When The Gavel Falls (Masters of the Castle)

by Tabitha Black

  Stay here!

  I will come back for you soon.

  —Master D

  He took his phone and laptop and headed downstairs to the first floor to the Rainbow Room; the only place in the Castle with WiFi and reliable cell phone coverage. Despite the name, it didn't sport rainbow colors. He'd learned on a previous visit that 'rainbow' referred to the co-mingling of all colored bracelets there.

  Here, naughty maids could work off demerits by playing slave to a stranger for an hour, so there was always something interesting going on. At the moment, one maid lay sprawled across the lap of an overjoyed Dom, who was spanking her with gusto. Another was giving a blow job to one guy, while at the same time a second man fucked her from behind. In the corner, a naughty manservant stood with his nose to the wall and his pants down.

  David had, on past occasions, spent time with naughty little maids in the Rainbow Room, but for the time being, he had no interest in anyone but Portia. Slipping into the quieter media room, he found a seat to catch up on business. He checked emails, returned phone calls, and checked on the deposits from the past two nights.

  When he'd finished, he went back to the room to look in on Portia. She still lay sound asleep, her dark hair fanned out on the pillow, her slim figure looking small and vulnerable on the bed. He had the urge to crawl back in and hold her—to be the man who kept her safe from the dangers of the world. But that was nuts. She was Portia Sands, the snotty snip of a food critic, not some sweet young girl who needed protection. And they still had unresolved differences. With those differences in mind, he slipped back out and headed to the one place he always felt at home—the kitchens.

  The Castle offered three different dining experiences; the Buffet, the Café and, for fine dining at dinner time only, The Master's Table. He headed to the latter to seek out the chef.

  He would put Portia to the test. If she thought she knew so much about cooking that she could sit back and criticize him, he'd just see how well she could do with his own personal version of Iron Chef.

  Chapter Five

  Portia stretched her stiff body, enjoying the luxurious bedding. The soreness of her ass brought her fully to the present, and she opened her eyes, blinking at the shaft of sunlight pouring into the room.

  "Come here, pet." David's soft command alerted her to his location. He sat in the same chair where she'd found him that morning, his legs crossed in casual elegance.

  She glanced at the clock. Noon. She had slept for at least two hours. Had he slept, too? Or had he let her rest while he waited all that time?

  She swung her legs off the four-poster bed and padded to him. She started to sink to her knees, but he caught her by the waist and pulled her onto his lap.

  "Feel rested?"

  She nodded, barely making eye contact. He grasped her jaw and pulled her face toward his, claiming her mouth with a possessiveness that relit her flames. His tongue licked into her mouth, lips plundering hers. Warmth pooled between her legs and she leaned into him, returning the kiss.

  He pulled away and smiled. "We need to find you a new outfit to wear today." Lifting her from his lap, he patted her ass. "Put on your boots and get your harness and leash."

  She found her boots and pulled them on, zipping them over the same socks she'd worn the night before. She scanned the room, her eyes lighting on the black leather straps that made up the harness. She picked it up, along with the leash, and carried them to him.

  "Turn around."

  He fit her with the harness and attached the leash with an ominous click.

  "Let's go."

  She stopped. Oh, crap. Did he really want her to go out there in the middle of the day wearing absolutely nothing but a harness and leash?

  A sharp smack on her right butt cheek made her jump.

  She turned and tried on her best puppy-dog eyes.

  He shook his head. "Sorry, girl. This is what you're wearing. At least until we get to Wardrobe. Now move it," he said, smacking her again in the exact same place.

  Portia had never been the 'little brat' type of sub, but she felt like pouting. Not that it would get her anywhere. David didn't seem like the type to bend on anything, as far as she could tell. She reluctantly lurched forward toward the door, which he reached around her to push open. He pulled the leash taut, yanking her back against his body. One large hand moved between her buttocks to cup and hold her right cheek. They walked that way, him guiding her with varying directional pressure to her ass, as if he were the lead in a tango. She didn't mind, since it distracted her from her mortification at padding around stark naked.

  They made it to Wardrobe, where she breathed a sigh of relief. Of course, she probably shouldn't relax yet—she had no idea what sort of outfit he planned to make her wear that day. And she didn't know whether or not she was hoping for the mixed pleasure/discomfort of another tail plug.

  "Hi, I'm Janice," the bubbly wardrobe assistant said, coming forward with a friendly smile.

  "Hello Janice. I'd like to see what sort of options you have for pet-wear."

  Janice gave her an appreciative up and down sweep of her eyes, which made Portia blush.

  "Any preference on which type of pet?"

  "Not a pony. Something dog or cat-like, please." When she walked away, David pinched one stiffened nipple. "You like being admired by another woman, don't you?" he murmured in her ear.

  Portia's cheeks grew warmer and she dropped her eyes, shaking her head.

  He slapped her ass. "Don't lie."

  Janice returned with her hands full of boxes, which she set down on the floor and began to open. She produced half-sweaters with matching booties for the little Chihuahua types, and the shortest ruffled skirts Portia had ever seen.

  David began to look through them. "Let's see this one," he said, holding up a shiny black latex catsuit—just the kind she'd been imagining when she gave the name "Kitty."

  Janice helped her into it, cinching the back and clamping it the way the wedding dress fitters do to make a larger size fit a smaller woman. The pants fit perfectly, hugging her every curve.

  Janice lifted a hood, but David cut her short. "No hood. I like to grab hair."

  "Little ears?"

  "No. She's perfect just like this," he said, lifting his hand and bringing it down with a resounding smack against the shiny latex glued to her bum. "Mm, I like the way that sounds." He smacked her again and again, each time using enough force to lift her to her toes. The latex took a little of the sting away, so only a delicious warmth grew in the places he slapped. David wrapped an arm around her waist to stabilize her and continued with the loud spanking, attracting giggles and looks from other Castle guests. "Your ass is just... so... spankable in this catsuit," he said, delivering searing blows with each word.

  She moaned.

  "You like that, don't you?" he asked, still spanking away.

  Oh yeah. She definitely liked it. Her pussy wept with need.

  He stopped and gripped her ass with firm fingers, while the other hand snaked in front to push the hard seam of the pants against her swelling genitals.

  Portia gave a cry of pleasure, covering his hand with her own and pushing her fingers against his.

  "Sorry, Kitty," he whispered against her ear. "You'll have to earn that pleasure." He removed his hand, taking hers with it, and delivered a few more stinging spanks. "Let's go," he said, clipping her leash onto the collar that came with the costume.

  He led her down a hall in the direction of The Master's Table, the fine dining restaurant only open for dinner.

  If she'd had permission to speak, she might have offered up that bit of information, but since she didn't, she had to wait until he pushed the door open and found the lights off and the dining room silent.

  She stopped in the doorway and looked back at him.

  "Go on," he said, patting her ass. "We're going into the kitchen. It's time to see how well the food critic can cook."

  #

  The look on Portia's fac
e was priceless. She froze, staring wide-eyed, as she digested his statement. Her eyes darted toward the kitchen, then back to him. She shook her head slowly.

  "Don't tell me no," he said, pushing her forward. "This is what we call putting your money where your mouth is."

  She stopped and turned back to him again, this time her eyes pleading as she shook her head.

  "Yeah, I wouldn't really want to be put on the spot either, if I were you. But I'll repeat my words from last night: paybacks are hell."

  David grasped her hips and marched her forward, into the kitchen.

  It had taken a bit of finagling, but he had managed to talk the head chef, Connie, into allowing him in the kitchen; with the provision that they would prepare the dinner special for the evening.

  He opened the door to the kitchen and pushed her forward. A cook stood at the counter, peeling shrimp. "Hi, Aiden. This is Kitty. She's going to be preparing tonight's special for the New Year's Eve Supper and Show."

  Portia whirled around, her expression alarmed.

  David merely smiled and pushed her forward.

  "Nice to meet you, Kitty," Aiden said. "What will you be making?"

  She looked over her shoulder at him.

  "You may speak."

  The sag of her shoulders made him chuckle. Clearly she had hoped not to have to answer.

  "I'm not sure, yet," she said.

  "Connie said you could use anything in the walk-in, just keep track on the inventory sheet inside the door. There are clean hats and chef coats by the door. I'm just about finished here, and then I'll get out of your hair, unless you need me."

  "Nope. We can handle it," David assured him. "What time does the dinner staff come in?"

  Aiden looked at his watch. "Three o'clock. So you have a few hours alone," he said with a wink. "Honestly, I can't believe Connie trusted a guest in one of her kitchens, you must have a lot of pull around here," he added as he left.

  David picked up two hats and white coats and handed one of each to Portia. "We'll start with lunch." He stretched his arm wide, indicating the entire kitchen. "Make me lunch, oh expert of all things edible."

  She glared at him, not moving. He lifted his eyebrows. She huffed and turned away, but without direction, surveying the kitchen in a helpless sort of way.

  "The walk-in is over there," he said, lifting his chin to point.

  She took a step toward it, then stopped, looking back at him.

  "You may speak," he offered. "In fact, I give you permission to speak for the entire time we're in this kitchen. Unless I revoke it, of course," he said with a grin.

  "What should I make you?"

  His lips twisted into a wicked grin and he shrugged his shoulders. "Chef's choice."

  He saw confusion flash on her face, as if she couldn't figure out who the chef could be. A pretty blush crept across her cheeks. Throwing him a nervous glance, she went to the walk-in, opening the door and stepping inside.

  "Close the door, or you'll let all the cold air out," he chided.

  "No way," she called back. "I've seen that episode of I Love Lucy."

  He laughed, not expecting humor from her. "I promise I won't lock you in. They're not made that way anymore, silly." Shouldn't she know that? How little experience did she really have as a chef?

  He waited a long time for her to emerge. When she did, she was carrying several food containers stacked together. She didn't look at him, but took the food to the work station farthest from where he stood, and pulled a cutting board from the overhead shelf.

  He sauntered over as she took a pear out of one of the containers and washed it. She ignored him, pulling a knife from the magnetic strip and beginning to cut paper-thin slices of the fruit, keeping the entire pear shape in each slice. He watched her cut. Far from deft, the hand holding the knife trembled, and the pear-hand fumbled, letting the fruit slide out.

  He ought to gloat. He had her just the way he wanted her, with the tables turned and her cooking under his critical eye. Except that somehow, the level of seriousness with which she took the task stripped the fun out of it. Seeing her so rattled brought out the flip side to domination—his urge to protect and comfort.

  He covered the shaking knife-hand with his own. "Don't be nervous," he murmured from behind her. "I'm not so hard to please. I actually like to eat food, unlike some critics I know."

  She furrowed her brow, not looking at him.

  "What are you making?" he asked, releasing her hand.

  She resumed her slicing. "Chicken salad with arugula and pear."

  "Mmm," he said, unable to bring himself to criticize. "Sounds good to me."

  She said nothing else as she made a basic chicken salad—the kind with grape halves and pecans, mayonnaise, and Cajun spice for a little kick. She served it on a bed of arugula, with the pear slices fanned out in the center as the base.

  She handed it to him with a fork, clearly still preferring silence, despite his lifting the restriction on talking.

  "Where's yours?"

  She made a second plate for herself and picked it up, facing him. She looked at the untouched plate in his hand. "Are you going to try it?" she asked, her voice cracking.

  He took a bite and chewed. "It's good," he said.

  She looked vaguely disappointed.

  "What? You want the full critique?"

  "Yes," she said emphatically.

  "All right," he said slowly. "The presentation is artful, the flavors mix well. The chicken salad itself is nothing new, but the spice of the arugula mixed with the sweetness of the pear livens it up. Well done."

  She stared at him, her mouth open as if in disbelief.

  "What?" he demanded again, taking another bite. "Did you think I'd hate it?"

  "Well... yes."

  "I don't," he said simply, taking another mouthful.

  She continued to watch him eat, still looking unsure.

  "Eat," he commanded. "Mangia."

  She lifted her eyes to his. "Is that Italian?"

  He grinned. "Yes. It's what my mother always said to me when she fixed me a plate of food."

  He liked the way she was studying him, as if she might want to know more.

  He finished and handed her his plate.

  She gave him a withering glance and he shrugged. "You're the slave." She didn't answer, but carried both plates and the bowl and utensils she'd used to the sink, looking confused about how to clean them.

  "Throw them all in that basket, then put the basket in the dishwasher." He leaned in behind her and pulled the dishwasher door closed to start the five minute cycle. "Just how much restaurant experience do you have?"

  Her expression hardened. She didn't answer.

  He shook his head. "No, my dear. You don't get to remain silent when I ask you a question and you have permission to speak."

  A flush spread up her neck to her ears and cheeks. "It didn't work out for me, okay?" she snapped.

  He raised an eyebrow. "I don't think I like the way you're speaking to me."

  "Need some help controlling your slave?" The door swung closed and Connie, the head cook walked in. She was a feisty, military-style leader, and he'd had to work to persuade her to allow them in one of her kitchens.

  "I might," he said, swiveling his glance back to Portia, whose eyes widened. He picked her up by the waist and plopped her butt on the counter. In a voice only Portia could hear, he asked, "How do you feel about being spanked by a woman?" She hadn't listed it as an interest, but that didn't mean she wouldn't enjoy it.

  Portia gave a quick shake of her head.

  "How about by another man while I watch?"

  She hesitated, then gave another shake of her head.

  "That was a lie," he scolded. Turning to Connie, he said, "Not this time, but thank you."

  Connie walked over with her hands on her hips. "I don't think the health inspector would take too kindly to seeing butts on my work surfaces."

  He grinned. "It's fully clothed. There's no health
code violation to having black latex-clad body parts on counters. Trust me—I've been through as many inspections as you have."

  Connie made a sniffing noise. "You promised to treat my kitchen with the utmost respect."

  "I have and I will. Kitty is about to put the menu together for tonight's special."

  Connie looked dubious. "I'm serious about cleanliness. I don't want any exchanges of bodily fluids going on in here. No bare asses; nothing. Understand?"

  David nodded. "No bare asses, no fluids. You have my word," he said with a wink.

  She sniffed again, but departed.

  He pulled Portia off the counter. "Better watch out, or the warden will spank us both," he muttered.

  She giggled, and the smile on her looked so pretty he had to smother it with a juicy kiss.

  "All right, Ms. Windy City Eats. What's your plan for dinner?"

  Her smile faded, the worry line between her brows deepening. "Listen, I-I really can't," she said in a pleading tone. "I mean, I just—"

  "It's not a choice," he said, letting the steel show in his voice. "You will be making dinner tonight and it will be served under your real name. So if you want to maintain any credibility for your column, you'd better make it good."

  #

  Oh God. She couldn't breathe. She needed to get out of the kitchen. In fact, she wanted to run straight for the first bus back to town. This couldn't be happening.

  A wave of dizziness swept over her and she had to grip the countertop to remain standing.

  "What's the matter? Afraid someone will criticize your food the way you rip apart restaurants in your reviews?" David sneered. "I wouldn't worry about it. I think most people actually like to eat good food, even if the wine is one degree too warm."

  She took a few steps back, inching toward the door to the dining room.

  "Where do you think you're going?" he said, somehow materializing beside her and blocking her exit. "You have a meal for forty people to prep."

  "Forty people?" she repeated blankly.

  "Yes. They get between fifty and one hundred at the Master's Table, but not all will pick the chef's special. Of course, it is New Year's Eve, so they'll be expecting something especially exquisite."