Nora Sabine twisted the engagement ring around her finger, still unaccustomed to its feel. “I’m sorry I told you.”
After a pointed pause, Ryan answered. “You said that yesterday, too. It’s not like you can take it back. I just wish, you know. That your secret fantasy was more normal. A threesome. Or the Mile High Club. Or performing a lap dance.” Ryan looked wistful.
“But it is normal. Fantasies about forced sexual encounters are some of the most common—”
“I just don’t get it. You’re a feminist, a modern woman who’s vice president of a company!”
“I love you, sweetie. But you are a clod sometimes. And I’m not vice president yet.” He knew she still debated taking the lucrative position. She suspected he didn’t want her to. “I probably pissed them off quite a bit, taking a four-day weekend to think about it.”
Silence.
“They said they couldn’t get along without me. But I took the time off anyway.”
More silence.
She sighed. “Okay, you’re not a clod. I’d never agree to marry a clod. Truce?”
“Sure.”
At his tone, she glanced at him, but he focused entirely on his driving, peering at street signs and then skidding off the main road and onto a gravel one, sending small rocks flying.
“Once a race car driver, always a race car driver.” She spoke gently, intending to bolster his ego. He was so sensitive lately. Her career success in the face of his latest race losses rankled him, she knew.
“You’re very sweet, setting up this long weekend at a bed-and-breakfast.” She could just see the top of Oregon’s Mt. Hood through a break in the trees, its jagged peak snow-covered even in summer.
As they turned into a long, winding private drive, Ryan smiled. “I never said it was a bed-and-breakfast.”
“I’m pretty sure you did. Well, you wrote it,” she amended. “Something about a sumptuous B and B in the mountains, and it being a romantic four-day getaway I’ll never forget.” She remembered her delight that Ryan was trying so hard to make their relationship work.
Black iron gates barred them from the gravel driveway of the enormous house looming ahead. Arching above the gates, ironwork letters spelled out TWISTED WOOD B AND B with sharp-edged top details.
Nora stared. “How Gothic. It looks like the entrance to a Rocky Horror Picture Show mansion, not a bed-and-breakfast.”
“I told you. It isn’t a bed-and-breakfast.”
Ryan was beginning to annoy her. “Okay, what do you think B and B stands for?”
“Bondage and breakfast. Whip me beat me make me bleed, S and M is what I need.”
As she stared at him, a deep voice emanated from the black speakerbox: “Password?”
“‘Fanny welt.’” The gates began to swing open. Ryan smiled at her. It wasn’t a reassuring smile.
“S and M? Bondage and breakfast? You’re serious.” Her arm hairs rose as he drove on up to the house. Two years of dating, and she hadn’t known he was kinky. How could she not have known?
She considered herself more open minded than anyone she knew—certainly more so than her married friends who’d up and forgotten her once they started having kids. And she loved adventures. She loved sex. She loved Ryan. Usually.
She glanced uneasily up the driveway as Ryan negotiated its twists and turns. “I’m not sure this is the best thing for us.”
“I am.”
She looked at him.
He tried another smile. “Please?”
She was fit for a 28-year-old woman. She ran every day and lifted weights to stay firm in all the right places. Making a fist, she looked down at it and wondered whether it would help or hurt matters to hit Ryan with it. This wasn’t her idea of a romantic getaway.
She was about to insist he turn around and drive her home, when she spotted the man lounging on the rough-hewn wood steps leading up to the home’s enormous wraparound porch. The flat black color of his clothes soaked up the sun and gave back no reflection, but his eyes glittered like a wolf’s scenting prey.
As their eyes met, she felt pinned and held. It was a mildly unnerving sensation, underscoring her urge to flee. Yet somehow she couldn’t quite bring herself to speak.
The man rose gracefully to his feet, his eyes never leaving hers. Another, more slender and younger man appeared by his side.
The sound of the door shutting alerted her to Ryan’s leaving the vehicle. Startled, she realized the car had stopped. She followed him quickly.
Gravel crunched underfoot as they crossed the section of circular driveway. Early afternoon sunshine flooded the courtyard, but walls of forest surrounded it. On all sides the cedar, oak, and Oregon maple trees seemed to strain inward, as if trying to get at the magnificent house. Or possibly the magnificent, black-clothed man. Nora could hardly blame them. She swallowed as they got closer.
He wasn’t classically attractive, like Ryan. Darker, bigger, and rough hewn like the steps he’d been sitting on, he radiated an almost electric charisma that made it difficult to notice anything but him.
“Hello. My name is Sylvester Vincent. Welcome to Twisted Wood.” The greeting, given with a proper, polite disregard, was directed at both her and Ryan. “Little Peter will bring in your things.”
A bobbing curtsy succeeded in pulling her attention away from the man’s cool appraisal of them both. Little Peter, a small, beardless man who appeared to be in his early twenties, wore a red and white French maid uniform, complete with ruffles, bustier, garters, lace cap, and heavy makeup. “If it pleases you,” Little Peter said to the air between her and Ryan.
She looked at Ryan. Ryan looked back at her. They both turned to look at Little Peter. “Um, okay,” Ryan said. “Thanks.” Ryan made small talk, in his overloud voice he put on when speaking to other men. In some circles it worked well for him. Here, with these men, surrounded by acres of forest and with an elegant, Gothic mansion looming over them, it didn’t.
Little Peter only responded, “My pleasure to serve.” Another bobbed curtsy, and Little Peter scurried toward their car.
Sylvester didn’t smile. “Mistress Kiana let me borrow him for the day. She’s trained him well, though for a service submissive he’s still unpolished. May I show you to your room? You can relax and unpack before meeting the others at dinner at 6:00. Then after, perhaps a tour.”
She felt Ryan’s gaze on her again, and when she looked back she caught a strange, apprehensive expression on his face. Second thoughts about their stay? If she wasn’t mistaken, he was about to grab their luggage, make some excuse, and herd her right back down the hill.
For her part, she was intrigued. Little Peter seemed sweet and sincere, even if he was dressed like a transsexual guest at a wild Halloween party. The grounds seemed vast and pristine. The house was so magnificent from the outside, it had to be amazing indoors. And the man…“Sylvester Vincent.”
He didn’t react to his name. He didn’t smile. He watched her carefully. Waiting.
Nora turned to her fiancé and spoke in a wry tone. “You picked a fascinating place for our ‘romantic getaway,’ honey. Let’s get settled in.”
Nora Sabine wasn’t what Sylvester had expected.
He reviewed his impression of her after he deposited them both in the Sultan Room. He enjoyed her pleasure at the sight of the low-lit exotic room with its wall-to-wall bed, glittering erotic art, sensual pillows, strategically placed mirrors, and whisper-soft draped canopy.
An executive’s polish and confidence, check. Her age, her health, both as described. But she didn’t quite match her checklist.
The BDSM Play Partner Checklist he had all his guests mail along with the check to hold their reservation provided an overview of their kink involvement, identifying their interests, any medical issues, and their sexual limits. It helped him build a guest list of people who had common ground for play.
His instant attraction to her was unexpected, as well. Those huge dark hazel eyes…Her gaze through the car window seemed at fi
rst totally captured by his, almost fearful. Then simply interested, then eager. Fascinating. Eyes that contained depths that pulled at him, that was something he hadn’t expected.
Her simple, unadorned beauty set her apart as well. Long, straight, dark brown hair that flamed to a rich amber in the sun. A finely tapered, firm young body. Expressive brows. White teeth when her mouth parted to smile the fierce smile of one who craved adventure.
Still, he couldn’t think her idea of good fantasy adventure included a chase and capture, followed by a rough rape. Her checklist included that, and more. He reviewed it again, puzzled. According to Nora’s list, she derived gratification from serving as an ashtray while wearing a chastity belt. She enjoyed infantilism, heavy bondage, golden showers, electric torture, and having her face slapped.
He scanned the rest of the list. Blindfolding, sexual torment, anal plugs, gags, paddlings…mostly garden-variety stuff.
What gave him pause were the more hardcore, advanced-level items next to which she’d checked “5” on a scale of 1 to 5, meaning the activity would be a wild turn-on for her, and she’d like it as often as possible. Not only had she marked 5 on nearly everything from breath control to pony play, she’d placed a double asterisk next to each item, meaning she was willing to do them even with casual and multiple play partners.
He’d never heard of her before in the local fetish community. People talked. He’d have been told about a gorgeous woman who enjoyed wearing diapers and horsetail butt plugs. Something was wrong.
Maybe he was wrong. Very little surprised him anymore after two years of owning and presiding over the only local fetish-scene B and B. It was his domain, his exotic fortress in the middle of twenty-one private, wooded acres, and the high demand for an incomparable interlude at Twisted Wood Estates added to his dot-com wealth.
Often it was the most buttoned-up, prudish-seeming folks—the repressed bankers, the frustrated mothers, the shy computer programmers—who harbored the wildest and woolliest fantasies. Nora might very well have such twisted fantasies they’d make even a jaded recluse like him blush.
It wasn’t as if he’d never been wrong before. Grievously wrong.
He folded her checklist, opened Ryan’s. Sparse. He was interested in a threesome, with women only. “Women only” was underlined five times. He liked to watch. And, oral sex. Receiving only. That was it.
He folded Ryan’s checklist, put it with the others.
If Nora actually liked rough sex and every single nonpermanently damaging activity on the list, good for her. He’d do his best to facilitate her adventures.
Now if only he could rid his mind of his own fantasy: Nora fleeing her pursuers, then captured. Rebelling against taunting words, struggling against violating hands. Her arms pinned above her head. Her legs forced apart.
Sylvester’s cock hardened in his pants.
He cursed himself for it, turning his mind to more productive pursuits, like supervising Kitten and Little Peter’s dinner preparations, and checking in with Mistress Kiana as she put together a savory feast. Perhaps he could help.
Anything to take his mind off fantasy-raping Nora Sabine.
2
Nora admired Ryan’s nude form in the mirror. The mirror’s placement, tilted against the wall to show a long view of what occurred on the bed, pleased her.
Ryan, however, didn’t.
She grimaced. His body was certainly blameless. His missionary positioning as he thrust away showed his strong arms, tapered hips, and muscular legs to good advantage. He looked better naked than clothed; he wore his ironed pants, tight shirts, and trendy jackets with a sly self-consciousness rather than making the clothes an expression of himself.
When he reared back, and his natural blond hair brushed the tops of his tanned shoulders, she watched in the mirror, filling her eyes with the beauty of their bodies joined together.
He made a small sound, and she glanced up in time to catch his moment: eyes screwed shut, mouth the shape of agony.
“Mmmm,” she said, rubbing herself against him, longing for more. He’d been even faster than his usual two minutes. She supposed the dinner engagement prevented her from protesting, this time. Bad form.
Still, she couldn’t stop herself from reaching down, touching his flaccid member. An investigatory stroke.
He pushed her hand away.
She sighed. Maybe later she’d climb on top, the only way she could claim an orgasm with him.
The silk cover felt luxurious under her hand. She let her fingers trail up the bed to the headboard with its conveniently placed eyebolts. Ryan hadn’t shown the slightest interest in using them, or the leather manacles hanging discreetly next to the bed in a mirrored wall case.
Ryan had laughed when she’d suggested it. “I was kidding about the whips and chains being what I need.” He’d flicked the eyebolts contemptuously. “But let’s try out this huge bed….”
She flipped over onto her stomach, watching him dispose of the condom and get dressed. “Why’d you want to come here, to a bondage and breakfast?”
“You’ll see.”
She squirmed on the bed, residual heat from their unsatisfying encounter infusing her body with energy. “Good. For my part, I’m curious. We can explore it together, can’t we? At some point? Otherwise there’s not much good in staying.” Ryan’s contempt—he’d curled his lip at Little Peter when the submissive had curtsied himself out of their room, and she hoped the slender man hadn’t seen it—made her uncomfortable. Their hosts seemed nice enough so far, despite their unusual proclivities.
Ryan looked at her, his gaze traveling over her nude body. Tenderness crept into his expression as he sat on the bed next to her. “Maybe we should go.” He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “We could look at houses again, more seriously this time. And you could watch me practice at Raceway.”
Did he think she failed to appreciate his surprise vacation? “Nah, you went to all this trouble setting it up, and we’re here already. It could be fun. Besides,” she joked, “if I do take that vice president position this might be my last vacation ever.”
She felt his hand freeze, then lift.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. Hand cramp.” He swatted her gently on the rump. “You should hop in the shower. Get ready for dinner.”
“You sayin’ I stink?” she protested, mock-fierce, but only got a wan smile in response. She could tell something bothered him, and she suspected it was her promotion. It wasn’t worth the fight to bring that up again.
She tiptoed to the bathroom, a huge, tiled affair with a bidet, double sink, and enormous glassed-in corner shower with six different showerheads and attachments. Even if she wasn’t all sweaty, she’d have made an excuse to try out such a shower as soon as possible.
She turned one faucet after another: a waterfall cascade from directly above, forceful needles from the right, pulsating jets from the left (at thigh, belly, and chest height), and a segmented flexible steel protrusion that danced on her fingers when she fondled it, pouring a steady stream of warm water wherever she aimed it.
She lathered up, shampooed, loofahed, then rinsed by turning in a circle with her arms wide open.
Sylvester’s large, graceful body, as he unfolded from the front steps, appeared behind her closed eyelids. He wasn’t even that attractive…. Kind of ugly, she told herself emphatically, even as the driving spray and rivulets of water relaxed her muscles and washed her clean.
His face was too serious, his nose too big and slightly crooked, his hair and brows unkempt. He had large hands. Probably was clumsy with them. Though maybe he wasn’t….
He’d scowled at her more than once. Didn’t he like her? Maybe he was playing some role, the stern-faced Master of the Mansion perhaps. That was it: he was pretentious, she thought with relief at having pinned a fatal flaw on the man. Now she could stop thinking about him.
Except she couldn’t.
She opened her eyes. The windows were st
eaming up.
What if he appeared in the bathroom? First as a faint shadow beyond the steam, then more solid as he approached…then opened the glass doors to the shower?
She smiled at the thought of her own fear and startlement, and his bestial expression of lust. He’d enjoy her fear; it would stimulate him. He’d already be naked, his cock enormous, rigid, and intimidating as he stepped inside, knowing she had nowhere to run.
Water pounded her from all sides. Nearly all sides. Her eyes half closed, she reached for the flexible steel attachment, warmed now by the constant strong flow of water. She aimed the flow between her legs.
Gasping at the sudden sensation, she saw him in her mind’s eye more sharply than before. She turned slightly, and when needlespray assaulted her erect nipples, she whimpered. In her fantasy, Sylvester smiled cruelly at the sound.
He moved more quickly than she’d have thought possible, pinning her against the warm, wet shower tiles. He held her arms above her head, sealing her mouth with his palm. She was terrified, but more terrified to try to escape, to scream and have him hurt her, even though she could feel the powerful brute pawing at her roughly, parting her legs. She could feel her body slide against the slick tiles at her back, the sharp stings of spray as she tried to evade his rough touch, struggling against the assault. She heard herself pleading for him to stop, to let her go, crying out as she felt the insistent probing between her legs when he thrust against her. She heard all his contemptuous, foul curses as he shoved his cock inside, hurting her and yet filling her exquisitely at the same time, and she came under his fierce, relentless plundering….
…and staggered as her knees went weak in the shower, alone with the sensation that went on and on.
She replaced the steel hose on its holder and let the gentle waterfall cascade over her again, washing her wicked thoughts away.
Her heels clicked on the smooth wood floor of the hallway as they passed room after room. “This place is huge,” she said again.
Ryan nodded but didn’t respond. He looked resplendent in a blue button-up shirt and slacks that fit his physique to perfection. He’d shaved, too, and she could smell the familiar scent of product in his hair.
Sweet and Dirty Page 11