by Nikki Chase
“Your daughter, she likes flowers?”
It seems like a strange request to ask for flowers from the city. Judging by Quentin’s story about closing a particularly big deal in the city, he probably could’ve afforded better gifts on this trip, like branded handbags, designer gowns, or even jewelry.
“Yes, Your Highness. She’s a florist and she takes very good care of my late wife’s garden,” he says. “Please, I’m just a father trying to make his daughter happy.”
“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you stole from the kingdom. Your daughter wouldn’t be very happy if you were imprisoned in the dungeon.”
Quentin falls to his knees, staining his khakis with damp soil. “Please, Your Highness, don’t throw me in the dungeon. I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?” I ask.
This could be interesting.
James
Last Month
When my gaze first lands on her, she's on the other side of the big hall.
But I can see her clearly. It's like the crowd has parted to give me a clear line of sight. It’s like there's a spotlight shining on her and following her around.
I know the lighting technician wouldn't do that, though. I hired him myself and made it clear how important privacy is for my clientele. He knows I’d fuck him up if he ever violates my rules.
The spotlight should only ever remain on the stage, on the performers and the handful of guests who probably get off on public attention. Like me, the rest of the club prefers to remain anonymous.
The difference is, they get to take off their masks as soon as they step out of this club. Me, I normally wear mine home.
It's easier to blend into the crowd wearing a party mask than it is to just walk down the street as myself. As the crown prince, I’m often recognized when I’m out and about, which is why I prefer to stay inside the palace.
I can’t afford to have my pictures plastered all over the gossip tabloids again, especially when my presence here at The Dungeon is somewhat related to a past scandal. This is why I only visit The Dungeon on Masquerade Night, a monthly event that requires all attendees to—you guessed it—wear masks.
The men wear black, unadorned masks that cover the upper part of our faces. The women’s masks have the same shape, but many of them are made of sparkly materials, and some have colorful bird feathers stuck on the,.
But she doesn't need these tricks to stand out.
Even amongst a sea of people, my eyes always find her.
At first, I notice the dress. It's a little too conservative for the venue, but it's irresistibly sexy.
It's a yellow off-the-shoulder number that nips in at her narrow waist and follows the curve of her hips. The way the dress displays her dainty shoulders and elegant neck makes me want to rip it off her body and see what secrets she's hiding underneath.
Her body starts to sway seductively to the music. But she seems uncomfortable, like she's worried she's doing something wrong. She’s probably new and not sure what to expect here—and I’d love to be the one to show her the ropes.
My gaze travels down her slender arm and to her wrist, where I see a white band. Her other band, a pink one, tells me she doesn't have a master. She's a free agent, which means I can claim her. But what's that—a collar?
I move with the crowd, keeping my gaze locked on her lovely form, even though I don't fully understand this pull toward her. I can always watch her from my private booth upstairs, but that won't be close enough.
It's bizarre; she's a beauty, but I see beautiful women all the time, and none of them has this kind of an impact on me. She gets me excited—my heartbeat is faster than usual—and it's been a while since the last time that happened.
By the time I find a good spot to watch her, the host has gotten up on stage and announced a new show. I don't care, though. Not now. Not with her in the crowd.
I’ve traveled all the way to Malvern to watch this show live, but even that doesn't seem appealing anymore.
From up close, she’s even more stunning. Her eyes are so big they're almost cartoonish. Her hair catches the light from the stage, making it seem like she has a glowing halo around her—it makes her appear even more out of place in this club full of depraved people.
I take a closer look at the thing curled around the graceful column of her neck. It doesn't seem to be a collar, but a choker necklace with a small gold pendant.
Arousal rises within, kindling a flame inside me. She’d look so good on her knees with a real collar—my collar—around her neck and nothing else.
She obviously needs a master. Even without her saying anything, I can tell she’d do well and even flourish, with the right master.
Just watch her. Really watch her. The tell-tale signs are subtle, but they're there.
On stage, a man has tied up a woman to a wooden post on the floor. The bottom part of the post looks like an inverted Y, spreading her legs apart. A horizontal piece tops the post, keeping her wrists spread and restrained. She has her knees on the ground and her ass in the air.
“You understand why I’m punishing you?” the man asks as he menacingly raises his whip.
“Yes, Master. Because I talked back to you, Master,” she says in a voice that betrays her fear and anxiety. With a blindfold over her eyes, she can't tell what's going on around her. She can't even see the hundreds of people watching her in her most vulnerable state right now.
“That's right.” The man swiftly brings down the whip, the leather slicing through the air with an audible sound.
As it lands sharply, the woman cries out. “Thank you, Master!” she adds quickly, afraid delayed gratitude would earn her more blows.
I don’t even have to look at the couple on the stage to know exactly what’s going on from the sounds alone.
How can I watch something as mundane as the show, when there’s a captivating, innocent-looking angel in front of me?
Her brown eyes widen when the whip hits the sub’s ass again. Her mouth opens with a gasp, and my cock stirs in my pants as my imagination goes wild with all the filthy things I can do with those full lips.
With every lash, she flinches like most of the audience, but the way she bites her bottom lip tells me she’ll fantasize about this scene when she goes home and lies alone in the dark, her naughty little fingers in her panties.
All around us, men in suits and masks hold leashes that are connected to their subs’ collars.
One man up in the booth has his sub kneeling on the floor between his thighs, pleasuring him orally as he watches the show.
A few feet behind me, a man leans back against the wall as he puts one hand around his sub’s neck and another hand down her skimpy panties.
My hands have never felt more empty. I want to take off her stupid choker and replace it with my collar. I’ll take her with me to the club and show off her obedience and her commitment to my pleasure.
I squint to take a better look at the gold pendant hanging between her clavicles.
Is that...a rose?
I almost burst out laughing, but I stop myself just in time. I may be wearing a mask, but I still can't afford to draw attention to myself. It's too easy for someone to recognize me.
Me, caught in a BDSM club? That would be a paparazzi’s wet dream. The tabloids would have a field day.
But a rose. That is too fucking perfect. It's like she has already been branded with my family crest, like she's already mine.
I have to talk to her.
As if she can hear my thoughts, she whispers something in her friend’s ear and leaves the crowd, making her way to the ladies’ room.
Her friend is wearing a collar. I can't see the end of the leash from where I'm standing, but it's safe to assume she's here with the guy beside her.
I wonder if that makes my little rose feel lonely, being the third wheel. Maybe she yearns for a firm hand to take control of her. Judging from how much she enjoys the show, she probably does.
I fol
low her and find a spot by the restrooms where I can wait for her.
My mind wanders to imagine what she's doing right now. I wonder if her panties are soaked, if her pussy is throbbing with desire.
After a few minutes that feel like hours, she appears.
She's teetering on her high heels, her hips swaying sensuously with every step she takes. She stops as she faces the crowd, craning her neck to find her friend.
I step in front of her and block her view.
“You must be new here,” I say to her bewildered face.
Her big brown eyes grow even bigger as she tilts her head up to look at me. “Uh...yeah,” she says.
She's so small I can just throw her over one shoulder and take her home right now, kicking and screaming, but that wouldn't be much fun.
I’d rather train her slowly and watch as she blooms before my eyes. I’d love to see her shed that self-consciousness and replace it the quiet confidence of a submissive, secure in the knowledge that only her master’s opinion matters, and her master is pleased with her.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. There's still a long way to go until she becomes my perfect submissive. But as I watch her, I know she's a diamond in the rough.
“I trust you’ve already been told to never make eye contact unless explicitly requested,” I say.
Her lips part in surprise, but no sound comes out. Instinctively, she starts to raise her eyes to look up at me again, but she catches herself and directs her gaze downward instead. “Sorry,” she says softly.
“And you’re supposed to address men in the club with respect,” I add. I take another step closer to her, until there are mere inches between us.
The proximity between us excites her. Maybe she likes it that I’m invading her personal space without asking for permission. Or maybe it's the fact that I'm calling her out and putting her in her place.
Whatever it is, she's responding to me—at least her body is. Her breathing picks up, and her face grows warm with color. She even squeezes her legs together, the muscles in her toned legs tensing.
She's getting aroused, and all it takes is a few words from me.
“Sorry, Sir,” she says, correcting herself.
The sight of her in that state, combined with the way she has just addressed me, sends blood rushing through my veins. My cock jumps in my pants.
I want to see how she reacts to my hand pulling her hair, and my lips all over her smooth skin. I want to tie her up with her legs parted wide and bury myself balls deep inside her.
For the second time tonight, I wonder how wet she is.
But judging from the white wristband and how unfamiliar she is with this environment, she's not ready yet for something like that. If I move too fast, she might run away like a scared little hare.
No, an exquisite treasure like her requires careful handling.
“Good girl,” I praise her.
She seems taken aback by my words. Obviously, she has never been addressed like that before. And evidently, she likes it.
“You're supposed to express gratitude when you're given a compliment,” I say.
“I’m sorry, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” she says, her breaths rapid and heavy. She's a quick learner, and she's responsive to my dominance.
“Good,” I say. “Next time I see you, you’d better remember the rules.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Or else I’ll have to punish you.”
Her breath catches, and I would've heard a soft gasp from her, if the music didn't drown it out. God, what I wouldn't give to steal her away to my palace, where I can hear every delicious little noise she makes…
“You may leave now,” I say, dismissing her.
She almost glances up at me again, surprised the encounter is over—and at least a little disappointed. She catches herself in time and says, “Thank you, Sir,” before she walks away.
Too bad I have to let her go for now. But her reaction has just confirmed that taking it slow would be the best strategy.
Keep her on her toes, and keep her guessing. She's already wondering what I’m doing, why I'm sending her away after giving her a heady taste of what it means to submit.
I’ve already gotten into her head.
Yes, this one will take some time to get ready, but it’ll be worth it.
I’ll find her again, even if it means I'll have to leave the palace on my own more often, even if it means I’ll risk getting caught.
Rosemary
You've already killed Mother, and now you’re going to take Father away, too?
Nobody actually says it out loud, but I can hear those phantom words. I see it in the accusing eyes of my siblings. Even my father is avoiding my gaze.
We're sitting at our dining table, but the mood is somber. Normally, on the rare occasion when Father’s home, the atmosphere would feel more festive, more celebratory.
But there's nothing to celebrate today.
Father is home—which is exactly what I've been hoping for. It should be cause enough for a celebration. But he brings bad news with him.
Father has just told us what had happened to him while he was away.
It's all because of my rose. All due to a stupid flower that was going to wilt in a few days anyway.
And now he’ll have to go back to the man who has threatened him. He’ll have to risk his safety. All for a dumb flower.
Father won't tell us who the man is, but he’s probably someone powerful. I mean, if picking plant matter at his residence is a crime, then he must have some kind of a title.
He's probably someone like a Baron or a Viscount. Maybe even an Earl.
“Do you really have to go back, Father?” Irina asks.
“Yes, I promised the man,” Father says.
The dining table goes quiet as all of us think about what that means. It’s only a flower—surely the punishment won’t be too harsh?
“Did you get to buy my bag in the city, Father?” Clara breaks the silence.
“Sorry, honey. I did buy them, but I had to leave everything in the truck because the storm was so bad. I’ll have to go back another day to check if it’s still there.”
Both my sisters turn their heads to stare at the long stem of rose in my hands.
“So only Rosemary got what she wanted,” Clara says, giving me the side-eye.
I drop my gaze to look at my pricey flower that Father will have to pay for with his freedom.
It still has all its little leaves and thorns because Father didn't have time to remove them before the man chanced upon him. But the lone red rose is stunningly beautiful.
Most of the petals are still tightly wrapped around the center, except for a couple that are starting to peel away from the rest. It's like the petals are huddling close for safety, knowing how dark and dangerous it is out here.
“Father, if you're away, then how are we going to survive?”
Father glances at me, but quickly averts his gaze. I understand he doesn't want to put all the financial burden on me, but there's no other way.
“I don't know how long I’ll be gone, but I’ll try to talk to the thrift-store owner and ask him to come over. There might be some things we can sell,” Father says.
“Oh my god,” Irina says, covering her face with both hands in dramatic fashion. “What are the neighbors going to say?”
“I’ll ask for more shifts at the flower shop,” I say. “Mrs. Greene has been asking me to start working full time anyway.”
“You mean you could've been making more money, this whole time?” Clara asks, her jaw dropping.
“Yes,” I admit, resisting the urge to snap at her.
It’s never a good idea to bring up the fact that neither one of my sisters work. It always ends with them sobbing hysterically, and me feeling like I’m the bad guy.
Besides, I deserve their anger this time, for putting Father in danger.
I press my thumb against a thorn on the long stem of the rose, pushing through that initial refl
ex to cringe away from the pain. I have to welcome the pain. Pain is strength.
“So we could’ve gotten new dresses for summer?” Irina asks, just as incredulously.
“Do you know how important it is that we look good, Rosemary? We can't get the rich guys unless we look like the kind of girls who belong beside them,” Clara adds.
“Yeah, we’re applying for the positions of their wives, so we have to look the part. As they say, dress for the job you want and not for the job you have.”
I’m tempted to ask her what she really knows about getting any kind of a job, but I bite my tongue and force myself to smile.
“You're making it hard for us to earn some money for the family, Rosemary. Do you care at all about us?”
Glancing down, I see red blood pooling where the thorn pricks me.
It feels good.
It distracts me from my thoughts, keeping the hot anger within me at a gentle simmer. This is not the time to make waves.
This is my fault. I have to face the consequences.
“But how about your apprenticeship with Mr. Taggins, dear?” Father asks me.
My heart clenches. He's still thinking something so trivial at a time like this. I keep failing him, and he keeps heaping kindness on top of me.
“Don't worry about it, Father.” I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “I don't know what I was thinking, applying for the apprenticeship. Our town already has one botanist and doesn't need any more. I’m happy with my job at the flower shop.”
“Father, can't Rosemary go instead of you?” Irina asks.
“Yes, the flower was for her after all,” Clara says.
He widens his eyes like a deer in headlights.
Really, my sisters shouldn't put our father in a spot like that. Father has already gotten himself in trouble for me. My sisters won't be happy if he sides with me now.
So instead of going against them, I ask, “Yes, Father, is there no other way?”
We all want the same thing. There's no reason why we can't find a solution together.
