by Natalie Dae
Table of Contents
Legal Page
Title Page
Book Description
Trademarks Acknowledgement
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
New Excerpt
About the Author
Publisher Page
A Totally Bound Publication
Master Zum
ISBN # 978-1-78430-064-7
©Copyright Natalie Dae 2014
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright May 2014
Edited by Rebecca Douglas and Sarah Smeaton
Totally Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2014 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Melting and a Sexometer of 3.
Marshall Cottage
MASTER ZUM
Natalie Dae
Book one in the Marshall Cottage series
Pain of the pleasurable variety was all I needed—and Master Zum provided it.
I visited Marshall Cottage for one thing only—to be pleasured by Master Zum and the exquisite pain he offered. Actually, that was a lie. I visited to see him, to be touched by him in ways that told me he wasn’t just there for sex. Love, that’s what I wanted from him, to go along with the adoration I was so willing to shower on him. He was alluring, commanding, and I tingled all over every time he was near. I needed him, longed for him, and our time together was never a disappointment.
Nipple clamps, they were the order of the night—among other things. Could I handle them? Could I reach that sweet place I wanted to be in while he administered his brand of pain?
Yes. Yes, I could.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Mercedes: Mercedes-Benz, Daimler AG
Downton Abbey: Carnival Film & Television Ltd
Polo: RL Fragrances, LLC, Ralph Lauren Corporation
Chapter One
There were only so many days I could go without seeing Master Zumbadwey. I’d privately named him Zum, had never found out his first name, but that didn’t matter. He was my drug of choice, the one I’d found could satisfy all my needs without ever having to ask me what I wanted, needed. In short, he struck my arse, pinched my nipples and kissed me like there was no tomorrow.
I loved that.
I was due to meet him in five minutes beside the grandfather clock in its transparent casing, the innards lit up with a lilac neon light. Said clock stood proudly in the foyer of Marshall Cottage, although why it was called a cottage was anyone’s guess. Far from that, the building was more like a hall or mansion. Grand it was, and in years past had been lived in by some lord or other. I wondered once whether that lord would be turning in his grave to know what goings on occurred in his former home now. Seedy, debase acts, some would say, but I found them all rather delicious.
A sex den. Yes, that’s what Marshall Cottage was. A BDSM lover’s delight.
I sat in my car at the edge of the driveway, scanning the other vehicles. Zum wasn’t there yet. He was always late, but that wasn’t a problem. I found waiting for him a superb aphrodisiac. The tension, the apprehension…oh, I fucking adored it.
The moon and stars were out in force tonight, clearly visible seeing as there was no cloud coverage. It seemed as though nothing else existed if I stared at the sky for long enough, my vision tunneling so that all I saw was infinity, much like what happened when I entered subspace. I’d be going there tonight hopefully, Master Zum pushing me, testing my boundaries.
I glanced at the clock on the dash. Four minutes to go.
A car drew up on the opposite side of the drive. Mercedes. Black. Windows tinted to what I’d assume were barely kissing the legal limit. A woman got out of the driver’s side then walked toward the building. I got a good look at her owing to the harsh light that blazed from the front of the cottage, one of those efforts used at football fields, except it wasn’t so big. She stood head to toe in orange PVC, her short dress as shiny as her long, black hair. She was a sight to behold with the red-bricked cottage for a backdrop. An extremely out-of-place character from Downton Abbey, slender, appearing more so because of her killer, gold-colored heels. She exuded sexuality.
I adjusted my corset—black with red laces, the type that didn’t extend past my waist—and waited until she’d gone inside. Once she had, I got out of my car and surveyed the area again for Zum’s car in case I’d missed it, me standing tall on seven-inch black heels that tapered into daring thinness. With the chill of the air springing goosebumps on my bare legs, naked arse and shaved pussy, I smiled at how daring I was, planning to enter the building with my lower half nude.
I can come here naked if I want to…
That was the beauty of this place. We were encouraged to be ourselves—no holding back, no conforming to society’s rules. That’s what appealed to me. Being free. Being me.
I put my keys into my small red handbag and made my way inside.
Mr M was manning the door, as usual. What the M stood for, I didn’t know, and to be honest, I didn’t care. He wasn’t who I’d come here to see. I swallowed as excitement bubbled in my belly, knowing that in three or so minutes I’d be beside the grandfather clock with its swinging silver pendulum ticking down the seconds until Zum arrived.
“Good evening, Mr M,” I said.
He nodded as an answer. Far be it for him to speak to a sub before her Master was on the scene. He gestured for me to go inside then turned to a visitor’s book on a wooden pedestal, scribbling my name and time of entry. I smiled and walked away, drifting, it seemed, on airy legs toward the clock. It was as though that clock were a trigger that told my brain it was now time to get into character. I stood with it beside me to my left and faced the wall, doing as Zum had instructed since that first night we’d met.
“No looking at the door to see when I get there, sub. I want you in a high state of anticipation. So much so that you begin to wonder whether I’m going to turn up at all. That’s the thrill for you, isn’t it, wondering, not knowing. And one day, one day I won’t turn up, and you’ll be left there all night until Mr M tells you, after I call him, that I won’t be playing. How would that make you feel?”
“Horrible, Sir.”
“Ah, but that waiting, for such a long time—wouldn’t that be good?”
“Yes, but you not coming… I’d hate that, Sir.”
I’d wondered, on several occasions, whether he really would leave me there, ensuring that I exited the cottage without my fix, without the scent of him in me, on me. I had to believe it had just been a threat, something said to make me realize how lucky I was when he did turn up
.
Head bowed, I stared at my watch, my handbag strap over my shoulder, the bag itself settled against my arse cheek. Light from the grandfather illuminated the face, made my arm a strange color that had no name. It was three minutes past our appointed time. I laced my fingers, let my shoulders relax, and concentrated on the wooden flooring, the wainscoting then the patch of wall above it that I could see, decorated in luxurious dark purple paper with elegant gold patterns. Fleur-de-lis.
My stomach rolled, the muscles tightening, and that twang of pre-bliss took over my cunt for a few seconds. I clenched my inner muscles over and over, priming myself, making sure I was wet and ready for what was about to come. And it would come.
Wouldn’t it?
His scent drifted in. Polo aftershave. I held back a giddy urge to laugh, relief pouring into me, and realized I hadn’t been given much time to build myself up.
My cunt creamed.
“Good evening, Master,” Mr M said.
Zum didn’t answer. I suspected he thought that if he didn’t, I wouldn’t know he was there, but that scent of his gave him away every time. He’d asked once why I never seemed surprised when he walked up behind me, why I’d always seemed to know our time had come. I’d never told him that as well as his smell, I could see his reflection in the grandfather’s casing as he studied me for a few seconds before striding over.
I lifted my gaze up and to the left. Stared at his reflection in the clock. He was doing that now, studying me, the gorgeous mountain of brown sugar that he was. It was difficult, as always, not to turn around. Sub I might be, but it didn’t mean I didn’t have the same urges as everyone else. I wanted to see him, run into his arms, have him swing me around in the foyer so that everyone could see how much I loved him and he loved me.
But that wasn’t the way things worked here.
He scrubbed his chin as if in contemplation then walked toward me, light on his feet despite the size of him. Tall. Broad. Yes, he was indeed a mountain. As he got closer, the air changed, tinged with electricity that I’d swear came from me and from him. It crackled, lifting the hairs on my arms and at my nape, and a buzzing set up shop in my head. Right behind me now, his body heat warming my skin from the waist down, he stopped.
“Good evening, my precious,” he said.
And fuck, that was all he’d needed to say. My knees almost gave out on me, and my heart rate sped up. I bit my lower lip, telling myself not to turn around, not to indicate I was even aware he’d spoken. To stand stock still, staring at the fleur-de-lis and the way the lilac light made the gold color ugly and muddy. Tarnished.
“How are you?” he asked.
So happy that you’re here, Sir. “Very well, thank you, Sir.”
“Did you complete the task I set for you?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. How long did you last?”
“The longest session was five minutes, Sir.”
“It’s a start, nothing to be ashamed of. Many people find the manacles too painful in that position. They dig into the skin. I’d warned you of that.”
“You did, Sir.”
I thought about those manacles, dangling from the end of thick black chains in my bedroom ceiling. He’d told me to buy them. I was to make sure the length of the chains was just enough that my toes barely touched the floor. So there was no relief, the muscles in my arms screaming, those in my legs and arse aching. He’d said I should think of him, imagine him coming into my room to whip me while I hung there, and practice it once a day so the skin on my wrists toughened up.
“Show me your wrists.”
I unlaced my hands then held my arms behind me, one thumb grazing my handbag. He didn’t touch me—damn it, he didn’t touch—and I checked out his reflection again in the clock. He had a strange smile on his face, satisfaction, I suspected, that I had indeed done as he’d asked.
“Sore,” he said, “but it will get better in time. Follow me.”
I waited until five of his footsteps had sounded. I turned, glancing up to see in which direction he had gone. He was making for the wide staircase so he intended for us to use one of the more private rooms. Downstairs was for voyeurism, where people played openly for those who wanted to observe from the sofas or watch through glory holes next door. I should have known he’d choose the private route tonight. Our previous two sessions had been voyeuristic, and he didn’t like to be predictable.
I followed him upstairs, my heels sinking into plush, dark purple carpet, then along a corridor to the left, into a room four doors down. He waited to the right as I walked into the center and stood at the bottom of a king-size, four-poster bed that was just a mattress covered in red PVC sheeting. The bright red floor tiles complemented it, as did the white walls and red blinds at the windows either side.
I waited, breath held.
The click of the latch meeting its keeper was the sound I’d longed to hear. If he’d left the door ajar I could have expected visitors who might want to play with us. Tonight, it seemed, he wanted me all to himself.
“Get on the bed, sub.”
I immediately climbed on, my back still to him, the PVC sheet chilly on my palms and knees—and waited again, bare arse and cunt exposed.
“Turn around. Arse to the edge. Legs spread. Feet on the floor. Lean back on your hands.”
I did so, keeping my gaze low. He was still by the door, his shiny black dress shoes topped with the dark gray hem of suit trousers, which concertinaed where they were a tad too long. Slim laces, rounded not flat, lay in a spaghetti-like tangle, the only bit of imperfection on him, I knew. He was an expert at tying knots with rope, but securing shoes? No.
I found that endearing.
He moved to a table beside the door that was all metal tubing and had two flat shelves. On the bottom one was a spreader bar, a beast to look at, and not one I had seen anywhere online. It had been fashioned specifically for the cottage customers, looking more like a heavy-duty piece of machinery than anything else. The silver pole between the ankle manacles was thick, and from experience I knew it was heavy, ensuring that if I needed to lift my legs, I couldn’t.
Zum picked it up as though it weighed nothing then brought it over to me. He knelt, put my feet through the manacles. An odd-shaped, chunky key stuck out of each of them, and he twisted them in turn until the metal closed and was a sharp burst of cold on my ankles. The bar itself was around twelve inches across, but with the turn of another key in the middle, it began to lengthen. I braced myself, wondering how long he would make it this time. Inside the largest bar were several others that expanded to whatever the user required. Last time my legs had been spread a comfortable amount, but tonight Zum clearly intended to make them go wider.
While he was busy, I had a good look at him. His head was shaved, as was his face—the only hair left on him were eyebrows that had been expertly tidied and trimmed, either by himself or some lucky beautician. His skin was just like the dark muscovado sugar I used in my coffee, deep and beautiful, sweet and tasty. He turned the key a few more times, stared at the bar then turned it again.
“How does that feel?” he asked.
“It’ll be manageable, Sir. The pain, I mean.” Should I reach out and smooth my hand over his head, draw him to me, cradle his face on my breast?
“It’ll ache after a while, but that’s the intention.” He stood, stared down at my feet. “Yes, that’s beautiful. A good meter apart.”
I was left with the sight of his legs from the knees down, wanting but not daring to lift my gaze higher. He moved away, back to the little table. While his back was turned to me, I eyed him some more. That suit. As usual it was expensive. Fabulous cut. The finest material. It could be said that it had shoulder pads, but that wouldn’t be true. It was muscle beneath the fabric and, from what I understood, it was all mine. Zum had said he didn’t play with anyone else. Not without me there, anyway.
“The reason for the use of such a heavy bar won’t be lost on you,” he said, touchi
ng something that clacked on the table top. “I want you immobile.”
I thought about my top half, how at the moment I could move it without an issue if he gave me permission.
“Which is why I need these.”
He turned, and I immediately shifted my sights lower, unable to get a glimpse of what he held. His approach had butterflies dancing in my belly, and I wanted to laugh at how deliriously happy he made me feel. Just being with him, having him do things to me… God, I loved him.
At the side of the bed, he waited for a moment. “Flat on your back. Arms above your head. Stare at the ceiling.”
I obeyed.
Chapter Two
The ceiling had been decked out in swathes of red silk, coming in pleats from the outer edges to meet in the center around the light casing. Red, plastic teardrops dangled from a silver chandelier, catching the light and sending pink spots of color across the ceiling. It reminded me of staring at the sky earlier. All that was missing was the moon.
Zum enclosed one of my wrists in something rubbery—I couldn’t quite make out what it was without shifting my eyes across, and he would spot that—then tugged my arm as he presumably secured the other end to the post of the bed. He went round to the other side and did the same. Star-shaped, I was wonderfully open to him, to do with as he wished.
“Good,” he said. “Close your eyes.”
The image of the pink spots remained behind my eyelids, and I watched as they faded into blackness. Then, after the sound of him walking away filtered to me, the imagery was of him going to select whatever toy he’d be using tonight. I imagined he’d choose something away from the norm, something that would infect me with his wicked desire to inflict pain—wicked in the sense that it was good, very welcome and very wanted.
