by Kitty Thomas
“Master, please, I'm exhausted. I can't take anymore.”
“You'll take what I give you. Besides, you owe me an honest orgasm while I'm inside you for the one you lied about.”
He stripped off his jeans. Shannon gasped when his hard erection thrust inside her. He felt her tight little cunt grip him immediately as if it were happy to see an old friend. He waited for her to adjust to him and then he slowly began to fuck her, his body rocking with hers until she moaned and cried out, bucking her hips against him, begging him for more even though she'd begged for it all to stop only moments before.
After so much stimulation, it only took a minute for the pulsing flutters to start inside her, and then the moans. Lindsay snaked one hand underneath her and smiled when he felt her erect nipples as she came for him again, appeasing him for her earlier indiscretion.
67
Shannon had started to appreciate Lindsay's pet name for her. It was appropriate. No longer did it feel like a mockery. She was beginning to truly feel like his pampered pet. He couldn't seem to keep his hands off her. And he gave her everything. Luxuries, comforts, pleasure, dominance, control, boundaries. Safety. She might be starting to fall in love with him.
It had been several weeks since the encounter with Damian Brand at the office, and although Shannon was very happy with Lindsay, she found herself strangely missing him. At the time, it had seemed like she'd be seeing him again, and soon. But weeks had passed and the subject hadn't been brought up again. Had Lindsay decided he wasn't into sharing her after all? He seemed to have no problem passing her between the trainers.
But the Damian situation was different. It was as though Damian had never existed as anything but a figment of her suddenly oversexed mind. And Shannon wasn't going to bring him up. She didn't want the doctor to think he wasn't enough for her. He was. Still. She'd spent nights fantasizing about the two of them taking her together, both of them inside her at once. And she couldn't seem to shake the fantasy no matter how hard she tried.
On her afternoons off she'd developed a relaxed and comforting routine. She deposited her check, went to Dome for lunch and a massage and mani-pedi, shopped a little, had a light dinner and then met Lindsay back in his office at nine, refreshed and ready for the long drive home. She sometimes napped on the way, knowing he'd keep her up half the night with his insatiable demands.
Lindsay worked late on Fridays, and she was grateful for the time to be able to go out and feel like a normal person for once. She'd started bringing a change of clothes on Fridays so she wouldn't feel so self-conscious in public, dressed in the high-end slut wear he liked to keep her in at the office. For her afternoons off it was soft comfy blue-jeans and a T-shirt.
But today was different. Lindsay had told her to be back at six-thirty but hadn't said why. Maybe a couple of his appointments had canceled and he wanted to go home early.
When Shannon got back to the office a few minutes before he'd asked, she found Lindsay standing in his office, waiting. She gulped in air at the sight of him. He wore a tux. She'd never seen him this dressed up before, and he made it look good.
He glanced down at a gold watch on his wrist. “Cutting it close aren't you?”
She didn't reply because she didn't know what to say that wouldn't sound sarcastic and just get her in trouble. He tolerated a lot of snark from her and even seemed to enjoy it, but this evening his mood was different. She could tell he just wanted her to do whatever he asked and not make a fuss about it.
That was when she noticed the large box sitting on his desk. It was black with a fat pink satin bow and a logo from one of the fancy boutique shops downtown. Going by his attire, she could guess the contents of the box.
“Are we going out?” She asked stupidly, unable to think of a single more intelligent thing to say. The surprise of the turn of the evening's events had apparently leeched all the smart out of her brain.
Even though they were in the city three days a week, he'd never taken her out anywhere fancy before. Lindsay looked really good in a tux. Even more posh and sophisticated than normal. The idea of being on this man's arm in some fancy public place sent a thrill of anticipation through her.
“We're going to a private art show opening at a nearby gallery,” he said. “It's invitation only, and the artist will be there. He doesn't mingle with the public.”
“Oh?” Shannon asked, curious.
“He's a big deal in the tech industry. But his art is under another name. He likes to keep things private and separate.” Lindsay's gaze shifted to the box on his desk. “Open the box and put the dress on.”
Had he gone and shopped for it himself? Maybe he'd finished with patients much earlier today than she thought. Or maybe he'd paid someone to go get it?
Shannon carefully untied the ribbon and opened the box, pushing aside silver and black tissue paper. What she found inside was the most gorgeous red evening gown she'd ever seen. She pulled it out of the box to get a better look, but then her face fell.
“I c-can't wear this. It's backless.” She wished she could wear it. She wanted to wear it. It was stunning and perfect. But there was just no way. People would stare. You couldn't wear a formal evening gown that showcased scars like that. It would be ugly. She would be ugly.
“There's more,” he said, ignoring her protest.
Shannon pulled away another layer of tissue paper to find an elegant black silk wrap.
“You won't need it most of the night,” he continued. “It's dark outside, and I'm told the exhibit room will be dark as well—it's part of the show. Trust me, no one will be focused on you at the opening, and even if they were, they wouldn't notice the scars in the dark.”
Lindsay placed a pair of black heels on the desk beside the open box. “Get dressed. No bra tonight, but you will wear this under the dress.” He took a sexy black thong from his pocket and dropped it beside the shoes.
She expected him to stay and watch her dress like some sort of reverse strip-tease, but he left her alone to get ready. She wished she could look at the dress in a full-length mirror, though as soon as she had that thought she was grateful that she couldn't because even with the comfort of a wrap to cover up and the darkness he promised, Shannon wasn't sure she'd have the nerve to wear this dress if she looked at herself in a mirror first.
A few minutes later, Lindsay returned with a black velvet box. It was somewhat thin and square but not small. Shannon's breath hitched. She opened it and let out a gasp. Even knowing what was in the box, seeing it was something else. It was her collar. Just like Mina and Julie and Annette. Except that the band on Shannon's was thinner, more discrete.
The collar was a platinum band with four rows of tiny square cut diamonds going all the way around it. The light caught the diamonds, sending flecks of light onto the walls as she turned the collar this way and that.
Lindsay took it from the box and secured it around her throat. Then he withdrew a small hand-held mirror from his desk drawer and held it in front of her, no doubt anticipating she'd want to see it.
“You take it off to shower and that is the only time you take it off, understood?”
“Yes, Master.” She ran her fingertips over the metal, giddy. She'd never owned a piece of jewelry this nice in her entire life. Shannon liked the thinner band. It was subtle and classy. No one would ever look at it and suspect what it meant. It wasn't that she was ashamed, but she still wanted to blend in with the rest of the world when she was out on Friday afternoons.
The band was strong and no doubt as sturdy as the collars the other permanent pets at the house wore, but Shannon felt like she could go out in public for lunch wearing this one without stares. And because it wasn't enormous and the design was simple, she could wear it with an evening gown, like tonight, or jeans and a scoop-neck T-shirt—as though she were intentionally going for some chic casual glam combination.
“Thank you, it's beautiful,” she finally said.
He just smiled at her and offered his arm.<
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Lindsay guided Shannon into the gallery, his hand resting on her lower back. Against her protests, he'd made her carefully fold the silk wrap and place it in a handbag he'd purchased to go with the rest of it. The bag had been waiting for her in the car. Now she clutched it like a lifeline as he shielded her, letting her walk just in front of him under the street lamps which illuminated the sidewalk.
The house had offered to train a girl for Lachlan Niche—tonight going under the artist name, Jacob Hunter. The tech tycoon had entertained the idea briefly, but in the end he'd politely declined and soon after had stumbled upon the woman who now wore a collar around her throat and seemed to adore him.
Word was that Saskia had tried to run a con on him, forging a piece of art he'd paid her to acquire for him from the owner.
When Lindsay opened the door and led Shannon inside, they were at once swallowed up by a pounding electronic base, darkness, and black lights. Next to the entrance to the exhibit was a sign, painted with white paint so that it glowed under the lights.
The sign read: Jacob Hunter, “What we do in the dark”.
This should be interesting.
Anton and Annette had attended a private party at his private gallery on his own property the previous year which had featured Saskia as the centerpiece. The word was that it had been painfully erotic and pretty much everyone in attendance had slunk off to fuck behind columns or in the garden beside statuary or behind rose bushes.
It had been a frenzied affair.
Shannon seemed to relax as she realized the lighting situation. She pulled away from Lindsay, no longer needing his broad body to protect her from whispers and stares. He admired her for a moment, and pressed a kiss against the center of her back. The scars really weren't noticeable here.
“Let's go inside,” he whispered. He took her hand and led her through a small cluster of people sipping champagne and delicately eating hors d'oeuvres. They laughed in that tinkling fake way people do at art galleries, as if they were pretending this was a normal art exhibit.
It was an act, of course. Lindsay was certain every fucking person to receive an invitation to the exclusive private opening was a certified freak.
Shannon let out a gasp as they cleared the group and the art installation came into full view. His little pet had seen a lot and done a lot, but Niche was in a class all his own. It was such an appropriate name that Lindsay wondered if it was yet another alias, yet another layer he placed over his real identity.
Along the back wall were various naked men and women bound in glow-in-the dark ropes in extremely compromising positions, exposing them to the gazes of the entranced audience. The rope work was in the Shibari style and was so ornate and intricate, that it was as if each bound man or woman was the equivalent of the wall you hang a piece of art on rather than the art itself.
The men and women were each blindfolded, their blindfolds glowing under the black-lights matching the same neon pink or green or yellow or blue of the ropes which bound them. There were black placards with bold white lettering glowing in the dark between each piece. Instead of the standard art gallery instruction to not touch the art, the signs read: “Please touch the art. It likes to be touched.”
As if to give proof to this little memo, one of the pieces of art, a blonde woman with a pixie cut, let out a loud moan as a well-dressed man slipped a finger inside her pussy. She had large breasts, painstakingly bound in artistic erotic bondage. They moved even inside her bonds as she shuddered against the stranger's hand.
There was a sharp tinkling sound—a spoon tapping against a champagne flute—and then a spotlight found its way to a corner of the room where Niche stood, smiling.
“Welcome, everyone. As you all know, I am Jacob Hunter.”
There was a laugh from the group because of course they all knew him. It was invitation-only.
“But what you may not know,” he continued, “is that every piece on exhibit is for sale. They will be on display during specific show hours until the end of the month, but after that, you may take your purchase home with you. The public is unaware of the sale, of course. It is open only to you, my special guests. All art is signed. When you inspect the art, you will find J. H. branded into the right hip on the back of each piece. All art is clean and has been vigorously tested for any defects.”
Murmurs went up from the group because this was audacious, even for Niche.
“You may enter your bids in the silent auction next to each piece. Winners will be notified tomorrow afternoon. We accept all payments in the form of wire transfer. Thank you, enjoy your evening.” The spotlight went off.
Shannon turned, giving Lindsay a look that mirrored his thoughts exactly. Obviously every participant here was willing, if the pleasurable moans and whimpers and begging “Please, yes, more” were solid indicators. Where had Niche found people willing to not only be part of this exhibit but to be branded and sold to the highest bidder?
Fascinating.
“Wait here a moment, kitten,” Lindsay said.
He left her to go inspect the art. The men held no interest for the house, but the women might. Niche may have more money than he was able to count and no true need for more, but he also hadn't sent his invitations out as a charitable act or as a form of exhibitionism. He wanted buyers. Being an art broker would be a new experience if Lindsay won one or more of these girls.
Niche must have assumed Lindsay's interest would be aroused by this. Niche assumed right.
On the one hand, Lindsay wanted to know just where the man had found these willing sluts, so he could find more fresh meat for his own enterprise. But for now he considered the possibility that he might be able to purchase a few of the women, send them to the house for training, and turn a profit.
The artist's signature would raise their resale value. Jacob Hunter had only been recognized in the art scene for a year, but already his risque kinky art installations were causing a stir. He was already getting invitations to show his art all over the world. Word was that his own pet featured in many of the installations, but she was never for sale. Saskia was part of the artist's private collection, and there she would remain.
Lindsay's gaze drifted over to the woman in question. Niche whispered something in her ear, and even though Lindsay couldn't see it under the black lights, her shy demeanor indicated she may have blushed at whatever he'd just said. That Niche's pet could still be made to blush was impressive in itself.
Lindsay turned his attention back to the bound women lining the wall. He found three he particularly liked. He touched them, tested their responsiveness, and then entered a bid for each one.
Shannon watched as Lindsay seemed to be inspecting the bound women against the wall. When he touched them, he clearly wasn't doing it for his own pleasure, and probably not for theirs either. Despite the sexual nature of the touch, it was still more similar to the way one might touch and inspect an animal they were considering buying rather than anything really sexy.
Her suspicions were confirmed when he wrote something down on several white slips of paper and slipped them into the clear glass bowls next to three different women. He wanted them for the house.
“I don't believe we've met.”
Shannon spun at the voice she'd just heard booming across the room. The man held out a hand and said “Jacob Hunter. And you are?”
“S-Shannon Foster. I'm with him,” she gestured to Lindsay as if he were her ticket to prove she belonged here.
“I see. So you're a stowaway to my private party.” He looked her over as if he were accessing or determining something. Then he took a step back as if taking her in. Finally after several long agonizing seconds of this perusal, he said, “You have such tragic beauty. Those eyes. I wish I could paint you.”
Before she could reply, Lindsay was beside her, his hand pressed against her lower back. She wasn't sure if the action was meant to steady her, make her feel safe, or make his ownership claim clear to the other man.
Hunter turned his attention to Lindsay. “I knew you'd be interested in some of my girls,” he said. “I've got a sense about these things.”
“How did you find them?” Lindsay asked.
“Artist trade secret.”
As if there were some secret place artists went to get this kind of thing.
It was clear Hunter wasn't about to reveal where he'd found these people. The artist pulled Lindsay aside a few feet away from Shannon and whispered something in his ear. Both of them looked over at her. Was he complaining that she'd been brought without an invitation? Was a Plus One not acceptable tonight? If the artist was reclusive and didn't like to mingle with the public, maybe he considered her part of the public and therefore unwelcome. Was her presence here a violation of some deviant bro code?
Lindsay stared at Shannon intently while Hunter continued to speak low in his ear. Even if she'd been standing closer she wouldn't have heard his words over the music. Lindsay nodded and said something back to Hunter, then the artist disappeared back into the crowd to greet his other guests and potential buyers.
Lindsay returned to Shannon.
“What was that about?”
“Don't worry about it,” Lindsay said. “You'll find out when it's time for you to find out. Come, let me show you the art.”
Lindsay grabbed a champagne flute off a tray and pressed it into Shannon's hand. “Here. You look nervous.”
She was nervous. The evening had taken a dark and thrilling turn, and Hunter had taken some sort of interest in her. Hunter. Appropriate name because she suddenly felt very hunted.
Shannon drank the glass of champagne. Not the casual refined sipping one was supposed to do at these sorts of events, but throwing it back like a shot of whiskey, barely tasting it.
Lindsay shook his head at that, took the glass, put it on a tray, and handed her another. “Try sipping this one,” he said. “I'll wait for your nerves to settle. You're safe here,” he whispered against her hair.