To Command and Collar

by Cherise Sinclair

  Well, then. He had a masochist who preferred him to the others, he had equipment, and he obviously had time. Apparently he had a scene to do.

  His concentration narrowed.

  He stepped behind the woman and ran his fingers over the pretty spattering of freckles on her shoulders. “Linda,” he said quietly. “Are you ready to begin?”

  Under the freckles, her muscles tensed. She nodded.

  “When I ask you a question, I want to hear your voice, girl,” he said in an even tone, setting up the rules of the game. His hands curved around her wrists, adding to her sensation of restraint as he pressed his groin into her from behind, then let his whole body meld with hers, pushing her ribs against the wood in the middle. “You can call me Master if you need to beg.”

  He threaded his fingers into her short hair, tugging her head to one side so he could close his teeth on the curve between her neck and shoulder. He bit down firmly, enough to hurt. Waking her to her helplessness and his intent. The beast inside him moved forward; his body felt larger, stronger.

  “If you yell, ‘Mercy, Master,’ I will…perhaps…give you a break,” he growled, sickened and aroused at the same time. He never worked without a safe word, without consent, but to save her from worse, he’d have to do so—or at least appear to do so. “Say it now.”

  “Mercy, Master,” she whispered. Even her lips looked soft, slightly puffy. Kissable and damn fuckable.

  “Good,” he grunted. He rubbed his hands over her arms and shoulders and down her back, pleased with the gentle hollow at the base of her spine. A big-arsed woman, his British friends would say. His favorite kind. He slapped that white ass, one cheek, then the other. Not hard, just enough to warm the skin, stroking the sting away before striking again. He hadn’t bothered with trying to fasten her ankles to the legs of the cross, not with one shackled, but he set one boot between her feet and shoved them roughly apart.

  “I want you open to me,” he said in a raw voice and was hell of pleased to see a flush rise into her face. His eyes narrowed, meeting hers, and she flinched and dropped her gaze. Submissive. God, she was a beauty.

  Pushing the noise of the auction from his mind, he filled his thoughts with only this woman. He slid his hands over her ample curves, over her rounded stomach to her God-bethanked breasts. Heavy in his cupped palms, spilling over the sides. Fucking her would be like burying himself in a down quilt, surrounded by feminine softness.

  He pressed his chest against her back, delightfully surprised when she didn’t cringe away. When he rubbed his erection on her reddened ass, he heard the smallest moan—and hell with it, he needed to know. He put his hand on her pussy, unsurprised to find she’d begun to dampen. “You’re wet, girl.”

  “I’m a slut.” The self-loathing and misery in her voice pissed him off considerably. Raoul had mentioned something about this.

  He growled in her ear and pressed his cock between her buttocks. “Feel that, missy? A man’s dick rises with the smell of a female, with the sound of a woman’s voice, with the dawn, at the sight of pretty tits, at the touch of…anything. No one calls us names because our cocks aren’t under our control.” He cupped his hand over her—nicely—bare cunt, playing in the dampness. “So when a woman’s pussy reacts on its own, why would I call her a name?” He sucked on her earlobe, surprising a shudder out of her, then ran his scratchy cheek over hers, giving the so-sensitive nerves there a hint of pain. And her juices responded.

  “I’ve been doing this a long time, girl,” he said, using her own arousal to slicken her vulnerable clit. “And I’m not only good at it, but we—you and me—we have something between us.”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Yes, missy.” When she tried to pull her legs together, he kicked them open again and felt her tightening nipple press into his palm. The beast inside him said, Hurt this one and make her mine.

  Dammit, not mine. I’m here to stall. Dragging his brains up from where they’d lodged in his balls, he diverted himself with a quick check of the restraints. Hands were pink, cuffs not too tight. Then to please himself, he cupped both of her breasts again, hearing her inhale, feeling her heat against his body.

  “I’m going to make you hurt now, girl,” he whispered. Her breasts were heavy in his hands, and he tightened his grip until he heard her breath catch. “I’m going to whip you until you dance the dance, until your screaming wakes God himself.” He pulled her nipples, pinching cruelly.

  Tears stood in her eyes—and her ass pushed back against his shaft. “No, please.” Her head whipped back and forth as she moved her body, trying to evade his grip.

  He wanted to see her face. A shame he couldn’t walk around the cross and simply look at her; he preferred a chain station for that reason. But this was what he had. He grabbed her chin and turned her face toward him. Her eyes held the pain he’d given her, showing some fear—and more heat. Just right.

  “Eyes on me,” he snapped. “And don’t look away.” He took one nipple, rolling it between his fingers. Damn, he wished the slavers provided breast clamps as well as impact toys. He squeezed harder, enjoying the whine in her throat. Pulled and pinched, studying her eyes to judge the right amount, and savored the blossoming of fresh pain in her eyes, her face, the way her body stiffened, muscles tensing here and there.

  Sweat started to bead on her upper lip.

  He smiled at her. “That’s a good girl. Let’s do the other side.”

  “Master, please. My breasts are sensitive.”

  He paused, knowing even now that she wouldn’t safe-word out, that this was the beginning of the dance, and he answered the need under her words. “I know they are, Linda. That’s why I’m doing this.” And he squeezed her other nipple.

  “Eeeeee.” Her scream caught between her teeth as she shut it down. Her arms jerked with her efforts to escape. To push him away. Her knees sagged.

  He stroked her damp face. “Those screams in there aren’t going to be buried very long,” he whispered into her ear. Her hair was silky, and he rubbed his cheek over it. “If we were somewhere else, afterward I’d fuck you hard…and pull on your nipples every time you came.”

  The tremor ran from her breasts all the way to her fingers, and he smiled.

  Stepping back, he ran his fingers down her ass, between her legs, to the dampness on her inner thighs. He teased the folds between her legs, nice fat labia—perfectly designed for clamps. His finger slid into her, earning a low moan and wiggle. Very wet. She’d be a joy to fuck. He played with her clit and cunt, the scent and little noises she gave upping his own desire.

  She’d take more pain and last longer if he could keep her arousal high. Fucking slavers— he damn well didn’t want to be here.

  He wiped her juices off on her leg and felt her flinch, remembered her word. Slut. He gripped her hair, pulled her head back. “I like you wet, Linda,” he growled. “And what I want is all you have to worry about right now. Clear?”

  The way she moistened her lips to speak… The way her response flowed to him was getting to him. Hell. He took advantage of how he’d made her arch, and shoved his hand between her legs again—forcefully this time—pushing into her in a manner that showed exactly what he wanted to do to her.

  A tremor ran through her as she clenched around him. More moisture wet his fingers.

  She liked rough. Hell, maybe he’d add a little pussy pain while he was at it. Drive her high before endorphins shoved her head into the clouds.

  He barely glanced at the two buyers who stood nearby as he strolled to his spot. Even turned away from her, he could almost feel her breathing. Feel how the ache in her breasts receded, but the memory lingered. Feel how she craved more.

  After a second, he picked up the cane. Time to warm her up. A slow, slow warm-up. Damn them for not having his favorite toys available. But a light application would work well enough.

  He started by sliding the rattan over her legs, letting her enjoy the smoothness of it, the hardness, before ru
nning it up her front.

  She stiffened.

  That’s right, girl. This is a cane. But pain wouldn’t come from it. It was just for warm-up to the whip.

  Tapping lightly, occasionally giving her a feather-stroke touch, he woke up the flesh on her back, butt, and thighs. He followed the path of the cane with his free hand as her muscles gradually lost their tension.

  Her breathing slowed.

  He increased the intensity, keeping to the sting rather than the blow. Her body was still relaxed, and from the tiny curve of her lips, he knew the small smacking sounds of the cane pleased them both.

  Her ass was turning a pretty pinkish red, a color that made a dom want to use his hand to see if he could darken it. Light play just didn’t do it for him. He glanced at his watch. How long could he drag this out? He saw an attendant talking to a buyer and frowning in his direction. Not long.

  He tossed the cane off to one side and picked up the whip. A dragon’s tail—not his favorite but a good choice in tight quarters. About three feet of rolled leather opening into a swordlike shape and ending in the distinctive point. At least the leather on this was thin enough to give a whippy sensation. After rolling his shoulders, loosening his arm, he snapped the tail a few times, getting the feel, gauging his accuracy, smiling each time she flinched at the light crack. Hell of a lot lighter than a flogger—he could do this all day.

  Then he let the end strike, enjoying the slapping sound, up and down her back, her ass, her upper thighs, finishing the warm-up in the medium range of pain. He moved into a good rhythm, watching her start to fog over. Her breathing deepened as he slowed his strikes.

  He stopped and stepped forward quickly so the loss of the whip was balanced by his hand on her shoulder, the pressure of his body against her back. Rubbing his chest and groin on her reddened skin should give her a rush of pain from everywhere, different from the individual slaps of a whip. Her gasp felt as if it gripped his balls.

  After checking her restraints and circulation, he turned her head, looked into her eyes. “You still with me here, Linda?”

  She blinked and actually smiled at him. “That’s my name. You used my name.”

  This one could tear a man’s heart right out of his chest. “That’s who you are. Linda.” He kissed her cheek and brought her back to the scene by taking her lips, taking her from lightness to hard and demanding. Her body melted into his, then revved with arousal when he cupped her breasts and teased her puckered nipples into jutting points—velvet softness, the bigger size said she’d nursed her babies. He wanted his mouth on them.

  Instead, he ran his hand down to her pussy, beautifully wet and puffy. Her instinctive pulling away from the intimacy rubbed her soft ass right on his cock, forcing her forward again and onto his fingers. A nice predicament for a little sub.

  But he solved it for her, removing her choices by leaning forward, trapping her even as he penetrated her with a finger. Hot, wet sheath.

  He felt how her arousal, her need, vied with her wish to move away from him, to keep herself hidden from him. She made a sound he couldn’t interpret, then whispered, “No. Don’t.” Her words were negated by the low moan she gave.

  “Are you asking for mercy, girl?” he whispered, pinching her clit lightly and sliding back in.

  Panting, she hesitated. “Yes.” She shook her head. “No.”

  “Then we continue. You ready for some real pain now?”

  Her cunt clenched around his fingers, and he grinned.

  After picking up the dragon whip, he did a set, up and down her body, bringing her pain level back to where she’d been before. Then he held the tip of the tail in his free hand and snapped it at her ass like a rolled towel. The end hit. Her skin jumped a split second before her jerk. A sob came from her, and he smiled.

  “Not the same sensation, is it, missy?” Snap, snap, snap. “Feel a little like a whip?” Snap, snap, snap. Her first tear splattered onto the floor, then more. The dragon’s tail flicked its way down the backs of her thighs in pretty red streaks, the narrow leather giving barely satisfying cracks.

  And up her legs, her ass, her back. Her first gasping scream.

  “That’s a good girl. Give me more.” After easing up for a moment, not too long, he worked her into pain, into screams that satisfied his soul and squeezed his cock. By the time she tipped into a truly deep subspace, she’d stopped holding anything from him.

  Her husky scream resonated in his balls.

  He continued a little longer, watching closely now. A safe word wasn’t worth shit if a sub’s brain wasn’t awake enough to use it. He lightened up, finishing what they’d both wanted. Needed. Then even slower, gentling the strikes. Bringing her down.

  Sweat made her skin gleam as if covered in oil. Her head sagged against her upraised arm although her legs still held most of her weight. Yes, she was no stranger to bondage and pain. He set the whip down and moved forward, feeling like a predator stalking his prey but also a man wanting to please a woman. Sadistic. Dominant.

  He ran his hands over her, pleased with his handiwork, even more pleased with her gasp as his thick calluses scraped her abused skin. Her ass pushed back as if begging. He straightened and turned her head. Still mostly in subspace. Aroused and needy.

  Damned if he’d fuck her here, treat her like that, but he could at least ease her, give her relief. And if he walked around with a boner for a while, it wouldn’t be the first or last time. He bit her neck, reminding her of his presence, emotionally ground-tying her so she didn’t detach entirely.

  “You gave me your pain.” His voice came out raspy. “Now give me your pleasure.” His rough fondling of her breasts brought forth a moan, and when he reached down to her swollen, wet pussy, she was right with him. Her body showed her need; her eyes showed her submission.

  Surrounding her with his body, reading the tightening of her muscles, hearing the faint noises in her throat, he stroked over her engorged clit, working her up and up. Was there anything more satisfying than moans after screams? He kept her on the edge, savoring the quivers of her inner thighs around his big wrist, then stroked firmly.

  When she came—her hips bucking, her pussy creaming over his hand—her wailing moan ran down his spine.

  He leaned against her curvy back and her lush ass, pressing her into the cross as he nuzzled her neck, adding sweetness to the ending.

  * * * *

  Don’t look at the cage in the corner. Don’t look at Lord Greville . Kim stared at her knees, controlling her breathing. Controlling the panic was like piloting a boat in a tropical storm, trying to keep the bow headed into the seas. The counselor’s suggestion of imagining Greville with a rabbit-sized dick, whiskers, and a fuzzy tail didn’t help at all.

  The men talked. Lord Greville had a voice like his whip, cutting and ripping, leaving bloody flesh behind.

  The Overseer’s voice was an oil film on water, suffocating all life beneath. Her chest tightened.

  When Master R spoke, the sound washed her clean, let her breathe. His knee pressed against her shoulder, bumping her now and then as if to keep her in the present. Her shoulders straightened. Pay attention. He’ll need your help.

  “You’d said that buying damaged merchandise might have been a mistake, so this is your opportunity to find a slave more suited to your needs,” the Overseer said, still trying to arbitrate.

  “I see. I did complain about the damage, didn’t I?” Master R sounded so reasonable, they probably didn’t hear the tight thread of anger underlying his words. “You’re offering to buy me a different slave?” She felt the vibration as his fingers tapped on her leash. “I wouldn’t mind owning one with a curvier figure. Big breasts appeal to me.”

  What? After a moment of fear—then a sense of insult—she understood he was stalling for time. He could do no less, although all she wanted was out of here. The sickly sweet scent of Lord Greville’s cologne filled the air, and she breathed through her mouth, trying not to gag. The sounds of screaming came
faintly past the closed door. The auction was going on.

  “Well then, we should be able to work something out.” The Overseer sounded relieved.

  “Perhaps. Unfortunately, the slaves here are masochists—not anything I’m interested in. What other auctions do you have coming up?”

  “I—Well, the next will be in October. The black-and-white affair, featuring blondes and brunettes, with a sampling of black women as well.”

  “I definitely like blondes. That might work out quite well.” Master R rose. “In October then. And Greville there will buy whatever slave I wish in return for the girl.”

  The leash tightened; Kim started to rise.

  “Unacceptable. I’ll take possession of her now.” Lord Greville’s voice was flat.

  “Leave me without a slave? I think not. October.”

  “I’ll buy her outright then. How much?”

  “Still leaves me without a slave.” Master R pulled, and Kim rose to her feet, staying a step behind him.

  “The hell with this. Just take her.” Lord Greville motioned to his men.

  Master R dropped the leash and shoved her toward the door. “Run!”

  She scrambled away, expecting him behind her—only he wasn’t. He’d charged the bodyguards. She hesitated and—

  The Overseer slammed into her, knocking her into the wall. He grabbed her hair and yanked her back against his body.

  No! She jammed her elbow into his gut.

  He folded over but still clung to her hair.

  Screaming, she ignored his grip, curling her fingers into claws.

  Two against one. Dios . A big fist grazed Raoul’s face, leaving a burn in its wake. He spun and kicked the other guard in the gut, knocking him on his ass. Spin back, block another fist, try for a knee. Missed. The guards were both damn good fighters. Scarface’s return punch nailed him in the jaw, stunning him.

  Raoul shook his head and half-blindly punched back, feeling the impact and crunch as his fist hit a nose. A bellow. Hot spray of blood. He twisted to check the other.