by Skylar Kade
“Would you like to tell me the rest?” He braced himself to hear whatever that asshole had done to her and not get angry. Camille didn’t need that distraction. Right now, she needed him to be solid and stable. She wanted to whitewash over her morning? He was more than willing to help and he knew exactly how Camille needed to escape.
As he held her, gravel digging into his knees from the highway, she finished her story in painful, halting words. He knew she was just giving him the basics, but he could read between the lines to her terrified fury. She had tried to shrug off the earlier threat, but not this.
And then it all made sense. Fuck. “Sweetheart, are you listening?”
Her muffled yet eager “Yes, Sir” told him she was ready.
“Let’s go. No speaking until I tell you.”
He grabbed his leather cuffs from the trunk while he mulled over the situation with Shawn. Camille broke things off with him the same time as her work scandal broke. None of the threats had been directed to Camille as a literary agent, but at her personally. Watching Camille’s still form through the back windshield, he withdrew his phone and called Officer Davis, telling him about the afternoon’s incident—leaving out some of the details, of course—and sharing his suspicions. When Davis promised to look into it, Damien breathed easier. At least Camille would be out of town for the next two days. She’d be safe with him.
He returned to the driver’s seat. “Give me your hands.” He locked the black leather cuffs tight around her wrists, making sure she had a pinky’s worth of give in them. He wanted them to be a reminder of her submission, not a choke hold on her hands. A shuddery sigh left her when he locked the cuffs into place.
“Red and yellow, sweetheart. Repeat your safe words.” She did, and he put the car back into Drive and continued down the road.
The I-5 was blissfully empty through Orange County. They would make good time, which meant they would get to the hotel and check in that much faster. If the arousal throbbing behind his zipper was anything to go by, the sooner the better.
Camille’s breathing had steadied as they drove away from Los Angeles, greatly aided by the heavy wrist cuffs. He didn’t know how her ex had been able to so massively fuck up being her Dom. Camille was a natural submissive, if he’d ever seen one, practically begging for a firm hand to guide and discipline and pleasure her.
When they crossed into San Diego, she heaved a deep sigh and tension ebbed from her shoulders.
Perfect. “Take off your underwear.”
She snapped her head to look at him, but he kept his eyes on the road. She hesitated and looked around for nearby cars.
“There’s no one around. Now, sweetheart.”
The soft whish of her stripping stirred his cock. He didn’t look, though that was a struggle. From the corner of his eye, he saw her cross her arms over her chest, grumbling when the cuffs caught on each other.
He groped for the blanket he kept in the backseat, then laid it on her lap. “Bundle up now. Don’t want you getting cold.” Her stare, equal parts incredulity and curiosity, pressed on him, but she obeyed. Good. “Touch yourself.”
He stole a glance at her, his muscles tightening in resistance to touching her. Twin spots of color rose in her cheeks and she tentatively reached a hand under the blanket, looking around like a guilty teenager. To her credit, she didn’t speak. His girl was learning.
“Your pleasure is your own, sweetheart. Take it. Give it. But no one can steal it from you.”
Gentle twitches of the blanket and her deep sighs proved more of a distraction than he’d anticipated. When the scent of her arousal filled the car, he almost jerked to the side of the road so he could lick her to completion. He wanted to fill his mouth with her taste, feel her come against his tongue and fingers.
Later, he promised himself. This moment was about her. “That’s it, love.” She started to clam up, her strokes slowing. Her other arm had come up, almost unconsciously, to cover her breasts. He grabbed for it, holding her cold hand and bringing it to his lips for a kiss. She gasped, then moaned when he sucked her finger into his mouth. “You should never be ashamed of your body, baby.”
Her fingers moved a little more and he looked at her again. Her eyes were squeezed shut and a tear fell from the corner. He navigated over to the slow lane, ready to pull over if she needed more comforting. He knew this was pushing some buttons, but based on how she’d ignored and internalized those threats, she needed to purge this fear, now. He’d be there the whole time, ready to put her back together if she broke.
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
Camille quivered in her seat. “I feel like my body betrayed me when…”
He didn’t have to fight for that answer. Dominant pride hit him in the chest, albeit soured by her statement. Needing to disabuse her of whatever conclusions about herself she’d been drawing, he snapped at her. “Don’t ever fucking confuse your body’s innate responses for compliance. Not. Your. Fault.”
Her hand stilled and she shook her head. Softer this time, he said, “Not your fault, Camille.” He kissed her palm, noting they were only another half hour from their hotel. Just enough time, he hoped. After countless kisses, he laid her hand against his heart and offered a raw truth in exchange for her honesty. “I think you’re the bravest woman I’ve met. I am not ashamed of you—I am proud.”
Her quiet sobs erupted into tears and he let her cry it out. The little movements of her hand sped up.
“Come, sweetheart. For yourself.” He didn’t remove her hand from his chest, soaking in her body’s tremors and soft jerks as she brought herself to a quiet, rolling orgasm.
Damien slowed the car to take their exit while Camille sat in silence. He let her gather her thoughts while he navigated to the hotel and opened his door. Before the valet could get to Camille’s door, he was there, helping her out of the car, holding her against his side. He handed the keys to the valet in exchange for a claim ticket while a second valet grabbed their luggage from the trunk. He tipped the pair, then guided Camille inside.
Check-in was blissfully smooth, as befit the kind of hotel he’d chosen. Within minutes they were heading upstairs to the room he’d reserved weeks ago, when he first accepted the lecture offer.
Their luggage sat in the entrance of the small room that contained a compact sitting area and queen-size bed. He didn’t care about the accommodations so much as he did the view. Camille still trembled against him, so instead of talking or planning out the evening, he led her to the balcony that overlooked the Pacific Ocean.
She gasped and leaned against the rail, taking in the San Diego coastline. He trapped her between his arms, giving her silent strength until she chose to speak. Eventually, she did. “Thank you, Sir.”
He nuzzled her neck, kissed her nape and ran his hands up and down her arms. “For what? That was all you, sweetheart.”
Turning in his arms, she gave him a serious stare. “It’s not my fault, is it?”
His heart fractured at the edges. “No, darling, it’s not.”
She nodded, then stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “I think I’m a little closer to believing that.”
Chapter Thirteen
Back in the car on their way to Liminal, the newest BDSM club in San Diego, Camille seemed much more herself. Her smiles were still a little tremulous. But after a shower earlier when washing her back turned into making her come—twice—against the cool tile, and drying off devolved into fucking on the bed, she was more calm.
That was so far beyond fucking, though. The truth of that statement had been haunting Damien for the last two hours, all through dinner and dressing for the club. He wouldn’t call it tender—it was too fierce for that. Whatever kind of sex they’d had, had shaken his very being. She looked radiant on the seat next to him, so beautiful it was a distraction. And the calm that emanated from her, even in the face of entering a new club, was a testament to her bravery. Her sexy, seductive bravery.
They arrived an hour before the club
opened, greeted by the owner, Stephan Vatolous. He showed them to the staging area in the back and left them to get ready, promising two submissives to help move any equipment around.
Damien settled Camille into a chair before he started to unpack. She wasn’t in fetish gear, but her tight black yoga pants and black T-shirt showcased her body better than any corset or negligee. Then again, maybe he was biased.
Piece by piece, he pulled tools from his rolling duffel and arranged them on a rolling cart. He’d have to suggest Kat get one—it was really convenient. On one side, a drop-leaf platform framed the tray-like middle. Two drawers below the tray provided more storage. On the three other sides of the tray, hooks had been added.
Since this demo was very similar to the one at Maison Domine, he only gave Camille a cursory explanation for each item he laid out, candles and putty knives and lengths of chain and shallow bowls for hot and cold water—all the temperature-play basics in his kit.
Her attention stayed glued to the candles, pupils dilating and breath growing shallow. Yes, his sweetheart liked the hot wax. Tonight, maybe, he’d take her deeper, cover her nipples in red and white wax. He wanted to lay her out, arms and legs bound apart, while he made her come from the wax alone, dribbling patterns between her nipples and lower, pooling around her belly button and teasing the very edges of her pussy. He’d start with cooler wax around her clit, circling closer and warmer until she orgasmed so hard the wax would crack.
A hand pressed to the front of his black jeans. He looked down into Camille’s eager face. “This is more than just educational for you,” she said. Not a question, but a statement of fact.
With his hand, he formed her fingers around the erection that had grown during his little fantasy. “Yes and no.” She cocked her head, curious as always. No fear, even when by all rights she should be running from every Dominant who looked at her. She gestured for him to continue and he knelt down in front of her. Her hand drifted up and across his chest to drape over his shoulder.
Comfortable. Comforting.
“I’ve been teaching for years,” he explained. “Different clubs, different partners. Usually submissives I’m friends with—them and their Doms. Sometimes even my own submissive.” Her lips tightened. Jealousy? The thought shot a possessive surge through him. He wanted her to feel a claim on him, despite what logic dictated. He thumbed her lips, pressing inside her warm mouth, claiming her in that little way. Her tongue curled around his finger and her eyes went sleepy and sensual. He gritted his teeth against the desire to bend her over the chair and bury himself inside her yet again. “None of them have ever done this to me.” His hips jerked against her, reminding her of how hard he’d gotten. “This is from thinking of all the things I’m going to do to you onstage tonight.”
Camille moaned and it traveled through his body to make his cock twitch.
“Not to mention that, before you, I had very strict rules about the lessons being free of intimate contact. Sex outside the club, instruction and play inside. Usually with different people. But there’s something about you…”
Footsteps outside the door grabbed his attention and he rose, adjusting his pants to make his desire a little less obvious. Two men entered, wearing black leather boots, painted-on leather shorts and collars. He directed them to take the massage table and Saint Andrew’s Cross onto the stage.
They had another half hour before the demonstration began, right before the club officially opened its playrooms, so he spent the time going over the outline of his routine with Camille. Just enough that she was prepared, but not so much that his imagination ran away with him again, or that he gave away all his surprises.
By the time he was done, Camille was squirming in her seat. “Eager, sweetheart?”
She nodded, her body primed and ready to play. Her nipples poked against the soft cotton of her T-shirt and by the way her thighs squeezed together, he knew she was turned on. “Good. Now let’s get you into the right state of mind.”
He gestured for her to rise. Taking the occupied seat, he drew her down to her knees in front of him. “What are your safe words?”
“Red and yellow.” He cleared his throat and she blushed. “Sir. Red and yellow, Sir.”
“Good girl.” Sounds from the arriving crowd filtered through the stage curtains and a glance at the clock showed they were on in five. She needed to start going under, now. He tugged on her hair until her neck drew back, creating a beautiful arch to her body. He kissed down from her chin to the collar of her shirt. “Strip down to your panties.”
She rose and removed her pants, then shirt, then bra. It wasn’t a striptease, but it aroused him more than any disrobing he’d seen before. Her pale skin stood in contrast to the dark clothing and her own dark hair, practically begging to be pinked by his ministrations.
When she was almost naked, he pulled her across his lap. “Will you take a spanking for me, sweetheart?” He suspected the pleasure-pain would help ease her into subspace. Her ex obviously had no fucking clue what he was doing. Camille was not a service sub—she needed that bite of pain to set her free.
He felt her deep breaths against his thighs. He knew she might deny him—she had every right to, especially after her day. But she had no desire to. “Yes. Please, Sir.”
While his left arm braced across her lower back, his right hand rubbed over the round cheeks of her ass until the skin took on a pale-pink hue. “Ten strokes, for all your eye rolling. You’ve been racking them up since your last spanking.”
She giggled and wrapped her hands around his leg. “Yes, Sir.” Her laughter vanished when he removed his right hand, so he brought it back and rubbed up and down her thighs. He tapped across the crack of her ass. “Don’t tense.” She calmed and he laid two quick smacks on each of her cheeks. She sighed with each. He rubbed the now-blushing spots until she settled once again. This time, he gave her three harder smacks, sticking to the fleshier parts of her ass. He knew the heat of his strokes was warming through her body—she writhed against his thighs as if eager for more.
“What are you doing to me?” she panted. He would have felt bad that his Camille had never received a proper spanking, but the joy of being her first roared through him. He laid the last four strokes across her ass, relishing the way she jumped and moaned at each one. Before she could assimilate the bite of pain, he shoved apart her legs and found her wet center, rubbing up and down her cleft through her soaked panties. She buried her face against his calf and screamed a quick, hard orgasm.
Camille lay draped across his lap, limp from pleasure. He maneuvered her upright, her forehead resting against his cheek. “Is that what it’s supposed to be like?”
He dragged his fingers up and down her back, absorbing the little tremors on her skin. “For you? Yes. Some subs like more pain. Some, less. But if that gets you off…” She nodded. “Good. I promise you more tonight, if you ask nicely.” She bit back a moan, then kissed his neck. He loved how she could go from fiery to tender and back again, always keeping him on his toes to earn her submission.
The side door opened and Stephan stepped through, his black hair in a neat queue at the back of his neck. “Are you two ready?”
He shook hands with the other Dom. “Yes, I think we are.”
“Good. I’ll introduce you, then you’re on.” Stephan ducked around the curtains and shared a little bit about temperature play with the crowd, then spent an embarrassing amount of time sharing Damien’s experience as an instructor.
Camille perked up to listen. “You didn’t tell me any of that,” she said. “Had I but known I was working with an ‘internationally recognized leader in the BDSM community’…” Her impish smile made him want to kiss her, then shower her with delicious torture.
“Careful, sweetheart. You’re getting awfully sassy there. I wouldn’t want to have to punish you so close to the show.” He pitched his voice low and spoke into her ear. He could feel the air shift as she shivered at his words. “But maybe you’d like that,
hmm?”
He saw her fight the admission, then sag, eyes closed. “Yes, Sir, I would.”
Stephan’s reappearance ended their conversation. With a command for Camille to keep her eyes on the ground, Damien took her by the hand and led her onto the stage. While the surprisingly large crowd applauded, he buckled Camille facedown into the restraints on the table. Stephan rolled out his supply cart, parking it by Camille’s feet.
Despite the spotlight, the air in the large main room was chilly, so he rubbed his hands along Camille’s legs, back and arms, wanting her to stay warm and supple until he started working. He started giving the audience some basics about temperature play, the same safety precautions that applied to any kind of BDSM scene.
When Camille shivered, he unbuttoned his black shirt and draped it across her back. “It’s very important that your submissive be comfortable. Too hot or too cold, and they may be too distracted to hit subspace. This is especially true of temperature play. Your submissive should not be too warm or cool. Otherwise the hot and cold extremes you apply will be intensified by their nerve receptors.”
As soon as she was covered, Camille settled down. Her breathing grew deep and regular again.
He lifted his shirt from the pale canvas of her skin, draped it over her feet to keep them warm, then pulled a putty knife from both the hot and cold bowls of water he’d asked Stephan to prepare backstage. He started working her over with heat and ice, alternating blades to build up the sensations and confuse her skin. Like last time, her reactions were perfect. The audience sat enraptured by her submission. Hell, it was almost enough to distract him, the way her soft sighs and high gasps showcased her exposure to his tools. He could almost feel her dropping into subspace, her sounds and body movements less restrained.
When her back was splotchy from the blood rushing to her skin, he stood by her head and spoke. “Part of the allure of temperature play lies in the mindfuck aspect. This is something that’s often overlooked in impact play, but it’s amplified here because you’re not necessarily providing pain the submissive can escape into. This is more delicate, less predictable. And because of that, the element of doubt, of fear—will this be too hot? too cold?—works to tease the mind. Many submissives need this kind of mental landscape to hit subspace.”
