by Joey W. Hill
She closed the door again on his nod, ignoring the alarm in Josh’s face.
Chapter Sixteen
“Keep your eye on the ball, girl,” she told herself, repeated it in her mind, tried not to let the pain and worry in those beautiful gray eyes unbalance her, deflect her from her intent.
Marcus had told her the purpose of the two rooms, how one was marked for Mrs. Salerno and one for Mr. Salerno, but she had not gone into either costume room when she first came into the dungeon. Now her jaw dropped in shock and sheer admiration for the quantity of choices. There was everything from queen to jungle girl, gun moll to waitress. She wondered if the Salernos ever left it to chance, each going into their respective costume room to choose, emerging to the fun of coming up with scenarios that meshed unlikely pairings such as Queen with rock star, or waitress with overseer.
She turned and surveyed with quiet delight a wall of toys, including a selection of whips, supple and gleaming with regular waxing. She wondered if that was one of Josh’s jobs; he and Marcus had seemed to know where the room was well enough. The variety of mechanisms, from the carousel horse to the automated suspension system, would certainly require regular repair and maintenance to ensure the machinery ran smoothly.
She picked out a handmade braided whip, with an extended handle to increase control and accuracy. Silver rings worked into the seven-foot length gave it a liquid movement when she rolled it out. The balance was near to perfect for her, suggesting the whip had been custom made for Mrs. Salerno. A popper of a half dozen thin strips had been tied into the eyeloop at the end, and though the strips were soft to the touch, they were thin and resilient enough to deliver quite a sting. She ran her hands over the instrument and imagined Josh’s long fingered hands waxing the plaited surface, rubbing, his brow creased in concentration, his soft hair falling over his forehead and along the curve of his neck, the smooth muscle in his biceps rolling with his movements.
She was stroking the whip as if she was stroking him, and she stopped herself, surprised at the erratic tempo of her pulse, the pounding of her heart. How could he have affected her like this so quickly? But she knew. She knew when she saw his statue in the courtyard.
She experimented with a few flicks, getting used to the feel. She had told Marcus and Josh that once D/s was in the blood, it was hard to shake. When she had been recovering from Jonathan’s cruelty, sure that she needed to break her unhealthy addiction to the lifestyle, she had decided to invest in a nicotine patch, so to speak. She had taken bullwhip lessons from an expert who worked at one of the clubs. Her grandmother had always said that to get out of funk, try something different. Lauren was sure her grandmother never imagined the advice applying to her daughter’s colorful sex life.
Under John’s tutelage, she had gotten quite skillful with the bullwhip. They practiced at his home; in a barn he had converted into a playroom, though it was not so elaborate as the Salerno’s. One evening, a young man showed up, one of the subs who waited tables at the club. He was also a staff “Slave” that could be rented by the hour by Doms, if the staffperson felt comfortable with it. He made a good pretense of having just dropped by John’s for a beer, but from the stillness in his eyes, and the shortness of her own breath when she looked at him, they had all known it was a lie. John talked her into taking a passing “test”, practicing on a live subject. The boy had smiled at her as John spreadeagled and cuffed him.
She had the boy sweating and painfully aroused after ten minutes, with tiny red marks striping his raised arms, straining buttocks, and quivering inner thighs. She had celebrated her graduation with a cold shower, a long session with the detachable multi-setting head, and a hard cry.
The idea of Josh belonging to her, submitting to her so that she could bring him to peak after peak of pleasure, could hear him groan her name, beg for release and then come back for more…she trembled to think of it, and her palms were not the only part of her body with moist crevices at the thought. A man who would submit to her desires as willingly as Josh was a heady aphrodisiac.
That was just part of it, though. The emotions she felt for him were not just interwoven with her physical desires. The physical desire was like a clutched fist of need, trying to grasp something that would last beyond the last vibration of the orgasm. She not only wanted to play with the lion; she wanted to take him home and keep him.
Enough. She shook herself out of pointless reflection. There were other toys on the wall to examine, and she had to get dressed. There was a fine line between building his anticipation and making him wait so long he fell asleep.
Chuckling at herself, she turned to the racks of clothes.
* * * * *
Her heels were sharp on the ceramic mosaic tile as she opened the door of the costume room. She leaned in the doorway a moment, flicking the whip idly around her feet, letting it make mysterious whispering noises against the flagstones. She felt the Goddess take possession of her soul, equally capable of cruelty or mercy.
She found, however, that her less omnipotent self had to use the support of the door jam for a moment or two, as she reminded herself to breathe.
It had taken her a half-hour at the makeup vanity to achieve the effect she wanted for herself, and Marcus had made good use of the time. She was hard put not to moan in sheer tortured delight at what lay before her, a piece of artwork better than anything the Salernos had paid five figures to own.
Marcus had cuffed Josh on the St. Andrew’s Cross, strapping three lines of restraints on each limb to severely inhibit movement. Straps bound Josh at the ankle, calf and mid thigh for each leg, and the wrist, elbow and bicep for the arms. Another strap was around his throat, another at his forehead, holding his head immobilized against one of the adjustable cross pieces. Marcus had even added a strap at Josh’s waist that threaded through another cross bar, moved to his lower back for support. The result was that he could move very little, if at all. He was totally, magnificently, at her mercy, his body gleaming with the light sheen of sandalwood oil Marcus had slicked onto every expanse of skin.
The head mask was on, as she had ordered, covering all that beautiful hair and his eyes. His mouth was visible and open, nervous tongue darting out repeatedly to wet dry lips. His nostrils were flared, his body tense, straining with the remaining senses to detect her return.
He was afraid, that was obvious, but overwhelmingly aroused. It was the ultimate state of vulnerability, when a Dom could bring pleasure and joy, or prey upon the sub’s darkest emotions and fear.
“Jesus Christ, you are fucking beautiful.”
It was a reflection of her own thoughts, but after Lauren blinked and focused on something other than Josh, she saw Marcus was talking about her. She had hardly noticed him once she saw Josh, but now she registered that he had had time to get into the spirit of things himself. He had paid a visit to the costume room and changed into the flowing white and gold robe of a pharaoh, open to show a tanned bare chest and loose silken white pants beneath, sheer enough to suggest the dark smudge of his privates and pubic hair. His feet were bare. If she didn’t know his proclivities were not for her sex, and if her mind and heart were not so engaged to the man to his left, her mouth would water. As it was, he made an impact on her blood, which was already moving back from simmer into boil.
He smiled, and it was slow, appreciative and feral, one alpha acknowledging the power of another. “You could make a man think about changing teams for a night or two, love.”
She laughed, a soft purr of sound, and strolled out, sauntered as if Josh could see her, let him imagine by her cadence the generous swing of her hips, the quiver of her breasts that resulted from the reverberation of her spiked heels with the stone. The ankle wrap she had tightened and left on beneath the supple covering of the boot was holding up well, as long as she kept her movements slow and deliberate.
She sidled up to Josh, one casual step at a time, until she was close enough for him to smell the exotic oils she had rubbed on herself. She
drifted a finger along the slippery line of his neck, down his collar bone. “Are you nervous, Josh?”
A quick jerk of his head.
“But not scared of me, I hope.” Her voice was soft, sensual, teasing, but with an undercurrent of seriousness. It was so easy to do this, so easy to do this with him.
The faint musk odor of his oil teased her senses and she indulged, her eyes roaming appreciatively over the slick muscles and flanks. The lighting in the room had been adjusted so the recessed spotlights were positioned to reflect off of the glistening thighs. Lauren swallowed at the sight of his stiff cock, so aroused the glans brushed his belly. It had not been oiled, cloaked in only its natural satin-over-steel smoothness, a bit of fluid leaking from the tip glossing the top.
“No, Mistress.” It was just above a whisper. He was scared, but she knew by instinct it was his own soul, and the shadows that were rising from it, that were frightening him. A Dom had to bring the nightmares out, let them loose, so there would be nothing between Master and sub but trust, and pleasure, mutual devotion.
The thought brought an ache to her throat and tears to her eyes, and she felt a moment of true sadness. This time, there was no familiar sour taste of bitterness, or the taste of Jonathan. There was only Josh, and the pain and desire she felt for him.
She moved closer to Josh, and very gently stroked her knuckles across his lips, framed by the mask. It was a reassuring touch, though her proximity brushed her thighs against his arousal and made them both quiver.
“You know what I think about when I’m scared, Josh?”
He shook his head, then remembered. “Butterflies, Mistress.”
She smiled. “You are so good. Just remember that. Okay?”
He swallowed. He was doing that a lot, and she found the nervousness charming, and arousing. She laid a soft kiss on his lips, which trembled under hers with his uncertainty and passion, and she murmured against them. “I’m here, Josh, and I’m going to make it all right. You’re going to give me everything, and I’m going to heal it, and put it back inside you. Okay?”
She had no doubt of it, certain of her power, her role, dressed the part, in the right surroundings.
He shook his head, too overcome to speak, and she stepped back from him. “Are you doubting me, Josh?” She allowed enough ice to creep into her tone to make sure he felt the chill as solidly as a touch from her hand. One slight flick, and the whip end coiled around his ankle, just a whispering touch, then it was gone again. He jerked, his breath catching in his throat.
“You will hold nothing back from me, Josh. Try all you want, but you know who is Mistress here. Marcus,” she tilted her head toward the other man. He was watching them both, a morass of things she could not read moving behind his expressive eyes.
“Josh is going to find it very difficult to control himself,” she warned. “I don’t want to have to be too cruel to him. Please put this on him, and make it as tight as he can stand it.”
She lifted her other hand, which held a web of straps, and silver chain. Marcus’s eyes flickered to it and then back up to her face. She waited. Would he refuse? Josh was his friend, and he had already warned her he would brook no unreasonable measures against his friend. Could he read her intentions?
Lauren took a step, laid the device in his palm and closed his fingers over it, then her hand over his, tightening her grip. It’s okay, she mouthed.
Whatever he saw in her eyes satisfied him, for he nodded, curled his fingers briefly over hers, and took the device from her hand.
Lauren stepped back so she got a good view of her subject again. “Marcus is going to put a cock harness on you, Josh,” she said. “I want to see your cock on display, and I want you to stay hard for me.”
“I suspect,” his voice was thick, “I could oblige you in that, regardless, Mistress.”
She laughed, a light caressing sound that floated close then drifted away. “But it’s like a favored piece of artwork, Josh. I want it framed, mounted for my pleasure.”
Marcus dropped to one knee and coated his hands with the oil from the bottles he had used to slick Josh down earlier. His hand closed, with gentle admiration, over Josh’s erection. Josh jumped, though he was unable to move his hips more than an inch because of the straps holding his thighs apart and his waist immobile. Marcus oiled the shaft as Josh’s breath clogged in his throat, his color rising to his exposed jaw line.
“It feels different, having a man handle you, doesn’t it?” Lauren asked. She circled to his right, distracting him from Marcus by making him search for her with his hearing and his nose. “A strong touch. His hand is sure of what will pleasure you, in a way a woman can learn but will never truly feel, or understand. She just enjoys when she gets it right and sees your body quiver under her palm, or feels your cock jump under the moist flick of her tongue, inside the deep recesses of her mouth, as she takes you in, sucking, drawing out your response.”
Marcus chuckled as Josh groaned and attempted to thrust against his hand, then jerked in shame. Red color rose along his exposed neck.
“My dear,” Marcus said, “you are supposed to soothe the beast until you get the cage on him, not tease him into a rage while he’s still unfettered.”
She laughed, a delighted sound. “My apologies, Marcus.” But her grin was unrepentant.
“Laur— Mistress.” Josh’s distress was palpable and she shifted gears, made her voice softer. She came closer to him.
“Women are so much luckier than men. We grow up used to touching each other, in affection, and friendship. It’s easy to explore one another, enjoy a woman’s knowledge of what feels good. Society doesn’t give you guys as much of a break on that. We’re free to learn from the beginning that just because we can enjoy what a woman can give to us, it doesn’t make us a lesbian. Any more than,” her finger reached out, stroked the side of his corded neck, “You responding to Marcus’s touch makes you gay.”
Marcus slid the tunnel of straps over the engorged and slick cock, and Lauren moistened her lips, her fingers curling into a scrape of nails on Josh’s neck. Marcus was aroused as well, visible to her eyes in the loose pants. He fitted the straps evenly over the velvet flesh, a noticeable quiver to his hands as he tested the snugness, ensuring the tightness around the scrotum. He rose and moved behind Josh to buckle the harness just below the restraining strap on Josh’s waist. The belted waist served the dual purpose of keeping the harness from slipping, and keeping Josh’s penis in an erect, perfect angle for sliding into a woman’s heat. Marcus’s fingertips caressed the small of Josh’s back, the dimples on either side of his spine. Josh’s breath was rasping, his cock leaking more semen, and Lauren had to stifle her own raging desire at watching them. She wanted to tease him past bearing, and she was heading there rapidly. Maybe too rapidly.
There was a chain attached to the base of the cock harness, with the links dividing into two separate strands that went to the floor. Marcus came back around to Josh’s front and fastened the ends of the chain to each link in the cuffs at Josh’s ankles. The chain’s weight pulled down on the harness and its contents, keeping it at that desirable angle, which made Josh’s now half-mast erection even more impressive. Some distraction might be necessary or she suspected he might explode, regardless of the constriction of the harness. Lord knew, she was close enough herself.
“Josh, would you like Marcus to describe what I’m wearing?”
“Yes.”
Crack!
He yelped in surprise, not pain, as the popper snapped at his upper thigh, just below his bound testicles. Marcus’s head jerked up, having been just below the whip’s path. She gave him a playful grin and reined the whip back in.
“Yes, Mistress,” Josh corrected himself.
“Good.” She drew close again, shifted the whip out of her left hand and kept the riding crop she had been holding with the whip in her palm. She dropped the tip of the crop; let it play a bit beneath his balls. He tried to strain at her touch, and could not. �
�Marcus?” she asked.
The art dealer bowed, settling in on the step of the dais that held the St. Andrew’s Cross. He leaned back indolently; reaching for a glass of wine he had somehow procured, putting the final touch on the look of an indolent, sensuous Prince of Egypt. He took a sip and considered Lauren, who raised her brow, giving him a slight curve of her lips and a coquettish pose.
Marcus smiled. “Were you not so delightfully restrained, my friend, your body would explode at the sight of her.”
Lauren strolled onward, her spike heels punctuating his words. She rested the crop on her shoulder and loosely flicked the bullwhip along the stone floor with her other hand, as he continued to speak.
“Your beautiful Mistress is wearing a tight gold dress, some sort of Lycra-Cire cross. It has long sleeves and a just barely ass-covering skirt. The cloth of the dress is sheer, woven with sparkles of gold dust. At different angles you can see a momentary shadow of her pubis, the dark press of her nipples, the cleft of her buttocks, but they are tantalizing impressions only, sure to drive a handsome slave mad, trying to look without being caught looking.”
Lauren chuckled.
“The neckline of the dress, always the most important thing to a man,” Marcus grinned over his glass, “is a straight line from armpit to armpit, just barely above her nipples, and when she takes a deep breath, you see just that faint crescent of mauve over the nipple. I believe she’s rouged them to make it more noticeable.
Lauren gave him a nod of pleased acknowledgment.
“She’s made her lips wet as an aroused clit, with a burgundy shade. Her beautiful blue eyes are outlined in black and shadowed in gold. The sleeves of her dress hook with a gold chain between the thumb and forefinger like a medieval gown.”
Marcus’s gaze descended, and his voice went to an appreciative sensual thickness. “She’s wearing gold thigh high boots with a three-inch spike heel and a gold chain circling the ankles. She’s slicked back her hair and scattered gold dust across it and her cheeks. She’s also carrying a very wicked crop, as you felt, and what appears to be a very long bullwhip.
