by Lily Harlem
Kane stepped forward, tugging her with him. “This way.”
After several paces she touched the collar. “This, around my neck,” she said quietly. “What would happen if I wasn’t wearing it?”
“It would make you fair bait for men like Nate, who are just out to play in a scene, find someone to hook up with.” He glanced at her. “He had no right to look at you like that.”
“Well, the outfit kind of screams look at me.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Oh.” She was confused. “It’s not?”
“No. You’re with me. I’ve claimed you with a collar. What’s more, I outrank him. He should show more respect.”
“You outrank him?”
“Of course.” He pulled back the chain curtain and opened a door. He ushered Imogen into the new room.
Imogen opened her mouth and stared around, thoughts of Nate vanishing.
Kane moved her from the doorway and into the shadows. He stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.
“What are your first impressions?” he asked by her ear, his lips brushing her lobe and his breath heating a trail down her neck.
She leant back into him, loving being so close and being held by him. But she couldn’t concentrate fully on his embrace because of what was before her. “It’s… sexy.”
“Mmm, I’m glad you think so,” he said, the soft material of his mask rubbing against her temple. “What else?”
She looked around. The room was sectioned into six large cubicles, each decorated in dark tones and with a combination of low lights and spotlights. Each three-walled area held a bed or a table or some other piece of equipment in the center. Three spaces were occupied.
There was an audience, too; couples, singles, threesomes sitting on more large sofas. Imogen could only see the backs of their heads. Some appeared enraptured, others holding quiet conversations.
“Tell me,” Kane urged, slipping his hand over the smooth material covering her waist. “What do you think about that, over there, to your left.”
Imogen was already staring in that direction. It had been the main thing that had captured her attention.
A naked woman was bent double, tied to a skinny padded table with her ankles fastened to the legs and her arms stretched out on two platforms, crucifix-like. Her skin was pale except for her behind, which was scarlet.
Beside her stood a man—dressed like Kane in black trousers and a velvet jacket—wielding a flogger. He walked around the woman as if surveying the marks on her ass, then cracked down the many strands over her skin.
Imogen jerked and a tingle traveled over her buttocks, as though her nerves were empathetic with what the woman on the table was going through.
The man hit again.
The woman groaned and moved her head, her face coming into Imogen’s view. She had her eyes screwed up tight and her lips were parted. There was a flush of red on her cheeks that matched the rosy blush on her backside.
“Talk to me,” Kane said softly.
“Is she enjoying it?” Imogen asked, although she was pretty sure she knew the answer. The woman appeared to be in ecstasy, as though she’d folded in on herself and only her body and sensation existed.
“Very much so,” Kane said. “Master Zen is very capable of working his sub toward orgasm just through striking her.”
“Are they just… playing a scene or are they…?”
“Lovers, committed to each other? Yes, actually those two are. They’re regulars here and live the lifestyle.”
“The lifestyle?”
“Yes.” He slid his hand to her collar and spanned it with his thumb and fingers. “They live full time as dom and sub. He commands and she obeys.”
“It sounds… old-fashioned.” Imogen wasn’t sure about the obeying thing. She’d known friends who’d purposely had that removed from their wedding vows.
“It’s a symbiotic relationship,” Kane went on, smoothing his fingers around her collar and brushing her skin.
A small shiver ran down Imogen’s spine.
The woman was struck again—several times in fast succession.
Imogen stared at the spectacle.
“You see,” Kane said. “She needs to be adored, cared for, taken through life by the man she loves. He needs to protect her, satisfy her, try his best to ensure that everything is perfect for her at all times. That is what makes him feel complete.”
“And that includes this. Beating?”
“Beating, spanking, flogging, whatever you want to call it, yes, it includes this, because that’s what they both enjoy, it’s their thing. It’s their kink.”
Kane went quiet and Imogen watched as Master Zen stood directly behind his sub. He appeared to fiddle at his groin, then his pants loosened around his hips. He pushed forward.
The woman arched her back and her cry echoed around the room.
He reached for her shoulders, dragged her onto him.
“He’s…” Imogen said.
“Yes. He’s clearly very pleased with her. She’s getting exactly what she wants tonight.” Kane’s voice was low and husky, as though the sight was turning him on.
Imogen watched, fascinated as the dom began to fuck his woman with urgency. The sub couldn’t move, she was strapped down, but he was moving for both of them. Thrusting in and out, hard, frantic, gripping her shoulders, her hair, her hips. His hands were all over her.
Imogen’s knickers dampened and she shifted within Kane’s arms.
“Would you like to get fucked like that?” Kane whispered.
Imogen half turned to him, his words a shock, despite where they were and what they were watching.
“Tell me,” he said, cupping her cheek and holding her face. “Tell me what you’re thinking?”
“I…” Imogen was breathing heavily. Fuck. What was she thinking? That she wanted to get fucked like that? She wanted to feel the flogger?
“Would you like to be her, on that table, with Master Zen taking you to the exquisite high she is rocketing toward right now?” Kane asked. “Red and sore, filled to the max? Nothing else in your mind except claiming that pleasure?”
She did, but it wasn’t Master Zen she wanted behind her, yanking her hair, scratching and marking her skin. Sinking deep, so deep. Filling her to the bursting point.
It was Kane, or K as he was known here. It was him she wanted.
“Imogen,” Kane murmured, his mouth almost touching hers. “Talk to me.”
“Yes.” The word scratched from her throat. “But—”
He pressed his thumb over her lips, flattening them against her teeth. “No buts. Or if there are, tell me later.” He gave a brief smile. “Yes is enough.”
She swallowed and nodded.
Several loud slaps rang out.
Imogen turned back to the couple who were fucking. The master had delivered hard blows with his hand to the woman’s behind. She was shaking all over, her toes curled off the floor and the soles of her feet white where the blood had drained from them.
“Come,” he half shouted, half growled. “You may come.”
Relief seemed to vibrate over the woman then with a violent spasm; she heaved at her constraints and wailed through a climax.
Imogen was aware of a tremble of need between her legs, and her nipples spiked against the tight dress. What must it be like to be so surrendered? So absolutely under a master’s control? Laid bare, everything exposed and all those raw sensations blasting around as orgasm took hold? She shivered, a pleasant tremor in her belly that extended outward and pulsed through her sex.
Kane held her a little tighter, slotting her closer.
A hard wedge of flesh jutted into her buttock.
His cock.
He was aroused too.
Chapter Seven
Although excited by the feel of Kane’s cock, Imogen brought her attention to the audience in front of her. All had paused in their conversations and were watching the scene reaching cresce
ndo.
“Imogen,” Kane whispered.
“Yes.”
“Have you ever been spanked?”
“No,” she said quickly. What was the point in lying?
After her rapid response he was quiet. His breaths were soft on her cheek and his chest shifted against her back. His erection continued to strain next to her buttock; she couldn’t ignore it, even if the questions were demanding her concentration.
She’d never been hit by a man and until this point hoped she wouldn’t be. But now? The ecstasy on that woman’s face, the erotic red hue her ass had turned under her master’s hand. Maybe…?
She sucked in a deep breath.
“We should sit.” Kane urged her forward. “And watch something else that’s new for you.”
Imogen moved in the direction Kane gestured and found herself sitting on a plush purple sofa. She was glad; her legs were a little weak. It was probably just the high heels. But she did miss feeling Kane’s arousal.
She looked around—what other spectacle would there be for her to witness? She had enough to digest at the moment, and as she inched backward on the seat she was sure her ass cheeks smarted—but not in an unpleasant manner, in a way that generated the need for more.
Kane sat next to her, casually extending one arm over the back of the sofa, close but not quite touching her.
She felt surrounded by him. Protected and cocooned by his strong presence in a place where she was uninitiated and out of her depth. She knew he’d guide her through this.
A woman in a tight black trouser suit—that would have been almost decent if it weren’t for circles of material missing over her breasts—came into Imogen’s peripheral vision.
The femme fatale’s hips swayed, and her nipples—peaked, rouged, and pierced with silver bars—jiggled as she strutted toward their purple sofa. She had a determined expression.
Kane crossed his legs, then jabbed the air with the toe of his shiny leather shoe.
The woman dropped to her knees at his feet, crumpling as though worshipping at an altar. She then bowed her head and clasped her hands behind her back, jutting her large breasts so they almost touched Kane’s leg.
“Tara,” Kane said, uncrossing his legs, then sitting forward in a slow, deliberate manner. He removed his arm from the back of the sofa.
“Master K,” the woman said, looking up and batting her long, fake eyelashes.
“It’s good to see you.” Kane rested his fingertips on her shoulder.
Imogen stared at his long, dark fingers against the woman’s slender frame.
She appeared to sag into his touch. Her lips parted and she raised her eyebrows, as though silently pleading.
“Not tonight.” Kane shook his head.
“Please,” she said, biting on her bottom lip.
“No, Tara.”
“Please, I beg it of you.”
“No.” Kane’s tone was harsher. “It is not possible.”
The woman, Tara, turned to Imogen.
Imogen held her gaze. She, after all, wasn’t the one on the floor, knees bent, hands in invisible shackles and breasts bared for all to see.
Although she did also have a collar around her neck.
She found herself running her finger over the lean circle of leather at her throat.
Kane reached for Imogen’s other hand and linked their fingers.
“My guest and I are purely spectators tonight,” he said. “So if your master would like to demonstrate the use of the St. Andrew’s cross, that would be very pleasing.”
“I love pleasing you,” Tara said, swinging her attention back to Kane. “You know I do.”
“And you do so very well on the occasions you’ve been required to,” Kane said. “Now please, we’re trying to keep a low profile.”
“Yes, Sir, of course, Sir. I’m very sorry to have interrupted, Sir.”
“You may go now.” Kane sat back, the action dismissive to the point of rude. He added to it by flicking his fingers at Tara.
She stood, quickly, and pushed her linked fingers over her chest, flattening the soft orbs of flesh. She then backed away, head still low until she stood next to a man in a black velvet jacket who’d been watching from the shadows.
He was tall, taller than Kane, and also had three gold stars embroidered on his top. He had no hair and the skin on his scalp appeared smooth and shiny.
Tara reached his side and stood next to him, staring at her feet.
The man raised his hand to Kane.
Kane acknowledged it with a nod and resettled his arm around the back of the sofa—around Imogen.
“Is that her master?” Imogen asked.
“Yes. Master, husband, lover.”
“But she…?”
“Wanted to play with me, yes.” He’d preempted her question.
“But—?”
“Her master had given her permission to ask.”
“And he wouldn’t mind if you’d said yes?” Hell, she would have minded if Kane had said yes. Imogen was coping sitting here, in this… sex club. But watching Kane join in would tip her over the edge.
“No, of course not.” Kane turned to her. “Why would he mind?”
“Wouldn’t he be jealous?” It was the biggest emotion on Imogen’s mind right now. The thought of Tara getting her ass whacked by Kane then him fucking her, here, on stage for all to see. She could think of nothing worse. If that was going to happen, then she’d want to be the woman up there on the bench.
She sucked in a breath as that certain knowledge settled into her brain. She wanted to be on that bench?
“Why would he be jealous?” Kane asked with a frown. “She loves him, they’re committed to each other. Sharing a physical experience, pleasure and pain, with someone else won’t change that.”
“So that’s not viewed as unfaithful here? To be with someone else like that?”
“No.” He seemed bemused. “Not at all. It’s all consensual, not just the couple in the scene but their partners too.”
“So you’ve… with her… with him there watching…?” Imogen rubbed her hand over her brow. It was all a lot to take in. “And it didn’t cause problems.”
“Listen.” Kane leaned forward and touched the knuckle of his finger under her chin. “Don’t worry about our sexual histories tonight. This is new for us to be here, spectating together. I want you to concentrate on aesthetics, the ambience, how it makes you feel as a woman. What I can do to make that experience better when I come to design my clubs.”
Imogen looked into his eyes. She wanted to delve deeper. Find out what exactly was going on in that head of his. Why he’d really brought her here. Was it still about a business venture? She didn’t think so, but every now and then he mentioned it, drawing her back.
“Ah, here we go,” Kane said. “They’re going to demonstrate the St. Andrew’s cross for you. How wonderful.”
“The St. Andrew’s cross,” Imogen repeated, staring at the sleek black structure in the cubicle before them. It was a cross on its side, so two of the bottom feet were attached to the floor creating an X shape. It had attachments that appeared to be leather cuffs near each point and soft padding in the middle. “What’s it for?”
“It’s one way of holding a submissive in position,” Kane said, looking at Imogen and not the cross.
Tara stood before her master, head bowed as he removed her clothing. After he’d peeled the suit from her, he carefully folded it over a chair.
His lack of mask afforded Imogen a good perusal of his expression as he surveyed his naked wife. There was love there, and desire. His cheeks were a little pink and his brow furrowed with apparent concentration.
He slipped his jacket off and added it to the pile of her clothes. Then, very slowly, he slid off his tie and undid the top button of his pristine white shirt.
Tara trembled.
Imogen was pretty sure the woman’s shiver wasn’t from being cold, for the club was very warm. It was more likely to be anticipa
tion, the need for the pain and pleasure to start.
When the master was ready, he led Tara to the cross. He slid his palms over the wood as though checking for splinters or imperfections. He then raised Tara’s left arm and secured it to the left angle of the cross. He did the same with the right then stooped and attached her ankles. The result of his efforts was Tara bound with her arms and legs spread and her chest pressing on the center. Her pussy lips were just visible and her ribs defined when she inhaled. Her buttocks were tight and pale, and she had a small tattoo on her lower back that looked to be Chinese writing.
“You okay?” Kane asked, slipping his hand from the sofa onto Imogen’s shoulder.
“Yes.” Imogen paused. “Is he going to spank her?”
“Watch.”
Imogen’s skin tingled between her breasts and her stomach clenched. The anticipation was making her body react and all she was doing was witnessing the act. She could hardly imagine the levels of expectancy Tara must be going through.
The master picked up what appeared to be a table tennis bat, but a little more square and with a red handle. He whacked it over his palm.
Tara jumped. The chain links on her binds rattled.
But she wasn’t struck. He moved around the cubicle, surveying her. He nodded then stood in front of her. He curled one hand into her hair and kissed her hard and urgently.
Imogen crossed and uncrossed her legs. She licked her lips.
Tara’s master moved to one of the locker units in the cubicle. He pulled open a drawer and slipped something into his trouser pocket.
After another slap of the paddle on his palm, he moved behind Tara.
This was it.
Imogen’s mouth was dry. She wished she had a drink of water.
What must Tara be feeling right now? Waiting for that first slice of pain. That first strike.
The thwack of the paddle caught the audience’s attention. Everyone spun to see Tara yank her arms and legs and jerk against the cross.
“The paddle delivers a hard sting,” Kane said quietly. “It makes the outer nerves smart and then works its way down to the deeper ones to give a bruising sensation, like a deep massage.”