by Joey W. Hill
"Good for you, girl," Mariah murmured. "He's going to be a handful and a half."
She noted how his eyes never left the figure of the pretty Dom in the black wig, the hunger as his gaze covered her naked arms, the nearly bare back of the tight dress she wore. Mariah made a mental note to hang around a bit after shift. If Violet got this hunk of prime real estate downstairs naked, she'd like to see it. Even across a crowded club, the heat between the two of them was enough that she felt it. She'd like to see how it stoked in the furnace of one of the playrooms.
*
Violet didn't really like Jonathan Powell. He was handsome enough, and smooth, but her mind was on the man who'd just blown her off. It would have been one thing if he'd been cutting. She could have called him an asshole in her mind and nursed her stinging pride with someone like the affable Billy, who had looked after her longingly as she went by his table.
But he'd been so courteous about it, so perfect, and all that had done was raise her desire to have him at her mercy to a level that had all her glands on high alert. She went for Powell because she could tell he was on par with the object of her desire. She wanted her interaction within sight of his table, had made sure he'd been looking when she did that little move with her boot. If she did get him in restraints, she was going to make him beg. It was pride, but it was more than pride. She had a good sense of humor about her overdeveloped competitive spirit, but this was way more. This was an instant, overpowering craving that had swept over her the moment she saw him and decided she had to have him.
She felt him behind her before he even spoke, knew from the energy pressing against her shoulders that it was him. And because of the frost that abruptly hardened Jonathan Powell's gaze, bringing out a coldness one didn't often see a sub display before a Dom. Definitely a competitor, then. She'd chosen correctly. Her blood heated.
His fingers slid up her spine, starting at the lowest exposed point of her back, which was just barely above the soft dip between her buttocks, and trailed upward, stopping as a light touch between her shoulder blades.
"Mistress," he said softly in her ear. She didn't look at him, but she tilted her head away from him, a cold gesture in appearance, but which made the whisper of his breath flow down the side of her neck.
"I believe the lady was already engaged," Powell said. He was trying to remain within the rules of the house, but Violet clearly saw the rage simmering below the surface. He had been strongly interested in her overtures.
Did she want someone who blew her off one minute and was accommodating the next, or someone like Jonathan, who had been interested from the moment she stepped up to him?
And who had given her the creepy crawlies the first time he touched her waist. But that wasn't the point.
"I didn't give you permission to touch me," she said, still not looking at the object of her true interest. But she was not looking at Jonathan, either.
"No, Mistress," his voice drew back, as did his touch, and her skin screamed in protest. His voice lowered to a sensual murmur. "Forgive me."
She turned on her booted heel, effectively dismissing Jonathan for the moment, but she knew he wouldn't move until he was sure he had been relinquished. A good sub would not insult a Mistress by walking away until he had leave to do so.
The big man before her now was just as overwhelming to her senses as he had been ten minutes ago, his scent filling her nostrils, flaring them with his heat, the wide expanse of his chest filling her vision, the soft neatly trimmed hair along that strong jaw, those firm lips, all inviting touch.
"Forgiveness has to be earned," she stated. "So what are you going to do to earn it?"
"Whatever Mistress demands."
Jonathan took a step forward, pressing himself against Violet's back, latching his hand onto her waist. "I think it's time you back off, Mac."
Mac thought how pleasurable it would be to seize that wrist and break the finger bones one by one while Powell screamed for mercy. He glanced at Violet's startled face. Even in a secure environment, it was unsettling to be a woman weighing less than a hundred and twenty pounds caught between two men with the potential for violence emanating off of them.
"I think you've made a mistake, Jonathan," Mac said coldly. "Most Mistresses don't take kindly to being topped by a sub. She's not that green."
Violet closed her hand over Jonathan's at her waist. Mac had a moment of trepidation, then her fingers curled in his well-manicured ones, twisted, and put his hand roughly from her.
"You're making me uncomfortable, and I'm not interested any more." She glanced at Jonathan. "You can leave."
The blonde Norse god gave her a disdainful look. "I'd rather have someone who knows what she's doing anyway, rather than a little girl playing dress up. Little bitch cunt."
"Son of a -" Mac started forward, but Violet lifted a hand so her knuckles slapped against his chest. He could have easily gone past her. Though Jonathan was beating a retreat, it wouldn't have been a bad idea to make sure he scampered all the way out to the parking lot. But there was another reason Mac didn't do that.
He swallowed. She'd got him. There'd been an unmistakable order behind her quelling gesture, and his body had instinctively reacted to her wish, voiced or unvoiced. The nerves quivered under his skin, recognizing it, and he forced himself to keep his voice rough, afraid of showing that to her.
"You should let me follow him and put his pretty face under a Bridgestone."
She cocked her head, and there was so little space between them he ached with the need to touch her. "I think it's time you let me decide what should and shouldn't be done. Don't you?"
He stared at her. He was here on an assignment, but his assignment required that he be an active player. For that he needed a partner, a well connected one. She'd been here awhile and had made a lot of friends, if the waitress was right. The only problem was the one his sergeant had pointed out. Even though he ruled her out as his suspect because she was too inexperienced, she could definitely play with his head, distract him. He had enjoyed the company and demands of Mistresses, but she was a different animal from those he'd been with before. It was a fine line to walk.
He'd take it one night at a time. After all, he might blow it with her tonight and have to hook up with someone else. His gut clenched at the thought. He wanted this one. He wanted her.
"Yes, Mistress," he said.
Chapter 4
She didn't know what to make of him. Tyler had counseled her to keep it light and easy her first night on her own, and here she was, in the deep end of the pool.
He followed her to the lower level, to the door of the room she'd reserved, a room with polished wood paneling and carved rafter beams, the trappings of a stable for a prize thoroughbred. The large stall area was mounted with a variety of stainless steel polished rings to cross tie at different heights and distances. On a sawhorse made of finished maple with antique hinges, a saddle had been mounted. Bridles, tethers, crops and buggy whips hung on a wall rack, as well as a few things she'd requested provisioned as extras that one wouldn't normally find in a barn. "Stand there," she pointed to the middle of the floor outside the stall and went to a control panel in the wall. "I'd like privacy for our first time together," she said, watching his face.
No flicker of disappointment, or of relief. Based on his unassuming mode of dress, she suspected her prize was not an exhibitionist. However, that wasn't to say he wouldn't be turned on by being displayed at his Mistress's command. He might be the type of sub that got turned on by whatever turned his Mistress on. Taking a deep breath with her back turned to him to calm her reaction to the thought, she still felt his intensity like hands running over her neck and shoulders, her bare back, the curves of her ass, the delicate skin of her inner thighs. She could imagine the press of his lips in those places, chaste, light kisses where his mouth would quiver with the restrained desire to open wide and devour her, one taste at a time.
Some subs--she liked to think of them as bottoms--d
idn't care who the Mistress was, as long as they delivered the gratification the sub sought. But the subs for whom the desires of a specific Mistress were the gratification, those subs sought to serve in whatever manner commanded. Some were instinctively protective as well, as if they were reincarnations of palace guards for ancient queens. She thought of the look on Mac's face when Powell had insulted her. The nasty comment had delivered a blow to her ego, but Mac's reaction had kept it fully inflated.
She engaged the darkening feature of the ceiling glass so the club visitors could not watch them. She knew the staff security could still monitor them through the discreetly placed mirrors, but no one else would be privy to this evening's entertainment.
"Mac. That's your name."
"Yes, Mistress. If it pleases you."
"I'm having a hard time finding anything about you that doesn't please me, Mac. What's your given name?"
He hesitated, those silver gray eyes shifting. "Mackenzie."
"Mackenzie. I like that." She stayed at the wall, watching him, making no attempt to move closer. The air was getting still and warm.
"Take off your shirt, Mackenzie. And next time you come into this club to meet me, you'll take it off at the door."
Mac slipped the buttons of the shirt. Violet watched him, studying the lowered eyes. He was not trembling or hurried, but somehow she felt an explosive tension off of him. If she had to bet, she'd say she made him nervous. Very nervous, but he was very, very good at not showing it.
Why someone like him was nervous about someone like her, she didn't know, but she knew D/s went deep into the psyche of each individual, with often unpredictable reactions.
She wouldn't let herself fill with doubt or fear of not doing the right thing, or let Jonathan's mockery come through and unbalance her. Mackenzie might just be being kind with his attentiveness, but even so, she was going to make him wish for another night, and then another.
Like any art form, if she focused on performance, end results or audience reaction, she'd lose the edge, pull herself out of the spiritual undercurrents driving the sensual process. Nature would take them to the right destination, though she enjoyed having the freedom to play with the right amounts of water, sustenance and light to make Nature's beauty thrust its way eagerly out of the ground.
He removed the shirt from his shoulders and she drew in a breath. Speaking of Nature's beauty. He was as beautiful as she expected. A furred and powerful chest, with that same silver, white and black pelt he had thick on his skull. Sleek muscle, curves and angles that meshed in perfect imperfection. A couple of scars. The hair narrowed down to its delightful indicator point on his flat belly and disappeared into his black jeans, which she noted had a tighter fit now, due to his erection straining the denim. She made an effort to keep her face impassive, not lick her lips and dance for joy as she wanted to do.
Choosing a soft-bristled grooming brush from the wall, she moved toward him at last. One step, two steps. Her booted heels were loud in the silence between them. He kept his eyes down as she approached, circled behind him and laid a palm on his bare back between his shoulder blades.
"Someone trained you well," she said, noticing his hands stayed loose, undefensive at his sides. His skin was smooth and hot beneath her touch, but she resisted the urge to tighten her grip. Whether he was advanced level or not, he was a beginner with her as his Mistress, and she knew the importance of establishing the ground rules.
Plus, she wanted to take it slow, savor these very first touches the way a first kiss was supposed to be savored. One never knew if that first kiss might be the first kiss with a soulmate, such that everything done with him after that point would be the ultimate choice of a lifetime.
Violet lifted the brush, slid it over his skin, watched the bristles bend and mold over the muscles in his shoulders, his shoulder blades, his back. The bristles were soft, but still worthy of being called a brush, so they made faint trails in his skin, stimulating it.
"So what's your safe word, Mackenzie?" she asked, passing her hand down the same trail, using her nails a bit.
"I don't use one. If I can't take it, I don't deserve you."
Violet stopped. "That's a pretty high risk to take, Mac, with someone you don't know." It genuinely concerned her, for he obviously came to these clubs on his own, and he was not a regular at The Zone.
"Nevertheless." He kept his gaze on the floor. "I serve my Mistress's pleasure, whatever that pleasure might be. I don't have one, and I don't want one."
"I'll set the rules, Mackenzie. What if I make you watch me while another man fucks me?"
He stiffened and she smiled, rubbing her brush down the other shoulder. His skin was getting damp. "That would bother you, then?"
"Only because I know I could do anything he did for you better."
Violet pressed her lips together against another smile, even as she felt her knees quake. She'd no doubt he could. His voice alone, its shifts from sensual deference to arrogant impudence, was making her wet.
"Arrogant slave." She laid down the brush, chose another, this one with stiffer bristles. "I'll bet those jeans are getting very uncomfortable."
"Shall I take them off?"
"Not yet. I like to see your cock straining against them for me. I'm not ready to let you be comfortable."
She loved the feel of his skin beneath her palms, his heated stillness. When she caressed his nape with her long nails, he bent his head forward, making it easier for her to stroke him there.
A breath drew in his muscles, his buttocks tightening in a very appealing manner as she returned to her brushing, increasing the pressure of her strokes with the stiffer brush, raking his skin, bringing the blood to the surface to sensitize him further. She alternated across, varied from light to hard, so his skin would not get numb to the stimulation. His breathing grew labored. Though she wanted to do so, she didn't have to look to know his arousal was increasing.
"You seem to be getting a bit fractious," she murmured. "Follow me."
Putting down the brush on a ledge of the stall partition, she lifted two tethers of soft nylon from where they draped over the doors. Turning so she could see him come toward her, she suppressed a shudder of reaction at the sight of that muscled body, lightly perspiring with nerves and heat, the silver eyes, intent with desire. The awkwardness of his gait drew her attention down to his cock, now clearly outlined against the front panel of his jeans.
"If you could do anything you wanted to do right now, Mackenzie, what would it be?"
The path of his eyes coursed down the front of the velvet dress, but he took another step closer, so close she felt his hand at his side brush her hip. Felt his fingertips take the liberty of caressing the lace top of her thigh high, seeking to trace the bare skin just above it, below her dress's short hem.
"I'd kneel at your feet and eat your pussy until you came in my mouth, your hands clutched in my hair, nails digging into my skin. I'd listen to you scream my name. Mistress."
His fingers inched higher, his eyes gauging the rise in her pulse rate, which she felt beating against her throat as clearly as she knew he could see it.
"You need to learn some manners." She caught his wrist in a firm grip.
The tether was similar to the nylon ropes found in a horse barn, only this one had a cuff at the end of it. She fitted it around his wrist. "Turn outward so your back is facing the back of the stall, and put both arms behind you, crossing your forearms."
His fingers flexed as she laced the cuffs on his wrists securely, making sure he had blood flow, but tight enough he could feel the restraint, send the message to his mind that it was the first step toward the total domination she intended to exercise over him tonight. As she did the lacing and checked the pressure, her knuckles were brushing the ass hugged by the denim. It was too tempting. She allowed herself to free one hand, close it over the curve of one buttock, grip it hard, enjoy the feel of it flexing tensely under her touch. The fingers of his cuffed hand reached, found
her other hand wrapped in the loose end of the tether, and he caressed her palm, seeking a grip.
She drew out of his reach, wrapped the slack of the ropes around her fingers and tugged him further into the stall. He turned his head, meeting her gaze as she moved him, her palm sliding around to press against his stomach just above his waistband to guide him backwards. There was no escaping the mental comparison of leading a stallion within proximity of a mare, his eyes dangerous and intent on hers.
Steady, girl. He's big and strong, and he knows what he's doing, but you can handle him. You know what he needs, even before he does. That's what a good Mistress did. Break him down to the core, so he was open to her, both finding ultimate completion in a total connection of the mind with the body.
Tyler's words, but her pounding heart had a different name for it, which went beyond words to pure feeling.
For a Mistress like her, it wasn't about getting off. She knew true Doms were artists who used a variety of methods to break subs down to the bone and drive them to a level of fulfillment they never could have experienced with their emotional and physical shields in place. For such a Master or Mistress, the stimulation came from that successful breakdown of a sub, so that he was completely linked with the Dom's desires. At its heart, that was what she hungered for, getting the sub she wanted to willingly surrender all to her, more than he even knew he had to offer. She wanted to tame the stallion that could not be tamed.
"I didn't give you permission to meet my gaze," she said. "Face forward and eyes down."
Mackenzie held her eyes one more moment than was appropriate, then shifted his attention to the floor. His bare broad back faced her, the smooth taper to the firm waist just screaming for her touch.
She threaded the loose ends of the tethers through a ring above her head on the stall wall and drew the ropes tight, drawing his shoulders back and up so that she crossed his arms as close to the elbows as she could, a just short-of-uncomfortable posture that got his attention. It bent his body slightly forward, which she could tell he didn't like, for it put him off balance. He was going to be a lot more off balance when she was done.