Salt Kissed Love (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 1)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  The man possesses some rare magical quality, sending shivers up and down my spine and covering my body in a warm blanket. While that is not an unusual makeup for a top, his air of a time gone by is. I feel like I have stepped not only into Sal’s past, but have been granted a history lesson on proper and formal protocol. Where Juliet steps subs up, Dom takes it even further, instilling a true respect for the fetish craft. He lives it, breathes it, and becomes it. The lifestyle is no longer a choice, but in the utter fabric, leaving me with one question—is it woven into Sal like this as well?

  If I could imagine Sal in twenty years, he would look like this man. I am stunned as he takes my hand and kisses my skin. Charmed by his demeanor, I find myself drawn to him. “Dominic Gennaro. Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Iris Kettles,” I whisper.

  “Well, Iris Kettles, let’s get you settled,” he asserts, picking up his phone. “Jessie, please bring Mr. Raniero and I lunch. Ms. Kettles will be dining in the three-season with you.”

  Although Dom is enamored with me, it is short lived as I begin to feel more like a third wheel amongst the men. I pay the insecurity little attention as I am tickled to visit with one of my best friends, Jessica Ott. Scouting over the library, books upon books line the shelves. Dom has poured them both a drink—completely dismissing me—and they sit on the fine leather, maroon sofa.

  My fingers want to touch his books, but I hold back. There are new books mixed amongst the old. Perusing along and avoiding the men deep in their conversation, I arrive at an entire bookcase of erotica. I’ve read some of the titles, but others spark my inquiry.

  “You can take anything you would like, Ms. Kettles,” Dom says to me. His generosity leaves me speechless and overwhelmed.

  “Thank you, S—ir,” I say, always aware how far manners will go in this crowd.

  “Kneel and come, girl.”

  Excuse me.

  I do a double take as Sal’s eyes dart to mine. He waits to see what his prey will do. Knotting my hair up, I shuffle out of my clothing getting an astonished look from Sal. Far from mad, he exhibits a proudness in my ownership, which only increases my confidence as I lower to my knees. His gaze declares an emphatic, “Let’s do this. Let’s see what we can become.”

  Never breaking the hunter’s gaze, I stalk closer on my hands and knees as Dom picks up the phone. “Cancel lunch, Jessica.”

  In the middle of my stunt, I want to giggle as I have managed to distract them both. Empowered by my own resolve, I arrive at their feet and await further instruction as I sit back on my heels and place my hands behind my back.

  “You are something else, Cupcake,” Dom mutters, stroking my cheek. “Damn, Boston, you’ve made me hungry.”

  “I told you,” Sal confides as I grasp that he has spoken about me to others. I want to know what he has told them. How does his Dominant truly feel about my submission?

  “Any stops, you sweet lil thing?”

  “Stops, Sir?” I question, not recognizing the lingo.

  Sal rescues me from the awkward moment, translating with ease. “Limits…”

  “No, Sir. However, I am saving my virgin rump for your boy here,” I toss out, trying to maintain my composure. The tension is heavy and thick between the triumvirate.

  Swigging back the rest of his drink, Sal smirks and tucks his finger beneath my chin, bringing my lips to his. My mouth fills with the whiskey as I swallow what I am given. We are practiced, he and I, and I know—it shows. In that moment, I become conscious of that fact. I am no longer a sub dummy, waiting to be practiced and drilled upon. I am his pet, his plaything, his possession. With the notions of belonging to someone weighing heavily in mind, I enliven with a new purpose. This is our first outing amongst others. In our spiraling dance—it is clear—I am well-trained and with Master.

  My sole function as his though changes from our routine dichotomy. I do not have to ask if Master Raniero will allow his own Master to take what is his, I already know. The trust between them preaches a genuine servitude—one to the other—and I wonder if Sal and I appear as such.

  However, Dom’s belief in ceremonious order displays like a ritualistic custom. He does not rush to inquire, but assesses with a scrutinizing amount of accuracy. “She needs hand signals. Continue to work on speaking in blinks and gazes, you two stand to be amazing. And Boston, keep her close because vultures lurk nearby for this one.”

  Comprehending his warning, I slightly smile at Sal. His Master is impressed, providing Sal with a grotesque amount of ego building. I detect it in the way his body shifts and his eyes flicker. I am the prize. The coveted trophy slave. The one his Boston parades because he is considering taking me further. Sal never brought anyone home to his Daddy because no one else was ever worth meeting.

  As the lightbulb shines in my brain, Dom pats Sal on the leg and says, “May I take her for a test spin?”

  With his elbow on the arm of the sofa and his fingers under his chin, Sal says nothing as he nods once in affirmation, though I am taken aback by Sal’s rigorous and stringent—newly portrayed—behavior. I do not have time to admire him long despite how he turns me on. His Dominant is real. Present and accounted for. And nothing like I ever imagined.

  With a curl of his finger, Dom requests, “Up.”

  Rolling up slow, I hear the lessons from months of training at Juliet. Keep your shoulders back. Head up! Don’t smirk. Don’t look mad. Be polite. Listen, Iris! The list goes round and round in my head like a tornado of kinky commands.

  Pulling out the wooden chair from the desk, Dom points. The chair is simply styled with the same matching leather on the seat as the sofa. I cannot read Dom as easily as Sal, and I am uncertain what he wishes me to do. I walk around the chair, bending my knees and pointing my toes. With a swoop of my hips, I make a decision I hope I do not regret and rest my hands on the back of the wood. I lean low into it, trying to achieve the perfect right angle with my body.

  His paddle comes fast and hard making me blink and bite my lip. I gaze over at Sal smirking. His unruly little wooden beast will bruise, but I don’t flinch. Instead, I push my buttocks out even further with a gratefulness that warrants another smack.

  “Do you know, my dear Iris, how many subs fail at the basic skills?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “About half honestly,” he informs, walking to a bookcase I had yet to examine. And perhaps that is a good thing as he pulls out the most beautiful cane I have ever seen. “Have you ever been caned?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Yes, you have,” Sal corrects from the sidelines. “Uncle Joe did at your initiation.”

  “I stand corrected, I apologize, Sir,” I whisper sincerely as my body tightens with the mistake. “My memories of the night are fuzzy at best.”

  “I have seen the video. I think you are allowed. You were impressive then, even more so now. Don’t you agree, Boston?”

  “Ya,” Sal acknowledges as he stands up and walks to the same bookcase Dom was at. My fingers white-knuckle the back of the chair as the butterflies rise up in my gut. I hoped I was past this point. Apparently, I am not.

  From this perspective, everything changes. Sal is no longer the guy wanting to be my boyfriend, but a formidable Dominant. His jeans cling to his hips as he strips off his white t-shirt. I bite my lip at the sight of his black belt laced into the loops. His gaze back to me is understated with a slight hint of mischief. “Iris Amarie, if you do not stop biting your lip, I am putting a pretty pink ball gag in between your lips until… I need them.”

  Releasing my swollen lip, I curl my toes at his statement as opera music fills the air. It’s a strange selection for my Nine Inch Nails loving top, but maybe it isn’t his choice. The music portrays a passionate upheaval, coupling instrumentation and a haunting soprano.

  “I’m not blindfolding you because I want you to watch,” Sal says, moving to a large armoire cabinet off to my left side and opening the doors which contain full length mirrors. I can see ever
ything.

  Holy. Fuck.

  The extra vision only increases my fear as I see myself—short legs, round bottom, and hair falling everywhere. This is not the scary part—Dom holding the spreader bar directly behind me is. The devil’s cackle fills the room as he strides over holding a riding crop. The view of my Master and his torture tool of choice lends itself well to the dampening of my thighs.

  My apprehension heightens with each step as he narrows in on me. Dom drops to the floor to attach the cuffs. His touch is gentle, almost kind. The seductive lure of his warm caress tantalizes my senses more as I understand I am about to play with the big boys.

  I am cognizant that it could be argued I already did that in my initiation, but the fact remains I do not remember much of it as I was caught up in my spiraling emotions of the moment. Perhaps the loss of the first big group scene is normal, but I do not know. I haven’t discussed it with anyone since. Sal knows more about it than I do which produces a disconcerting wave amongst my butterfly friends.

  Dom on one side and Sal on the other begs the question to drip from my lips, “Have you two ever tangoed like this before?”

  Dom gazes at the uncertain expression Sal flares. He is conflicted about responding as he is so close now I can brush against his hard wall of muscle. “Yes, we have. With one girl.”

  Regretting my haste in inquiry, I close my eyes as I feel Dom’s hand trail up my back. Light caresses of his fingertips arch up my back until he carefully removes the band from my hair. “This is worth it right here.”

  Acknowledging his sentiment, Sal snarls and cackles as Dom’s fingers tangle in the mess of my nest. There are times when I am more hair than girl, and Dom quickly manages to give me sexy bedhead.

  “Are you going to fuck me, Sir?”

  Lifting a brow at Dom, Sal’s mouth curls unexpectedly as we wait for his response. “Would you like me to fuck you?”

  “I might,” I say, playing the game. “Are you a good fuck, Master Dom?”

  “He is one of the best,” Sal mentions casually, completely knocking me off the board. I want to curse and scream and squeal and say how hot that notion makes me, but I lower my eyes defeated.

  Suddenly, I steal a chance to saunter across the mind fuckery chess board. Flipping my hair back and licking my lips, I simmer, “Do you fuck him often, Master Salvatore?”

  “Actually, he fucks me,” Sal invites with an enlightened expression and broad smile. He is a fucked up beautiful disaster. Not because he has had sex with Dom, but because he will use it to turn me on. “Usually after he whips me…long weekends…. tethered to the bed…taking the lessons of a Master when I didn’t even want to breathe.”

  His admission leaves me stupefied. I cannot believe he opened up, but in doing so, I feel the need to praise his trust by taunting my ass in the air.

  “Why do you not have her collared yet, Boston?” My head turns as my eyes flash to Dom. Sal is being subtly reprimanded. That much is clear.

  “I will,” Sal replies, taking aim and letting the riding crop fly through the air only to impact with a distinct thud against my flesh. “When I am ready.”

  “Fair enough,” Dom states, lashing the cane against the other cheek. “I expect it to be ceremonious.”

  Sal draws back fast, sends a pop, and swiftly releases another. I gasp as tears well up in my eyes. I am going to cry. The pain intensifies with every lash, but not enough to warrant my tears. What does is the intimacy blooming between the three of us as I gaze at our reflections…

  We came here to learn about Sal’s past, but I feel great strides in our pairing have come from our journey. His death grip on his past and who he is has loosened, even if but a tiny bit. And I have the pleasure of experiencing a Master he holds in high regard. Though we have both endured Jack’s special flavor of sadism, it is different. Jack treats Sal like a male; he treats me like a female. Dom treats us both like submissive. Sal’s training with the man shines like a bright beacon in the library. They are choreographed to a perfect synchronization as my ass becomes their toy.

  Stroke after stroke pummels against my buttocks, thighs, and back. The ass lashes hurt the most as the welts surface. I wonder if they are both hard. I wonder if Dom is well endowed. I wonder how far they’ll go to devour their cupcake. There is no competition between the men as they work together and send me into a sub-like trance.

  I am nothing more than the object of their gratification now.

  The big boys will vehemently protect and provide for me as the pedestal slowly boosts. My confidence shines, emanating rays of purpose. I am solid in my belief that this is where I belong as I cast a glance at the mirror and see union of our three souls, nothing else matters.

  I have trained for this.

  He has trained for this.

  Dom lassos Sal and I together, cinching into one and dividing into roles as we are so much more than just another kinky escapade. This is not another ménage à trois, but a sacred and devout passage.

  I am the girl of these Masters—my escorts to the other side. What a sweet place it is to reside as the blows rhythmically transport my spirit to an existence where nothing matters but their bliss. Through their delight, I find my own delirium, drunk on a lovesick state of lust and trust—a higher ground where I am finally free to spread my wings and soar.

  Tossing the riding crop on the floor, Sal heaves intense. His sweaty body glistens, drawing my erotic fuel filled cravings, permeating every morsel of my being. I want him—now. I am wild—a wicked kitten in a blistering heat—and the only absolution comes tucked in the tightly wrapped package in the front of his jeans. I want to scream out what I want them to do, but it’s so unbecoming for a submissive. Fortunately, I no longer care. I have proven myself.

  “Fuck me,” I demand in a raspy voice as tears drizzle down my cheeks. “Fuck me, please.”

  Luckily, Sal warrants the titles of a Dominant from hell—and a fucking horny ass bastard. His hand wraps around my waist and spins my battered body towards him. He wastes no time in picking me up and placing my body on the lounger. The notions of Dom still catch me off guard as I see him spreading a sheet across the matching leather fabric. He will have at me, too. And I am okay with this.

  Sitting back, I lean against the sheet and smile foolishly happy as my legs remain spread. With one on either side of the lounger, zippers drop and dicks spring forth as I grab each with a hand. I am stroking in unison, sending shockwaves on pent up need through them. Pulling them closer to my face, I lick each one slow while stroking the other. I push my chest forward and rub them on my tits until Sal makes a decided move, sticking his cock in between my lips. I open readily and willing, taking the entire length of him into my throat as he taps Dom on the shoulder and gives an approving nod. My mouth fills with both of them, fucking my mouth in unison. It’s beyond hot, and I wish I could watch them both fucking my face in the mirror.

  “Can I fuck her, Boston?” Dom mumbles.

  Sal blinks in approval as the gentleman Dom settles between my thighs. Anything I may have expected was so far off as he slowly, cautiously makes love to me. With Dom romancing my hot cunt, Sal proceeds to reward with me the greatest blow job ever. All those dancing moves at Juliet on stage are put to use now with his dick down my throat and his hips gyrating. I am so beyond turned on. He rubs his chest and gives sizzling gazes of desire during my own private face dance. I feel so fortunate as Sal has never brought the golden boy to our boudoir until now.

  But as my body easily succumbs to Dom, I fully understand who taught Sal everything he knows. Dom bears no light weight ability, but his thoughtfulness and regard leaves me feeling like a fucking spoiled princess as the offer before me is clear. The whole session is about showing me Sal’s core—who he is and what he believes and how he will be with me. My intense crush morphs into some sort of psychotic babbling of I must have him. I know then I will do whatever it takes—anything, name it.

  Dom comes deep as he kisses my face and lips
and Sal’s dick with me. He mutters, “Clean her up, Sal.”

  Without second thought, Sal dives between my legs, licking and sucking and finger fucking me to another salacious orgasm. His own surrender in submission is a beautiful thing and encourages me to strive to go further as I finally acknowledge we aren’t competing. This was never a competition between Sal and I. I cannot be him and he cannot be me. After a few minutes of his tongue swooping against my folds, Dom commands, “Have fun, you two. You have my blessing, Boston.”

  With another man’s come inside of me, Sal sinks deep as I taste Dom on his lips. For as good as Dom was at making love, Sal is pure heaven, thrusting slow with his entire being—the man walking on water and the drowning man coalesce into one. He is sweating and crying and loving me with everything he is, has ever been, and will ever be as our intimate secret love affair continues on.

  If this is our introduction, I cannot wait for the reunion.

  SAL

  The next morning, we are drinking coffee on the screen porch—Dom calls it a three-season—but it’s a fucking screened porch. The great thing about New Orleans though is the temperature this time of year is almost perfect despite the occasional rain shower.

  Dom wants Iris collared as soon as possible. I am not sure I understand the rush, but I ponder his inclinations in her servitude. I feel at home here at The Doll House. I know my ease insures Iris’ calmness and that is important for her growth. If under duress, she will not give what she is capable of.

  The first three years after Kace died, I spent my time pretty equally between Juliet, The Doll House, and alone at the loft in Houston. So, the kinship here is comfortable like home. Not to mention Dom is an exceptional top for Iris to witness.

  This is how it should be done.

  I don’t think she was expecting his formal protocol. His adherence to the old dogmatic rules of our past. Many things have diluted over time, including the fetish world. Maybe diluted is too harsh of a word, but ostensibly change isn’t enough. Regardless, Dom practices his craft as just that—an art form—in all its beauty and splendor. He raised this golden boy to that standard.