Sweet and Dirty

by Christina Crooks

  A kind of fever threatened to incinerate her. She screamed around the gag, at the limit of her endurance.

  Ro stopped. He flipped the quick-release of the spreader bar and the restraints. She heard him breathing too quickly as he stuffed the whip back into its holder.

  When her hands were free and her knees bent more modestly, he finally removed the gag from her mouth. She looked up at him, feeling the coolness on her face from the tears. She held herself immobile, silent and waiting.

  “This is too intense for your level of experience.” Wherever his gaze touched her, it seared her as surely as the whip. Entranced by the look in his eyes, she wanted him so badly she shook.

  “Her punishment is complete,” Ro announced. Applause thundered. She wondered if anyone else heard the unsteadiness in his voice.

  Then his words penetrated and she wondered whether he was joking.

  “You’re just…that’s it?” That couldn’t be it. Not when all she wanted was to wrap her legs around him and fill herself with him again. He had to satisfy her this time. He had to finish. She arched back against him. He gripped her, stilled her.

  “Not now. I can’t. I have to…I have work to do.”

  “I am your work.”

  “You’re not.” His voice was like a whip crack. “If you were my work, that would make me a pornographer, wouldn’t it? Or maybe a pimp.”

  She recoiled, hurt. She hid it from Ro. “Only if you do it for commerce instead of love.” She yanked free of him. “I guess you’ve chosen.”

  Then, to make her point, she stabbed back at him with one pointed finger to his chest. “I don’t know what I was thinking to come here tonight. I should just let Ted take me—”

  Back to Alabama, she was going to say, but Ro turned his back on her. He was gesturing to the two guards who’d held her, over by the other convicts waiting to be judged. He was having her thrown out? Her heart sank. Maybe she’d been too aggressive.

  He was speaking to the masked female dom. One of his actions suddenly seized her full attention. He was handing the dom his judge robes! Lizbeth heard his clipped words. “Take over. I have urgent business.”

  “Uh-huh. I saw her poking you.” She turned her masked face to Lizbeth, and seemed sincerely concerned. “Girl, are you insane?”

  Lizbeth remembered her earlier kindness. She managed a smile for the dominatrix and a shrug of her stiff shoulders. “Just trying to get his attention.”

  “I’d say you got it. And now you’re going to get more. Maybe more than you can handle.” Her voice and mannerisms seemed familiar to Lizbeth.

  “One can only hope,” Lizbeth quipped. She was going to get more! In truth, she felt her body coming more alive than ever, her mind seeming to float above it somewhere in a sensual cloud of anticipation. Maybe he’d punish her again.

  The dominatrix laughed.

  Ro nodded his dismissal. His face a mask of disapproval, he directed the guards to Lizbeth. “She raised her hand against me.”

  The guards looked at her in disbelief, but immediately clamped her upper arms in identical, almost painfully firm grips.

  “The Cage Room.”

  Lizbeth felt a touch of unease as they marched her back. People stared, but there was sympathy mixed with their curiosity now. Others watched with sadistic excitement. Evidently the Cage Room was a big deal.

  She felt a frisson of excitement skitter up and down her spine.

  She heard Vivian’s husky voice beginning to read the next criminal’s offenses as the heavy wood door closed, sealing the four of them off from all but the low bass thump of the nightclub’s music.

  Lizbeth moved slightly, testing. She felt the two guards grip her more tightly. Otherwise they stood as silent and still as statues, obedient to Ro.

  “I was mistaken about your tolerances, wasn’t I? You want more. If I’m wrong, all you have to do is say your safe word.”

  His expression was drawn, ascetic. His mouth was a hard, cruel line. “Lay her down. No, not on the carpeted area, on the mat. That’s all she deserves.”

  The guards kicked her feet out from under her and lay her on the black, rubber-matted floor. She could feel the nightclub bass directly in her spine. Fear bloomed in her, with the suspicion of what he intended. With others there, watching?

  She struggled. The two men spread her arms apart, though, holding her upper body down.

  Ro wouldn’t.

  An impossible surge of desire chased the fear around inside her body, and then was chased in turn, like a couple of dogs playing dominance games. Sensuality warring with sensibility. Submissive versus rebellious. And wasn’t that all it was? Dominance games? Was everything just a game? She wasn’t sure anymore where fantasy ended and reality began. She tested the guards’ grip again, making a small desperate sound.

  Ro smiled, and she couldn’t miss the heat in his eyes. “You have my permission to struggle. To fight. To scream. No one will hear you.”

  As if part of her was waiting for his permission, she kicked out with her legs.

  Ro caught one, placed it forcefully back down. “Naughty,” he breathed. He shoved his other hand up under her skirt.

  “No,” she protested.

  But his hands worked their magic. They reminded her how his fingers felt, of the sensuality they could evoke with the lightest touch.

  He wasn’t touching her lightly anymore. Back between her legs they went, doing things that made her scream in denial of what he was making her feel. He thumbed her expertly, and she twisted, whimpering, humiliated that others witnessed the things Ro was doing to her.

  And her response to it.

  She wriggled away from him, her lower body rising half off the mat and twisting desperately, but he slammed her back down. “Hold her tight. She won’t mind some Indian burns on the wrist. Will you, Lizbeth?”

  His eyes had darkened to black. His lips curled in an unconscious snarl. “Maybe she wouldn’t mind if you had a piece of her, too.”

  Her muscles strained, trying to close her legs, but he forced them apart. Would he really let them have her? Her mind shrieked protest even as her psyche reveled in his thorough dominance of her. She wanted no one but him. She could always say her safe word, she knew, and clung to the idea until his next touch obliterated thought.

  A whisper of sticky latex, and her dress was shoved upward. Through blurred vision she saw Ro’s cock standing erect, thick and long as a stallion’s. Before she could object, he placed it at her opening and shoved into her with a grunt.

  She screamed, in relief as much as shock at what he’d done. Her cheeks ground against the rubber, the pain from his earlier paddling and whipping blazing to life. The pleasure of finally being filled by him, pounded so ruthlessly on the ground while she struggled against the assault…pain and pleasure and the incomparable degradation of it…It was exquisite!

  Ro used her brutally, and she reveled in the combined sensations. Waves of ecstasy throbbed through her as she orgasmed again and again.

  Desperate cries for him to stop broke from her lips. “I can’t…this is too…please stop!”

  He gave those same lips a bruising kiss before whispering in her ear, “Not unless you use your safe word. But you don’t want to do that, do you?” She met his eyes, and she couldn’t lie. She shook her head, the blazing pleasure spiking her with each thrust he made. She surrendered to it, feeling diminished and transported at the same time. She endured the shameful pleasure he gave her.

  Almost immediately, another orgasm ripped through her with an intensity that had her lunging mindlessly against the restraining hands.

  He reached his in the next moment, his lips curved into a snarl. She half expected him to bite her, and just the thought of it sent another ripple of ecstasy all through her body.

  She lay, limp and uncaring in the afterglow. She closed her eyes.

  Ro tugged her dress down. “Good job. Now, please leave,” he told the guards. She felt hands release her wrists, leaving behi
nd a tingling soreness that she knew would become bruises. She smiled.

  “You got what you wanted,” Ro observed. She opened her eyes. Clothed, it was almost as if he hadn’t just forced her. They could be back at the beginning, when she was asking him for lessons. God, he was handsome, with that satisfied, cruel look of his.

  “I did,” she drawled. “And so did you.”

  “Yes.” A pause. “How will your fiancé feel about all this?”

  Lizbeth closed her eyes again, smiling. “I tried to tell you. He’s not. He’s just an ex who wants me back.”

  Ro was silent for another long moment. “And do you want him too?”

  “No. He seems to have a problem with my learning how to be dominant.”

  “Umm.” Ro was uncharacteristically quiet. She opened her eyes, met his evaluating stare. “I worked you over pretty good.”

  Was that pride in his voice? Lizbeth grinned. “I could try to return the favor. Didn’t you say this is how a bottom learns the ropes?”

  “Yes. That.” Ro’s smile faded slightly though. “I’ll always be up for playing games with you. Exclusive dating. Anything you want, really. But…you should know, your inclinations are pretty obvious. I’ve never seen anyone respond to a chastisement quite like you.” He stroked her hand, a respectful caress. He picked it up. Kissed it. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

  “I know. You do the same thing to me.” Lizbeth leaned into his caress. Then frowned. “I liked it a little too much.”

  “No such thing.”

  “There is, though,” she said, her history of submission playing out in her mind. She’d come so far, only to find herself flat on her back. Literally. A tight ball of sadness quickly grew and prickled in her throat as she thought of her failed attempt to become stronger than she’d been.

  Ro looked as if he wanted to say something.

  She spoke first. “I could still learn.” She could give others such sensations too. She climbed to her feet, looked around, selected a multiple-strand whip, swished it back and forth experimentally.

  But instead of empowered, she felt a little silly. Maybe she should display a little more aggression, strut around, get into the role.

  She strode to him, hoping the curl of her lips looked as vicious as his did. She whacked the whip into her palm. Winced. Gamely, she stared up at him, wishing she still wore her heels. “You seem uncomfortable with a woman holding authority,” she drawled, waving the whip threateningly.

  “Actually, Vivian is my best dominatrix and I respect her tremendously.”

  Her heart plunged. That didn’t fit the script. What was she supposed to do with that? Jealousy tugged at her. Did he want Vivian? Suddenly she truly did feel like hitting him with the whip. Why wasn’t he helping? Why wasn’t he letting her become something more than a doormat?

  “Lizbeth.” Ro plucked the whip from her, an adult taking a dangerous weapon from a child. His voice was laughter and truth. “You don’t want this. You can’t hide your innermost desires from me. Stop pretending to be something you’re not.”

  No fantasy. Cold reality. She would never be strong. She could never be the dominant one in any relationship, human or canine. Never hold authority. He’d diminished her, but instead of the first step it was supposed to be, it was the last.

  Was that pity in his eyes?

  She had to get out of there and never come back.

  Even as she thought it she acted on it, fleeing the Cage Room and dashing across the nightclub, nimbly avoiding the press of bodies. She exploded out the entrance. She heard Ro calling. She ran faster, her shoeless feet slapping against sidewalk, speeding her to her car and flooring the gas pedal to escape the inescapable truth.

  She fought back tears. She headed home until she remembered Ted would be there. One look at her and he’d ask questions she couldn’t possibly answer, especially after his failed proposal. That complication she didn’t need.

  Changing direction, she headed toward the dog day care instead. To be surrounded by dogs would be a comfort.

  8

  Ro pushed through the crowd with more aggression than seemly. He cursed when people took too long getting out of his way.

  By the time he shoved, apologized, and dodged his way out the front door, all he saw of Lizbeth were the taillights of her car.

  “Spare some change?”

  Ro glanced down. Sitting against the wall—the same wall his patrons lined up against to wait to get inside the club—was a group of poorly dressed, foul-smelling transients. Newspapers surrounded them, and stinking trash. He even saw a discarded syringe. One degraded individual slumped sideways, swigged from a bottle of Glenlivet whisky. “You look like you could spare a dollar, mister.” He went to swig again, but something in Ro’s eyes froze his arm halfway up. “What?” the man finally asked. “See somethin’ green?” His arm continued its upward movement.

  Liquor sprayed from his mouth when Ro lifted him off his feet and slammed him against the wall. “I do see something green. How much did he pay you?”

  “I dunno what you’re talking about.” Smug and surly.

  Slam. “Bums don’t drink Glenlivet.”

  “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

  Slam. “Who paid you? Who paid your friends? Give me a name.” But it wasn’t doing any good. Of course it was his father. Paying these people to camp outside his club. Paying the porn stars to film inside his club. Maybe paying the cops to harass him. Probably. His own father, the elder Kaliph attorney who always won. One way or another.

  Ro had emerged from the club angry. Now he was enraged.

  He spoke in his coldest “master” voice. “You will tell me his name and how much he paid you, or I will bring you inside The Dungeon. Do you know what happens to bad people in there?” He allowed himself a tight smile as he watched the fear flicker across the stinking man’s face. It was almost too easy to play on this one’s false assumptions about BDSM clubs. “Let me tell you what will happen if you don’t start talking in ten seconds or less. I’ll give you to Vivian. She’s a talented cock-and-balls torturer. She’ll hang devices from your junk that will make you shriek for mercy. She might do piercings if she’s in the mood. She’ll doubtless put you in a pony suit, with a mouth bit and large, expandable butt plug with an attached horsetail. You will prance and do tricks for everyone while she whips you with a riding crop until you scream. It’s her favorite thing. Unless you’d rather talk now?”

  He would rather talk now.

  Twenty minutes later, on the porch of the large Bel Air house, Ro confronted him.

  “Hi, Dad. Just back from some nighttime grocery shopping? Buy any Glenlivet?” Ro plucked the plastic grocery bag from his father’s hand. He pulled out two bottles. “Thanks, you shouldn’t have. Now, don’t act surprised, I’m not some gullible jury likely to fall for your courtroom theatrics.”

  Ro steered him away from the house, onto the wide tree-canopied sidewalk. With his arm around his father’s tense shoulder, Ro spoke quietly to the smaller man. “I understand why you’re doing what you’re doing, but you have to stop.”

  Ro had to give him credit: at least he didn’t dissemble. “You understand nothing. Throwing your life away on a sleazy nightclub. Hurting your reputation this way. What will it take for you to return to your true calling? You’re so good at the law, son. I need you.”

  “Wow, that was almost the whole persuasion gamut,” Ro observed. “Everything but the threats. And those you delivered by proxy.” They passed the neighbor’s gold Jaguar, the next neighbor’s shiny BMW. He stopped next to an Aston Martin. The streetlight above made its silver paint gleam. “Let me put this bluntly, because I’m in a hurry and I want you to understand me clearly. I don’t want your lifestyle. I want mine. You won’t take it from me. You see, I now have credible evidence that you’re harassing me, bribing transients to damage my property, distributing liquor on public walkways, and interfering with my business. Additionally, I have strong circumst
antial evidence linking you to certain harassing activity involving the police. I could have you in court for a baker’s dozen of charges, up to and including racketeering. Dad, I hate to use this kind of language,” Ro continued, turning them back toward the house, “but if I’m forced to litigate, it’ll really wreck your reputation, your relationship with peace officers, and your bank account.” He finished just as they returned to the porch. He patted his father on the shoulder once, then folded his arms and waited.

  “That’s what I mean,” his dad complained. “Killer instinct, wasted.”

  Ro thought of Lizbeth. Of his club, his employees, his grateful patrons. “It’s not wasted.”

  He examined Ro. “I’m not going to convince you, am I? Or coerce. You really don’t want to return to Kaliph & Son?” His voice turned wheedling. “What if you could do both? Run your little club just on weekends?”

  “You never give up, do you?” Ro said with reluctant admiration. “Always trying to convince me, even though it’s never going to succeed….” Ro trailed off, remembering his own tactics in trying to convince Lizbeth that she didn’t want to be dominant. Showing Lizbeth her true nature had frightened her. Frightened her away. But there was nothing more he could do.

  She would simply have to open her eyes and see it for herself. He’d helped her all he could.

  He hoped she’d figure it out soon. They’d been parted for only a short time, and he already missed her. He knew what it meant that he longed for her so strongly, so soon, but there was nothing to be done for that, either.

  His dad, though. Ro looked down at the aging man with fondness. He was a stubborn individual, a sore loser, and a strong-willed creature of habit, even more so than Lizbeth. He was the one who needed Ro’s help now, Ro realized with a pang. Abandoned by his only son, running the family business alone, it was small wonder he’d resorted to such ridiculous criminal measures to get Ro’s attention. “Let’s go to Barney’s Beanery like old times,” Ro suggested, and was rewarded by the fierce grin so much like his own.