn’t the time or place for me to get caught up in some misplaced feelings. In fact, as far as I was concerned, there was never going to be a time or place.
I simply had to figure out how to remind myself before I went and did something stupid.
*
Case
&nbs
p; (The pretty boy)
MY ASS WAS ON FIRE. Even three hours later when we were back at Zeke’s, I could still feel the singe as that cane struck my ass. My jeans were causing friction, which made me grit my teeth. And yet my insides were glowing like hot coals. I wasn’t sure the last time I’d felt this damn good.
Zeke had been silent ever since he’d come to get me from the aftercare room, his body present but his mind somewhere off in the distance. Once I had floated back to earth and Mistress Jane had coated my welts in some ointment, we had returned to the Doms’ lounge, listening as everyone wanted to discuss the scene. I had kept my mouth shut while my ass blazed from the pain that lingered. The marks were there, the bruises already appearing, and I felt an odd sense of attachment to Zeke because he’d given them to me. Yet I had noticed he hadn’t acknowledged me since we left the club.
It was evident he wasn’t angry but he was rather morose, despondent. Brooding, maybe. Or perhaps he was simply reflecting back on the scene and this was how he did it. I wasn’t sure what it felt like for him to go through something like that because I’d never been in his shoes. I only knew how fucking incredible it was for me. And that had been, by far, the best caning I’d ever received. Zeke was a master when it came to delivering the painful blows. He hadn’t rushed, allowing the cane to sit on my skin, the delicious sensations coursing through me, vibrating in my balls, then working their way over my entire body. Every hit had been exquisite torture and I’d wanted it to go on forever.
Granted, I had seen my ass and my legs. I knew the damage that had been done. I knew Zeke had stopped because any more would’ve risked breaking the skin.
“Let’s shower,” Zeke said to me as we were heading up the stairs. “Cowboy, you can come upstairs and watch.”
Sweat prickled my skin at the thought of warm water on my hypersensitive ass, but I wasn’t about to deny him whatever he needed.
I thought for sure he would send me to bed despite the fact my dick was still rock hard from that scene. Zeke knew I preferred subspace to an orgasm, so he hadn’t demanded I come and he hadn’t yet taken his pleasure from me, either. The thought of wearing that chastity device to sleep in while my dick was so fucking hard it hurt made my head swim.
Without waiting for Brax to crawl up the stairs, I went into the bathroom and started the shower while Zeke disappeared into his closet. I stripped off my clothes, the denim scraping over the tortured nerve endings causing the marks to burn hotter than before.
When Zeke returned, he motioned for me to get in the shower as he followed.
I did like this bathroom. It was designed with a man his size in mind. The lack of walls left the space open. The numerous shower heads allowed him to move about freely while getting clean.
“Put your hands on the tile. Ass facing me,” he stated roughly. “I want to admire my work.”
Without hesitation, I did as instructed, bending at the waist and putting my palms flat on the tile. My cock thickened as I put myself on display for this man. I wanted him to move up behind me, to take me in that wild way that kept me hanging precariously close to an orgasm strong enough to blow my head off my shoulders. Knowing Brax was there, watching, only made it hotter. If Zeke wasn’t prepared to fuck me, I hoped he would touch me, run his hands over my skin. It would intensify the fire in my skin, but I didn’t care.
I could hear the water being displaced as Zeke showered. I didn’t move, my knees locked, my back straight. I was rewarded a short time later when Zeke’s soapy hands stroked over my back.
“You did good tonight, pretty boy.” His tone was soft, his words laced with what sounded like wonder.
“Thank you, Zeke.”
He washed me slowly, as though he had all the time in the world. My shoulders, my neck, my back. He disappeared only to return with more soap.
My breathing increased as I silently urged him to go lower, to run those callused palms over my abraded skin. The friction alone would make me see stars, but I needed that. In that moment, I needed him. Something to solidify the experience, to increase the connection I felt to him.
When his palms finally inched lower, down my spine, I held my breath. He paused momentarily at the lowest part of my back and I squeezed my eyes closed. Hoping for more while preparing myself for the blistering heat to bloom on my skin.
“Oh, fuck,” I cried out through clenched teeth when his hands finally shifted. “Holy shit.”
“It hurts.” It wasn’t a question.
“So fucking good,” I admitted.
His soapy hands wandered over my ass, down the backs of my legs. I groaned and hissed, letting the blessed warmth radiate throughout me. It was enough to make me light-headed, but I welcomed the sensation, relishing the fire blazing along my nerve endings.
I wanted him to fuck me, to fill my ass, to use me in the way only he could. I needed his brutal touch, the overwhelming way he controlled both my pleasure and his. He was driving me insane.
But Zeke didn’t fuck me. His hands continued to wander. Down my legs, my ankles, around to my calves. He washed me thoroughly, working his way back up, fisting my cock a few times but not offering relief.
“Stand up.”
When I did, his chest pressed against my back, his thighs brushing mine, his groin smashed against my ass. He kept me steady on my feet with his strength and security. I hissed again as the hair on his legs had fire licking every nerve ending. Big arms wrapped around me as he washed my chest and my stomach. His hips rocked against me, his cock trapped between our bodies.
“Zeke … oh, fuck … I need more.”
“I know you do,” he growled, his mouth close to my ear. “You need to feel my cock filling you.”
“Yes.” So fucking badly.
His big hand curled around my throat as he held me against him. He wasn’t cutting off my air, but there was no denying who was in charge here.
Zeke walked us backward until we were both under the spray, water cascading over me, rinsing the soap from my body. His mouth moved to my shoulder and I hissed when he nipped me with his teeth. He didn’t stop, those stinging bites making my dick throb as he worked his way up my neck.
This man made me feel things I’d never felt before. Maybe not the sweet intensity I felt with Brax, but there was something about our connection. It was palpable, a living, breathing thing that had me hoping for more, wanting him to embrace whatever this was building between us.
Zeke held me tighter, his teeth nipping my skin, his breath warm against my shoulder. I could feel a soft rumble in his chest. He was as worked up as I was, but he was still holding back.
Ah, fuck. This was not what I expected. The pleasure coiled hot and fierce inside me. This man had never touched me like this. He was always so impersonal. This felt like more.
Once the soap was gone from my skin, Zeke spun me around and backed me up against the tile. I cried out as the rough pieces scraped against my ass. The pain ignited sparks in my eyes, small white flashes dancing there.
Zeke’s hand remained on my throat as he pinned me against the wall, his eyes fierce as he stared back at me. I couldn’t look away even as the pain morphed into something more intense.
When he leaned forward and crushed his mouth to mine, all thought fled. The only things I was aware of were his lips, the brutal way he thrust his tongue into my mouth, his hand tightening, air becoming scarce. Still, I kissed him, desperate and eager for this man. I got the feeling I wasn’t kissing the Sadist. This was the man beneath it all. While he was still in charge, still dominant in every right, he was seeking something from me. Acceptance? Desire?
I wanted to give it to him. Whatever he needed.
But I didn’t touch him, fearful he would stop touching me if I did. I settled for having his lips brutally crushing mine as he owned the kiss.
When he finally pulled away, oxygen seeped back into my lungs as I stared into those glittering black eyes. I thought he would be angry, the way he’d been after he kissed Brax.
Anger wasn’t staring back at me.
No. Something else. Something potent.
Something that I feared was going to bring me to my knees.
TWENTY-FIVE
ZEKE
I COULDN’T EXPLAIN WHAT WAS going through my head as I kissed the pretty boy. I wanted him with a ferocity I hadn’t experienced in a damn long time. I thought back to the scene at the club, my mind automatically drawing on the memory of Jane walking the pretty boy away to an aftercare room. For the first time, I had felt as though I should’ve been the one caring for him.
And now, as I feasted on his mouth, the warmth of his body lured me closer. I couldn’t stop myself. Even knowing the cowboy was kneeling feet away, I didn’t want to stop. It was insanity in its purest form.
But I did have to stop myself. I couldn’t allow this to go too far.
Pulling back, I took a deep breath, then shut off the water. I grabbed a towel, pretending the pretty boy wasn’t standing there staring at me with wild eyes and swollen lips. My cock was so damn hard, yet for some reason, I wanted more than a quick fuck.
After drying off, I wrapped the towel around my waist and went to the mirror over the sink.
“Both of you can go to the bedroom,” I said absently, refusing to make eye contact with either one of them.
When they left me in peace, I grabbed my toothbrush and went through the motions. I stared at myself, trying to figure out what was different. The past week had been phenomenal. Aside from the minor setback with the cowboy, I’d thoroughly enjoyed myself. And even that … the way the cowboy had admitted he was jealous… That hadn’t been so bad. It was my reaction to the situation that threw me. I didn’t want to get close to them, because once I did, once I made the mistake of wanting more, they would be gone.
After rinsing my mouth, I shook my head and glared at the man staring back at me. I wouldn’t want more. That was all there was to it. I had to move forward the way we had been. I didn’t necessarily have to toss them to the curb to maintain my control, either. We could simply enjoy this for as long as it lasted.
Their Ruthless Sadist (Office Intrigue, 5) Page 26