by E J Frost
“Very good, Brenna. Crawl for me.”
I crawl, keeping my head up, just as he’s asked. Or commanded. It’s all the same with him. I’m so fucked.
There are more cushions on the floor in front of the couches. When I reach them, I wait beside one hopefully. I’m not sure if Mac wants me on the floor or the couch, but if I’m on the floor, I’d really like a pillow because my knees are beginning to ache.
I’ve got my back to the dining area, but from the noises, I can tell that Mac clears the table while Logan tries to bring Emily back up from whatever subspace cavern she’s descended into. For a Dom, Mac’s not at all precious about pitching in when things need doing.
Of course, that makes him more attractive. Which he really doesn’t need.
Logan carries Emily over and sits down on the couch with her straddling him, her head on his shoulder. He strokes his hand over her hair and murmurs to her. Although her eyes are open, she still seems pretty out of it, which would worry me with anyone but Logan. He’s a good Dom. He knows Emily’s limits inside and out. If she was in trouble, he’d be the first one racing her to the ER.
Watching them, that cold flutter I got during the scene with Ten starts again in my belly. I don’t want to be held like that, loved like that. Of course, I don’t. But still, what’s wrong with me that no man ever has?
Mac’s hot hand descending on my shoulder yanks me out of a downward spiral. “Bren, would you like to come up on the couch while we’re talking?”
“Yes, sir.”
His hand slides around to the nape of my neck. “Ask for permission, bold girl.”
Fuck, he turns my head inside out. I thought he was giving me permission. Instead, he was taking it away, so I’d have to ask for it. How bad do I want to sit on the damn couch?
Turns out, pretty bad.
“Sir, may I please sit on the couch?”
He extends his other hand in front of my eyes, waits until I put my hand in his, and helps me up onto the couch. He sits, bracketing me between him and Logan on my far side, and sets my phone and the folded paper beside my thigh. “Should we get Lo’s opinion on the mermaid before we get into your fantasies?”
“Yes, sir.” I reach for my phone but stop myself before my fingers touch it. “May I show you, sir?”
Mac grins. “Please do.”
I tap open my phone and bring up the first of the three designs I’ve done. “Just swipe right to see the other two,” I explain, offering my phone to Mac.
He studies each image, before passing my phone to Logan.
“Second one has my vote,” Mac tells me. “Beautiful, Bren.”
Pride flushes me.
“Definitely the second one.” Logan hands the phone back to Mac, who slides his fingertips over the image, enlarging it so he can examine the details. I’m really glad I spent more time on those fins.
“I’ll be proud to have this on my skin,” he says.
The one he’s picked is mostly black and white, with touches of color on the edges of the design: the fins on her S-shaped tail, flowing green hair, swirling white and blue waves. I took inspiration from the mermaid window in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire ; it looks like stained glass, with heavy outlining and luminous colors. I’ll hide his old tattoo in the scales of the tail. The new tattoo is twice as large as his old one: waves splashing high on his shoulder, the tail stretching down his back.
“This is a lot of work to have done in one session, sir. Are you sure you don’t want two or maybe three?”
“The more sessions, the more time I get to spend with you. Sign me up for as many as you think it’ll take.”
I don’t blush. Much. Mac has me turning as red as Emily.
“Um, let’s say three,” I say.
“Good. After that, we’ll talk about what else you’re going to put on me. I’m damn envious of those sleeves, girl.”
He likes my sleeves?
“I’d love to design sleeves for you, sir. Working off that portrait would be a real privilege.” I nod at his shoulder where he has a beautifully shaded portrait of a sweet-faced, black-haired baby on his right shoulder and biceps, currently concealed under his shirt. “How do you feel about florals? Too feminine?”
Mac laughs. “I’m secure in my masculinity. If you think flowers will work, I’m open to it.”
They would. In my mind’s eye, his arm blooms with lotus, water lilies, dolphins, waves, and sailing ships to connect the portrait to the mermaid. My fingers twitch with the desire to sketch.
Instead, Mac unfolds the piece of paper on which I’ve written my three fantasies and spreads it across my knees. “Tell me about this.”
I take a deep breath. Other than ticking fantasies off a list on my initial intake questionnaire at the club, I haven’t admitted my fantasies to anyone. No Blunts Dom has ever asked. Embarrassment prickles over my skin at the idea of revealing them to Mac. But him asking about them is kind of awesome, so I grab my lady balls and lay them out.
“I don’t know how practical these are, sir. I know consensual non-consent is really risky for Doms—”
He curls a warm finger under my chin and lifts my face until our eyes meet. “I didn’t ask for scene ideas, Bren. I want to know what turns you on.”
My cheeks are on fucking fire.
“Okay, sir. The first one. I want to be abducted. For real. I mean, as close to real as possible. Blindfolded, gagged, tied up, taken somewhere dark. No way to escape. No idea where I am. I’m collared and caged. A man comes and gives me food and water. A bucket to do my business in. He uses my mouth every time he comes. He doesn’t care about my pain or pleasure. He doesn’t talk except to give me directions. I don’t know if it’s the same man every time or different men. At night, I’m taken to a different place and chained to a bed. I’m used all night, everywhere, and again I can’t tell if it’s one man or different men. On the third day, I’m blindfolded and gagged again. I’m put in a car and driven somewhere I don’t recognize. The man tells me to count to a hundred before taking my blindfold off. As I do, the car drives off and I never see the kidnapper again.”
The smile Mac gives me is slow and absolutely terrifying. “I like that one. Second fantasy?”
I touch my fingertips to the paper, which just says “bad teacher.”
“Um, I’m a student and I really need to pass this course, but my grades suck. The teacher gives me extra credit projects. It starts with humiliation: licking the chalkboard clean, polishing his shoes with my hair, that kind of stuff. Then it gets sexual. Sucking him off under the desk while he’s having student conferences. Rimming him while he’s recording lectures. Finally, to get the A, he makes me give him my ass without lube.”
Mac rubs his thumb over his lower lip. “Delicious. Third fantasy?”
I’ve saved the most ridiculous, most embarrassing one for last. I rub the back of my neck, which feels like it has a sunburn even though I haven’t been out in the sun in days, while I stare at the paper that just has one unread word left on it. Table.
“I want to be a fuck table, sir.”
“Can you explain that a little?”
“I want to be made into a table. Bound in position and used as a table while I’m fucked.”
“Used as a table. Would you like to have things placed on you, or could you hold still enough to have someone eat off you?”
He’s not disgusted? “I’d love to have someone eat off me.”
“I’d love to eat off you.” He touches his thumb to my lower lip before taking the paper off my lap, folding it up and sliding it into his breast pocket. “Thank you for sharing, bold girl. I appreciate your honesty. You ready to head into the playroom? Anything you need to tell me before we head down?”
I take a quick catalogue of my body the way I’ve been taught before scenes. “Could I use the bathroom, sir?”
“You may. Good girl for asking. Take a few minutes in the bathroom. Lo and I will get Emily settled and the rigging ready. Meet us
in the inner playroom.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bren, look at me.” When I meet his eyes, they’re full of heat and approval. That cools my lingering embarrassment and gets me excited for the scene again.
Chapter 4
Her fantasies are such a fucking turn on. I like to go into a scene cold, but my blood’s raging and my balls are pounding like death metal drums as I follow Logan down into the basement. I can’t get rid of the images her fantasies have built in my head. Brenna on her knees in a cage, blindfolded, bound, a Jennings gag holding her mouth open for my use, tears making shining tracks down her cheeks and dripping on her small, proud breasts, an echo of the wetness pooling on the cage floor between her legs—
I try to cool down, regulating my breathing, clenching and releasing my muscles in groups. I can get hot during the scene, but to start, when I’m ensuring my bottom’s safety, I need to be detached, not thinking with my dick.
The basement’s cool air on my face helps. Focusing on small details helps. My own breathing. The breathing of the two other people in the room. The symmetrical stability of the rope web that Logan and I have rigged in the middle of the inner playroom. The orderliness of items set out on the rolling table I’ve pulled near the web. Each small thing helps me calm down, at least until I think about making Brenna into a fuck table—goddamn, not helping.
I focus again on the room. It looks like the set of one of those serial-killer shows Naomi’s got me watching: industrial tile on the floor and walls, strategically placed mirrors. Logan’s assured me that the playrooms are soundproof, and I’ve never heard anything going on in them outside or upstairs, so I’m not worried about Bren making noise. I figure she’s a screamer, which makes me smile as I adjust the lighting. Call me an old softie, but I like romantic lighting for scenes. Anyone other than a masochist might not see what we’re about to do as romantic, but I hope Brenna will.
The dim lighting helps me calm, as does the music I put on, plugging my phone into a speaker dock that Logan has set up on industrial shelving on the wet play side of the room. Although she teased me about Black Sabbath, I have a feeling Bren actually likes heavier rock, so I’ve thrown a few Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin classics into a playlist that mixes her beloved Staind with Linkin Park and Bad Wolves. Songs that will give me a strong beat for the flogging. I hope she likes what I’ve picked, and that it helps her fly.
After listening to “Somewhere I Belong” for a minute, and letting my heartbeat synchronize with the song, I check in with Logan. He’s propped himself on a settee near the door where he can see the entire room. Emily’s curled across him with her head on his chest. Logan’s wrapped a blue blanket around her and is rubbing her back. Her eyes are open and she blinks occasionally, but otherwise she’s unresponsive.
“How’s your little girl?” I ask.
“Still deep. I’m going to leave her down through your scene, then I’ll bring her back up before I give her a bath and put her to bed.”
Logan’s been experimenting with erotic hypnosis with Emily as a way to relieve her anxiety. Although she’s friendly and outgoing with people she knows, Emily’s easily overwhelmed by strangers or larger groups. The hypnosis is helping her relax in social situations, but Logan’s also implanted some triggers that send her into a deep trance on command. He told me before Brenna arrived that he was going to put her under so no matter how my handling of Brenna goes, it won’t upset Emily. I don’t intend to push Brenna so hard she needs to safe word, but it’s always a possibility, and I appreciate that Logan doesn’t want to divide his focus between monitoring the scene and taking care of his little girl.
When Brenna enters the room, I take a moment to just drink her in. I thought she was a stunner that day in her shop, but the more I see her, the more her beauty knocks me sideways. It’s not a classic beauty like my ex-wife’s. Bren’s features are sharp; her body is boyishly lean and muscular. She doesn’t have the curves that the Kardashians have made popular. But, fuck, she takes my breath away. Those brown eyes that can project such challenge but melt into such sweetness. That perpetually cocky half-grin that she’s wearing even now, approaching a man she knows is going to hurt her. The glowing, luminous ink on her skin—she’s made her whole body a visual feast. She’s brash, bold, and that makes her recent melancholy all the more painful to witness. I like to think I’m on top of my feelings about this girl, but hearing her doubt, seeing that moment at lunch where she broke a little, cracks open a black well of anger at the club Doms who let her hurt this way.
I won’t leave this girl hurting like that. Not on my watch.
I beckon her to me with two fingers. She stops a foot away and begins to fold down onto her knees like a good little submissive, but that’s not what I want from her right now. I want that boldness.
“Inspection position, Brenna,” I say, as I unbutton and strip off my shirt. I want us skin to skin for a few minutes before I string her up.
She moves into the inspection position without hesitation, widening her stance until her feet are shoulder-width apart, putting her hands behind her head and interlacing her fingers. I watch her move, taking in her flexibility, the strength in her shoulders, arms, and thighs. I love that there’s weight and thickness to her body. Amy was so slender, even before she descended into surgical addiction, that I was afraid of snapping something if I touched her wrong.
I pick up my crop and slip the tongue under Brenna’s chin, tipping her head up so she meets my eyes while I stroke one hand down her silky throat to cup her breast. I massage, pinching her nipple between fingers and thumb, while I continue to hold her eyes and watch hers flare and melt in turns. It’s like watching the ocean burn, there’s such depth to this girl’s gaze.
“You have a decent amount of muscle in your upper body,” I say as I tuck the crop’s strap into my belt and run my hands up to feel the firmness of her biceps. She doesn’t have a weightlifter’s muscle; she’s not defined like an athlete. But she definitely does something beyond sitting in her shop all day. “How do you keep in shape?”
“I kickbox a couple of times a week, sir. And holding a vibrating needle for eight to ten hours a day isn’t for wimps.”
What is it about her attitude that strikes exactly the right note with me? I can’t stand brats, and usually give smart-assed masochists a wide berth. Amy was a sweet sub like Emily and I always thought that was what I wanted. But something in me rises to every spark in this girl’s eyes, every quip on her lips. I want to dominate the fuck out of her, but I also want to hear that husky, uninhibited laugh burst from her throat. I want to wipe every trace of sadness out of her eyes with pleasure, but I also want to see the mascara tracks down her cheeks as she takes the pain for me. Not every submissive—not even every masochist—can engage my dominant side. Brenna would be surprised as hell if she knew how few people I’ve topped. But this girl, this sad, bold, beautiful girl, she slips in and engages my dominance like a key into my lock.
She gives a tiny whimper and I realize I’ve been drowning in her eyes for several minutes while I’ve twisted and turned and pinched her nipples until they’re cherry red. I slap her breasts just to see her pupils expand, her muscles contract, before leaning in and kissing the tip of her nose. I release her abused tits and run my hands over her smooth stomach and hip as I walk around her.
I haven’t had a chance to make a close inspection of her back. The ink is no surprise. Her sleeves meet across her upper back. There’s a stylized mandala with a bleeding, gray rose at the nape of her neck. The center of her back is bare. Her lower ribs are circled by a dragon and below that her eye-grabbing hip piece begins.
What is a surprise is the scars cross-crossing the bare skin in the middle of her back, with a few trailing onto the backs of her arms. They mark her skin like a roadmap, lines straight and jagged, thick and thin, most old and white but there are a few that are a lumpy pink. Keloid scar tissue, I think it’s called. I thumb one lump while cupping and squeezing
her ass-cheek in my other hand.
“Any problem with impact on these scars?” I ask, careful to keep any hint of pity out of my tone. Whatever these scars are from, it’s not heavy play.
“No, sir.”
“Do you have any loss of sensation?”
A tiny snort. “No, sir. I feel everything just fine.”
I pinch her ass-cheek. “You definitely will tonight. How long can you keep your arms over your head before you begin having problems?”
“Thirty to forty minutes, sir.”
Plenty long enough. I slide my arms around her, step in so our bodies are flush to one another, and let her feel my erection. I drop my head and whisper into her ear. “You are beautiful to me, Brenna. Every bit of you.”
She stiffens, then relaxes her muscles with an act of will. Not used to compliments? Or is it that she just doesn’t believe that she’s beautiful? That’s something to explore later.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’m going to give you very few choices tonight, bold girl. Give me permission to learn my way around your body in my own way, in my own time.”
Her breath catches and her elbows twitch forward before she catches herself and corrects her position. “I give you permission, sir.”
Her trust sends me soaring, and I let myself go. This feels so right.
“Good girl. Here’s one of the few choices I’ll give you. Do you want me to blindfold you before I restrain you?”
I’d prefer eye contact during this first real scene, but a repeated theme in Brenna’s favorite scenes and fantasies is loss of sight. That suggests sensory deprivation is something she needs, and I want to start fulfilling her needs. There’s also a strong appeal in taking away her sight and forcing her to focus on what I’m making her feel. I’m only giving her a choice because she’s so bold that she may be masking the fear it would be absolutely normal for her to feel submitting to an unknown sadist. Eye contact might help allay that fear, and, once she’s up on the web, she’ll also be able to see Logan monitoring the scene, which could give her comfort as well.