by Eden Bradley
But the people in the room were even more interesting.
Everywhere she turned were gorgeously dressed Doms and Dommes, many in leather, mostly in black, as the dominants so often were, but some of the women in particular were dressed in beautiful evening gowns in brilliant jewel tones. Many had whips and floggers and other implements of torture in their hands or hanging from their belts. And everywhere, naked and collared slaves followed them about on hands and knees, some on their knees with hands bound behind their backs. The slaves were so beautiful, all of them. Or perhaps they only appeared to be. The state of their submission was beautiful to her in itself. Beautiful and shocking, to see so many gathered in one place.
And she was one of them.
Oh, yes; she was hardly a simple spectator here.
Pressure on the back of her neck again and she realized she had stopped in the middle of the floor to gawk. She followed Master Robert’s feet to a corner of the room, where he and Mistress Delphine settled on a long, low couch done in deep red velvet.
“Kneel here, at my feet, Cassandra.”
She did so, wishing she could lean into his leg, wanting the reassuring warmth of him against her skin. But she knew better.
A naked young girl approached and took drink orders from the Masters. They seemed content to sit and talk among themselves for the moment, and she used the opportunity to look more at this strange and exotic place Master Robert had taken her to.
She let her gaze wander past the crowd, to the darker corners of the room, and saw finally the equipment placed at intervals here and there. Padded spanking benches of different designs were scattered among the large St. Andrew’s crosses she had seen in books: tall X’s made of wood with eye hooks to which a submissive might be bound at wrists and ankles. Several already were, splayed out for their Masters to torture.
In one area was gathered a group of slaves, all kneeling on the floor and wearing the most unusual masks. Some were in the form of horses, some were the faces of dogs. The masks, which came over the slaves’ heads like hoods, were somewhat primitive and gilded in gold paint, like the masks common during the Renaissance in Venice. Those who wore the dog masks were all collared and leashed. One was being made to drink from a bowl on the floor while the Masters looked on, laughing and pinching the puppy-boy, prodding him with the tip of their crops. He had an absolutely bursting erection.
One horse-masked slave girl was hoisted onto a long wooden table, which was intricately carved and more heavily gilded than the masks. A large man held her head while a woman fit a bit into her exposed mouth and covered the mask with a leather bridle. The man settled a small pony saddle on the girl’s back, buckled it around her waist.
Cassandra shivered, half in excitement, half in dread. Would this humiliation be forced on her? She didn’t think she could bear it. Yet at the same time, her sex grew inexplicably damp. She liked to watch these others endure this torture.
Master Robert leaned down and whispered into her ear, “I see you looking at the pony girl. Perhaps we should fit you with a saddle, a bit. And of course with a tail.”
Her eyes went immediately to the rounded buttocks of the girl wearing the saddle. A long tail of horsehair protruded from between her smooth cheeks. She understood instantly how the tail was mounted there. She trembled all over.
Master Robert put a hand on the back of her neck, calming her, even as he chuckled softly at her obvious discomfort. “Don’t worry, girl, I have other plans for you tonight. Come, follow me.” Then, turning to Mistress Delphine, he said, “I’ll see you later in the evening. Enjoy.”
He snapped his fingers and again Cassandra kept her eyes on his feet as he moved across the room. Where would he take her now? What other evil scenarios had this group of sophisticated sadists thought up? But even as she had the thought, she felt that soft, slippery sensation of her mind moving out of focus. Or not out of focus so much as very focused on whatever was most immediate, yet blurry around the edges. At this moment, the only things that mattered, really, were following Master Robert’s feet, obeying him, pleasing him. And of course the question of whether Marcus would be here tonight, of how long she would have to wait to see him. And even as she crawled across the floor, had these thoughts, she understood on some deep level that simply being in this place was doing incredible things to her head.
Over the marble floor and down a long hallway, her knees moved quickly across a series of Persian rugs. She didn’t dare look even to the side. She didn’t need to know what was there, other than whatever Master Robert chose to show her.
Finally he guided her to the right and through a doorway.
“Up, Cassandra.”
She lifted her head, taking in the room. Still large, although nothing like the scale of the grand salon they had just left, it was dimly lit by enormous, ornate chandeliers hanging from the vaulted ceiling. But she could see more tall, brocade-draped windows. The only other thing in the room was an enormous structure made of heavily carved and gilded wood. It was a beautifully made frame with complicated crossbars and posts, perhaps seven or eight feet high. Golden hooks protruded here and there and lengths of silky golden cord were strung between posts, in places in a complicated, weblike manner. Some of the bars at waist height were padded and covered in a deep black velvet. At one end was what appeared to be a long table, done in the same black velvet.
And standing in the middle of this elegant and wicked structure was her dark stranger, a stranger no more.
Marcus.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HE WAS DRESSED IN BLACK LEATHER PANTS, A white shirt with billowing sleeves, heavy black boots; what Cassandra thought of as classic BDSM pirate drag. One arm was held overhead, gripping a crossbar. The other held a long riding crop, which he was tapping in a slow rhythm against his leg.
Her mouth went dry, her sex went wet, and she was filled with longing, confusion, and a stab of lust so strong she knew if she’d been standing she would have fallen to the floor.
The big, black boots in particular really did something to her. She wanted to kiss them, to touch them. They were commanding in and of themselves, those boots. She looked up, into his face, even though she knew better. He was smiling just a little. His teeth were gorgeous, white and strong. His mouth was pure sex, lush and pink yet thoroughly masculine. His eyes were perfectly dark. She looked away, casting her gaze to the floor.
“Good evening, Marcus.” Master Robert’s voice appeared to boom out across the nearly empty room.
“Good evening, Uncle.”
God, his voice was dark and smooth, like honey, like smoke over molasses. The tone of it made her nipples go hard.
She would die if he didn’t touch her tonight. If all he did was watch as Master Robert played her.
“Delivery, as promised.”
“Thank you, Uncle.”
It was said too quickly for her to think about what those words meant. Movement in the room, then those big, black boots right in front of her. A hand under her chin—oh, God, his hand!—forcing her gaze upward, until she couldn’t help but look into those bottomless eyes. His gaze was steady, concentrated.
“Tonight, Cassandra, you are mine to do with as I wish. Are you ready?”
She opened her mouth to answer. Nothing came out.
He slapped her lips with his fingertips. It didn’t hurt much; it was just hard enough to wake her up. And just enough to make her insides go soft and molten, that little hurting tap of his fingers and his commanding intent.
Where had the man gone who had spoken to her so civilly on the phone? But it didn’t matter, really. She knew that was a part of him, and so was this commanding Dominant. It was the combination that had drawn her in completely, that made her heart surge as much as her sex.
“Yes, I’m ready, Sir.”
He smiled, looking pleased, his gaze resting on hers perhaps a little too long.
Was she really to be handed over to him for the evening? She would be grateful for even a
n hour. Torture, not knowing. Of course, mind-fuck was half the power of BDSM, she was coming to discover.
He was still looking at her, smiling at her, when Master Robert leaned down and spoke in her ear in his smooth, sophisticated tone. “I am giving you to Marcus for the night. You are his, understand? You will obey him as you do me. I will come to collect you when I’m ready. And I will have a full report, so you must be on your best behavior. He will not tolerate any infraction of the rules, and he will punish you for misbehavior. You haven’t been punished yet. I guarantee you won’t like it. Pain without pleasure. Is that understood, Cassandra?”
She nodded, barely able to speak. “Yes, Master Robert.”
Marcus flicked his eyes to his uncle. “I don’t like the nodding. A posture collar will cure her of that.”
“Do as you will, Marcus.”
She heard Master Robert’s footsteps as he left the room. Marcus tapped the top of her head lightly with the crop.
“Into submission pose, Cassandra.”
She knew what he wanted, but it was a moment before she could make her muscles obey. Suddenly she was terrified at the idea of being left alone with him. She knew what that would do to her head, to her heart. And then she would be sent home with Master Robert. Unbearable.
A quick, hard smack of the crop on her right breast got her moving. She sat back on her heels, spread her thighs, laid her hands there, palms up, and bent her head, which was filled with the sound of her own breathing.
“Stay there. I’ll return in a moment.”
She held as still as possible, shivering just a little all over. She could not believe she was to be his tonight! The idea was intimidating. What if she didn’t please him? It seemed hugely important that she did.
He was back quickly, leaning over her from behind so she couldn’t see him. He whispered in her ear, “I wanted to be sure he was gone before I told you this: that you have no idea what this does to me, knowing you are in my hands tonight. This is not the time to talk, as much as I want to hear your voice again. Tonight we are at The Lair, and we must use this place as it’s meant to be used. And I will use you as you are meant to be used. Thoroughly. Lovingly. Tell me you want this.”
Her insides shivered at the sound of his voice, at his meaning. “I want this. I need this. I need you.”
“As I need you. Lift your hair, my sweet Cassandra.”
She did. He unfastened Master Robert’s collar from around her neck without ever touching her skin. Her stomach did a little dip of disappointment. But very quickly the narrow leather collar was replaced with something very tall and stiff, built almost like the cervical collars people wore who had strained their necks. He buckled the device at the back of her neck, which felt stretched out, luxuriously elongated. A strange sense of panic washed over her when she found she could barely turn her head, or move it in any direction at all.
He laid his large, warm hand on her shoulder. “Calm, Cassandra. It’s alright. You’ll get used to it in a moment. It will make you feel safe.”
She didn’t know about safe, but she was flooded with lust at that slight touch on her skin.
More.
When his hand slid down her arm she closed her eyes, breathed in, trying to catch his scent. Yes, there it was, that woodsy scent which smelled like the deepest part of a forest to her. That deep, dark, dangerous place in the very center, where anything can happen.
Then he was leaning in closer, until his breath warmed her hair. He whispered, “You are in my hands, Cassandra. You are mine tonight. Mine.”
Her thighs trembled. His scent was driving her crazy. And in her mind was simply the word again, yes.
“Come, on your feet.”
She stood, swaying just a little. Then his big hand slid around her wrist, and for the first time she was able to get a real sense of how tall he was, at least six feet, perhaps an inch or two more. But his presence, his essence, was enormous.
He took her to the wooden frame. Up close she could see the intricate carvings of flowers and vines, and here and there a phallic symbol or a couple in a sensual embrace woven into the pattern. The work was exquisite. But she didn’t have time to think about it.
Marcus brought her to the long, velvet-covered table at the far end of the structure and had her lie down on her back, the velvet soft beneath her naked skin.
“Bring your arms over your head for me and spread them for me. Yes, and now spread your legs wide.”
She did as he asked, her heart pounding so hard she could barely breathe. He buckled her wrists into heavy leather cuffs, amazing her by kissing each wrist before he bound it. Her heart swelled. If she hadn’t been bound she would have wrapped her arms around his neck, demanding to be kissed.
But no, this was Marcus—she would never do such a thing with him.
He attached her ankles to the velvet bed in the same way as her wrists. She was spread-eagle, open to his searching gaze. The vulnerability of her position was sending her to some trancelike place already. She watched him from beneath half-closed lids. His bone structure was unbelievable, like some classic statue. And his mouth was impossibly lush for a man’s. She didn’t dare try to look into his eyes.
When he ran one finger lazily down between her breasts, she gasped. His touch was like heat lightning, burning her flesh. Her breasts immediately began to ache, her nipples coming up hard and tight, pulling against the silver clamps there.
As though reading her mind he gave the chain between the clamps a small tug, sending a burst of sensation through her nipples. She let out a moan.
“I love that you’re so sensitive.”
She groaned when he slipped his hand between her thighs and thrust his fingers inside her. She was wet, aching. Her sex convulsed around him. She could not believe it was him touching her like this.
“God help me, Cassandra,” he muttered.
She could barely stand it, his voice, his pained expression. She had to fight not to move her hips, to thrust into his hand. But after a moment he started himself, sliding in and out of her at a slow, agonizing pace.
“Oh, God,” she groaned, ready to come.
“Not yet.” His voice was firm, commanding, but ragged around the edges.
He continued to stroke her, angled his fingers to slide against her g-spot. She bit her lip as pleasure built in her, a tight coil of heat and need.
Not yet, not yet.
But then he took her chin in his other hand, forced her gaze to his. His eyes were intense, hazed with emotion or lust, she didn’t know which. She was too filled with both herself. Her head was spinning, out of control.
“Not yet, Cassandra. Hold it back. For me.”
She gulped in a breath, bit her lip harder, squeezed her eyes shut. Her body teetered on the edge of climax. But she held it back for him.
For him.
His fingers pumped harder inside her and tears fell from her eyes, slid over her cheeks.
“Do not come. Not until I tell you to. I can see that you want to. That you want to please me.”
The pleasure was overwhelming, but yes, anything for him. Her head strained against the tight hold of the posture collar with the effort to hold her climax back. Her sex, her breasts, ached, burned. Her arms and legs pulsed with need. The brink of climax was knife-edge sharp, until it began to feel like an orgasm in itself; one long, drawn out wave of almost unbearable pleasure.
He pumped his fingers faster, kept his gaze on hers, forcing her to focus on nothing but his face, his voice, his fingers inside her.
Marcus.
When his thumb hit her clit she almost lifted off the table.
“Now, Cassandra. Come for me.”
Her body let go with a torrent of pleasure. Sharp, stabbing through her system at a hundred miles an hour, dragging her over the edge, hurtling her into darkness. Her sex clasped around his fingers, holding him tight inside her. Her thighs shook, pulling against the bonds as her entire body convulsed. She cried out.
Wa
ve after exquisite wave, it seemed to go on forever. Her breath came in ragged gasps as her climax subsided, a little at a time. When he finally slipped his fingers out of her body, her sex was still clenching. She was dripping wet.
“And now we begin,” he said softly, holding her chin, still. Holding her gaze. His eyes were glittering, bottomless. She could drown in them and never come up, happy to do so.
She hadn’t yet caught her breath when he started in with a small flogger that appeared in his hand as if by magic. Soft strokes of the leather over her skin, all across the front of her body, her belly, her breasts, her thighs. The strokes quickly became harder, the leather tails biting into her sensitized skin.
Oh, he was wicked. She was still half-coming, and the flogger felt like heaven to her, even as it burned her flesh. It was even better when he brushed her skin with his fingertips in between the lashes, one stroke of the whip, one stroke of his hand. His touch on her was gentle, in stark contrast to the evil little whip, making her feel each ripple of sensation even more.
“That’s it, Cassandra, take it all in.”
She realized vaguely that she was overloading. The lovely touch of his hand, the bite of the flogger, she didn’t know which was which anymore. She didn’t care. She just didn’t want him to stop.
When he did she was only very dimly aware that she was totally out of her head, dreamy, drifting on the pain.
It wasn’t long before he started on her again, this time with a small bristle brush. He dragged it over her body, sometimes softly, sometimes so hard it felt like sandpaper on her skin. Over her breasts, her rib cage, her stomach, then down over her thighs, her calves, even the tops of her feet. She loved the feel of it, loved the way it made her skin quiver all over, even as it hurt. And it did hurt; he made sure of it.