by Lynda Aicher
“And one more thing.” Vanessa paused, her grin flattening to dead seriousness. “While we’re here, I’m Mistress V. Last names are never disclosed unless you choose to do so.”
The firm tone and hard stare penetrated Quinn until she looked away. “Okay.” Then she went for broke and tried out what she’d practiced at home. “Yes, Mistress V.”
She couldn’t decipher the soft chuckle that flowed from the other woman and her nerves reared their ugly head to keep her from glancing up to see Vanessa’s expression.
“And to keep your anonymity, you’ll be Quinn,” Vanessa said. “Not Cici Norton or Missy Andrews. Just Quinn.”
Just Quinn. It sounded both freeing and exposing. It’d been eighteen years since anyone had regularly used her given name. She’d been Missy, her Hollywood persona, or Cici, her childhood television character, for so long it was hard to remember who Quinn Andrews was.
The short walk back to the lobby gave her just enough time to push her apprehensions back and mentally prepare. Her stomach fluttered in a wave of butterflies that usually assaulted her before she stepped onto stage. It didn’t matter that she’d been performing her whole life—it was always the same.
They entered the large, open main room and were immediately bombarded by the grind of music and a mass of people. The nerves left and she sunk into the role of mysterious party girl. The one who stayed to the fringes, ducked attention and acknowledged no one. She would strive for that. Play it for all it was worth. Nail the part and survive the night.
If she was lucky.
* * *
Adrenaline pumped in his blood and seemed to beat in rhythm with the crack of a whip, the slap of a paddle, the thud of a flogger. It was a tune Marcus Reese loved to hear and it grounded him every time.
His chest expanded with pride when looked across the Dungeon. He was a real part of this. He may have worked at The Den since it opened six years ago, but for the very first time, he was an owner too. Goal achieved. Not bad for a twenty-nine-year-old.
The reopening was like a lifesaving breath he hadn’t realized he’d needed. The club remodel, partnership details and personal move had filled his time while The Den was closed. But damn, it was good to be back.
“Hey.” Deklan leaned against the wall next to Marcus. Always an imposing figure, the military haircut, black clothing and dark whisker shadow could make Deklan appear downright menacing. It was an image some subs craved. “Things still smooth up here?”
Marcus scanned the open expanse of the Dungeon that took up a large part of the second floor. Almost every piece of equipment was in use, with voyeurs stacked two or three deep around some of the Scenes. And the crowd was growing as more people wandered upstairs to find out what Jake had done during his time off. His customized BDSM equipment was one of the unique draws of The Den.
“Yup.” He inhaled, the ripe scent of sex, leather and lemon triggering a visceral reaction that leveled him into his Dom space.
“Everything set for the unveiling?” Deklan flicked his chin toward the large piece of equipment in the center of the room that was currently hidden beneath a dark cloth.
“Yeah.” The anticipation was almost palpable among the occupants of the room, and it fed into Marcus. “Tara should be here soon.” The submissive was an employee who’d begged to be the demonstration person. The honor of being the first to use Jake’s latest creation was coveted by almost every sub in the club.
“Good.” Deklan studied the room for a moment. “Any questions?”
“Nope.” He was more than ready. Jake had walked him through the ins and outs of the new piece yesterday. He’d planned the Scene and talked it through with Tara earlier today. His fingers actually itched for the grip of the flogger that was waiting for him. “Things okay everywhere else?”
“If Rock hasn’t pinged us with anything, then we’re good.” As a partner, Marcus was now included on the security feeds and messages. Another responsibility that felt right on his shoulders.
“Good.” He glanced at the other Dom. Deklan hadn’t done a Scene with anyone but Kendra since he’d claimed her six months ago. Marcus had thought they might take the honors of doing the inaugural Scene with Jake’s creation, but the couple’s play had become mostly private now. He understood that yet also hoped it never happened to him. The exhibitionism was part of the excitement. “Are you sticking around for the show?”
Deklan grinned and the dimple on his cheek wiped out the mercenary image. “Kendra wants a front-row view.”
Marcus barked out a laugh and shook his head. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”
“Not even a question. You got everything moved into the loft?”
“Pretty much.” Unpacked was a different subject. His belongings were still in boxes spread across Jake’s old loft. “The new commute’s been a dream.” A ride up the elevator to the fourth floor beat the hell out of a thirty-minute drive across town. The convenience of living where he worked was another flux of fate that was almost too good to be true.
His mother always said he was born under a lucky star. He didn’t think it was luck. More like pure determination and a drive to match it.
Deklan pushed away from the wall. “I saw Vanessa downstairs. She has a surprise for you after your Scene.” The tone and smirk hinted that Marcus wouldn’t appreciate what it was.
“Great.” He sighed. “I’ve had enough of her surprises.” He didn’t want to think about the diva job he had to do before it was necessary. Especially not tonight.
“I don’t know. You might like this one.”
“Right. Whatever.” He ran his fingers through his hair and let the gibe go. “Is Jake still doing the unveiling?”
“As far as I know.” Deklan moved away, his gaze scanning the room as he left.
Marcus straightened and made a circuit around the Dungeon, nodding in turn at the three Dungeon Masters as he passed. A number of service subs moved unobtrusively around the room, cleaning equipment when a Scene finished, replacing used tools and sanitizing everything. Most of The Den’s Dungeon crew weren’t employees but members who got off on providing the service.
Marcus paused to talk to a few Doms before making his way to stand along a far wall. He flexed his ankle, working the lingering annoyance from his college football injury out of his calf as he thought through Tara’s checklist and their discussion on the Scene. They might be center stage in thirty minutes, but as the Dom, his focus needed to be all on her. In truth, he was so damn ready for the Scene that his skin practically crawled with the excess energy. He’d done a few private Scenes during their hiatus, but this would be his first public one in months.
He closed his eyes and inhaled, catching the scent once again and letting it ride through him. There was no question about it, he fucking loved his job.
Chapter Two
“Please, sir,” the woman whimpered. “More.”
The sharp flick and thud of the leather strips over her bare bottom continued in a rhythm of harsh beats on flesh. The cherry-red skin appeared hot and painful, but the sounds coming from the naked woman were moaning ones of enjoyment.
The submissive was strung up on a strange contraption that looked like a giant letter H. Her arms and legs were bound to the vertical posts with a padded cross beam spanning her abdomen, making her entire backside available to the Dom. Sweat covered her skin and dampened her short, spiky hair, but her face was slack with apparent pleasure. She didn’t flinch away from each landing of the flogger but seemed to be straining to get closer.
Quinn stared at the Scene, scrambling to understand, but comprehension wasn’t there. The woman was getting the crap beat out of her and truly loving it. How? The online sites hadn’t prepared her for this reality. Maybe it’d been the distance provided by the screen or the possibility that the clips on the websites were staged actors that had allowed her to view them clinically. They’d been educational projects that had worked well enough to get her the part.
This, t
hough...yeah.
She wanted to look away yet couldn’t. Mistress V had procured a front row spot, so there was nothing to block Quinn’s view. Nothing to distract her. No one was forcing her. There was simply no way she could do anything but watch.
As sadistic and cruel and wrong as her morals tried to tell her it was, the desire to see the Scene through its entirety had her rooted there with the rest of the crowd. A gawker—that’s what she was. Although in this world she’d be called a voyeur, because against all probability, she was beyond turned on.
The long cat tail on her costume was clutched in her hand, the fluffy end turning moist in her palm. The heat level in the room had increased to boiling, turning the body-hugging cat suit into a cloying cotton wrap. Her face was on fire, flaming excitement or embarrassment—either was probable. It only added to the discomfort of the damp, sticky press of the mask on her face. But she couldn’t lift a hand to move it.
The groans coming from the submissive had digressed to inarticulate garble that was almost imperceptible over the continued slap of the flogger. The bare chest of the Dom flexed with every movement, the toned expanse the vision every Hollywood stud strived to achieve. The thin trail of hair that ran downward from his navel was a sexy tease of more to come and an invitation to her imagination. His black hair was thick, longer on top but trimmed over his ears. Neat and messy at the same time. Another image the L.A. crowd strived for but few succeeded at. Not with the causal ease the Dom managed.
Yet there was nothing casual about the way he handled the submissive.
The intensity of his concentration on the woman had Quinn’s insides turning liquid. Maintaining her aloof role was almost impossible. At best, she was presenting the cool, reserved front that was her default facade.
Maybe.
Probably the only thing keeping her from being fully exposed was the stupid cat mask. It was unnerving to note that eighteen years of acting skills had been demolished by thirty minutes of sexual deviance.
“Are you all right?”
The whispered question in her ear slid down her spine to chill the dampness on her back. She could sense Mistress V staring at her, but she couldn’t pull her attention from the fascinating display to acknowledge the question. She barely managed a small nod.
The Dom stopped the flogging, and the sudden silence amplified the harsh breaths and murmurs of appreciation from the crowd. He set the tool aside, his face flushed from exertion, hair damp with sweat. His profile showed off the sharp edge of his jaw, the clean line of his nose and the high curve of his cheekbones.
The sub appeared dazed. Her head had dropped forward, and he lifted her chin to study her—eyes closed, panting, naked as the day she was born. Strung up and displayed for all to see.
And she was beautiful.
That was all Quinn could think. What should’ve been disgusting wasn’t. She didn’t know how to process that.
The stroke of his thumb over the submissive’s lips was a caress she immediately opened for. The Dom leaned in and kissed the sub ever so lightly on the mouth before he trailed a hand down her abdomen to bury his fingers between her legs. The woman gasped, tensed and moaned. In a swift move, he grabbed her short hair, jerking her head back.
“You’re not going to come, right, Tara?” The Dom stared into the woman’s eyes, his voice hard and firm, much like the erection that was straining the front of his leather pants.
“No, sir,” the sub whispered.
He released his hold and immediately tugged on the two clamps attached to her nipples. The nubs stretched, and she cried out at what must’ve hurt like hell. Quinn’s own nipples tightened and tingled just watching. It was hard not to squirm, but she held still.
Distant, aloof, remote—she repeated those words in her mind to play her part. But they refused to sink in.
Perspiration glistened on both the Dom and the sub. The overhead spotlight showed every taut muscle, dip of curves and flush of skin. The air was heavy with sex, arousal and the musky tang of sweat that should’ve been repulsive, not intoxicating.
He moved to the side and nodded toward another guy who stood next to Mistress V. It was the man who’d unveiled the equipment when they’d first arrived. The guy stepped up and together, the two men twisted some knobs on the sides of the large door-like frame bolted to the floor then slowly tilted the H forward. Chains were attached to the top beams to hold the new position before they retightened the side knobs.
The other guy stepped away, and the Dom looked up, his gaze landing on Quinn. The flame within her became an inferno and the small gasp was out before she could suck it back. Something flashed in his eyes, a slight darkening and lowering of his lids that was sultry and shadowy. Then it was gone, his focus returned to the sub.
Holy... This was...this was... She had no idea what this was.
Mistress V laid a hand on Quinn’s back. Her breath dusted over Quinn’s ear, and Quinn bit her lip to hold back another gasp. “By the way,” the Mistress murmured, “that’s Master Marcus. He’s going to be your guide and trainer over the next week.”
The sudden stutter of her heart almost stunned her into revealing everything that churned within her. Her knees went weak and she locked them into place to keep from falling. She had to hold it together. She could do this. There was too much at stake, and failure wasn’t an option.
But how would she manage to work with that man? That Dom?
He’d only looked at her so far and she was a wilting pile of mush. That was no good.
Then she remembered. She was the famous Missy Andrews, child star, Emmy award winner and a paying customer. She’d simply demand someone different. She didn’t have to work with that man if she didn’t want to.
Exhaling a slow breath, she found comfort in the knowledge. In the meantime, there was nothing wrong with enjoying the fascinating show before her. It was educational. And she almost snorted out loud at that thought as she watched the Dom move between the submissive’s spread legs, a rather large dildo in his hand. Quinn swallowed, but it didn’t help her dry throat. Oh yeah, definitely educational.
* * *
Marcus wrapped the blanket around Tara and carried her to a sofa set along the far wall of the Dungeon. She was still out of it, lost in subspace. He positioned her on his lap and relaxed into the cushions. Not all subs liked to be held after a Scene, but Tara always needed the connection as she came down from her high.
One of the Dungeon Masters set a couple of waters, a soda and a towel on the side table. “Nice Scene.” The appreciation was clear in the smooth rise of his voice. “Do you need anything else?”
“No, thanks.”
The man retreated, and Tara shifted in his arms, tucking her face into his neck. He brushed a line of sweat from her temple and focused on giving her the attention she deserved. She’d been fabulous on the H-rack. That’s what Jake had named his latest creation. She’d more than earned his favor. Her submission had been sublime. And normally he’d be floating in the satisfaction high that came from dominating a sub. But tonight, it evaded him.
His skin still crawled with that unsettled sensation like he needed to run ten miles to work off the excess energy. It was usually gone after a Scene.
Shit. He grabbed a bottle of water and chugged half of it down. It didn’t help. His throat was parched, his nerve endings alive with unfinished business. And it had little to do with the erection that was slowly subsiding in his pants. Not coming during a Scene was common. His job was to fulfill the submissive’s needs and he didn’t need an orgasm to find pleasure in domination.
He gaze went to the petite waif of a woman dressed as a cat standing next to Vanessa. The black unitard showed every bump and dip of her almost boyish figure while advertising that there was absolutely nothing beneath but skin. Her breasts were small mounds that barely dented the cloth, her waist a tiny expanse he could probably circle with his hands, her legs willowy sticks that somehow managed to balance on the four-inch heels.
> She exuded a vulnerability that may have been a simple result of her petite size, yet her posture was straight and sure. Her hair was pulled into a sleek tail that curled softly down her back, so blond it was almost white. The contrast against the black outfit was stunning.
There was a strength that flowed from the tilt of her chin and arched bow of her lips. Lips he recognized. He didn’t need an engraved sign to know it was Quinn Andrews behind the costume. It was almost a crime to hide a face that beautiful behind a glittered up cat mask.
She glanced his way, the look so subtle it could have gone unnoticed by most. But her lips parted, and he caught the way her abdomen contracted, her breasts rose and her fist clutched the fluffy end of the cat tail. She looked down then away, and he almost dropped his head back and groaned aloud. No way.
What was Vanessa thinking, bringing Quinn to The Den on tonight of all nights? He had until Monday before he had to worry about her and he refused to take her on tonight. It didn’t matter that his cock was rock hard again.
He let his gaze roam around the Dungeon. The visual decadence would shock anyone who wasn’t prepared. And from her tense posture and the death grip on the tail, Quinn wasn’t prepared. He could only imagine what Little Miss Innocent thought of his Scene.
Tara stirred in his lap and reminded him of his duties. He shifted her up. “Here, Tara.” He offered her the soda. “Take a drink.” The sugar would help.
Her hand still shook when she clasped the can, but she took a few long gulps before handing it back. She smiled up at him. “Thank you, sir. That was incredible.”
He tried to smile back. “You were great.”
They’d known each other for years and had done many demonstration Scenes together during their tenure at The Den. She was also a good friend who had long ago migrated beyond the Master/sub relationship and deserved his full attention. Yet he couldn’t stop checking on the little kitten.
Tara’s eyes narrowed, and that one act shifted them out of the Scene and into friend mode. “Are you okay?”
