“If I let you come, I’m going to have to punish you afterwards. You understand that, don’t you, slave?”
“Yes, Mistress,” Owen breathed, his cock pulsing beneath her fingers. He groaned when she lowered her mouth again. She suckled and licked, loving the taste of him and the silky feel of his skin beneath her tongue.
“Please, Mistress, may I come?” he cried after only a few minutes of attention. “Please!” He was breathing hard, his skin hot to the touch, his eyes squeezed closed.
He was still gripping the bars, which pleased her. “Yes, slave. You may come.” She lowered her head again, while holding the base of his shaft and massaging upward.
With a cry, Owen lifted his hips, thrusting his cock deeper into Sylvie’s throat as he released his seed in several hot spurts. Sylvie kept him in her mouth until he sagged back against the mattress. Only then did she let him go.
Leaning close, she murmured, “And now I’ll cane you to remind you that with the pleasure comes the pain.”
Chapter 12
“I’m so glad you could meet for lunch. I know how busy you are.” Harry Bernstein, aka Master H., smiled warmly at Sylvie. They’d just placed their orders at the upscale Japanese restaurant to which Harry had invited her.
She’d been intrigued by his phone call the day before, in which he said he had an offer for her, one too big to discuss over the phone. Harry had always been given to creating mysteries and heightening expectations, but he delivered on those expectations. This was one reason why his BDSM club had been so successful and remained so in demand, years after others had come and gone.
Sylvie sipped her sake and reached for another piece of sushi, wondering when Harry would bring up the offer “too big to discuss over the phone”. It wasn’t until the waitress had cleared their plates and brought another bottle of sake that Harry got to the point. “Now, the reason for this visit, my dear, aside from the pleasure of your company.” He smiled and she smiled back, waiting. “I’m delighted you have come out of hiding at last. You wouldn’t believe all the comments I got after your scene at the club. People have asked repeatedly when you’re coming back. You have a dozen volunteers all ready and waiting.” He laughed. “You have a knack,” he went on. “You know how to engage your audience. Not only that—your reputation precedes you. You’re widely regarded in the BDSM community as one of the best pro Dommes out there.”
“Thank you,” Sylvie said, not quite sure where this was going. “Though I have to say, lately I’m growing a bit tired of the pressures of the business. I’ve been handing more and more of it over to my assistant, Isabel. She’s quite accomplished in her own right.”
“Perfect!” Harry exclaimed. “That dovetails beautifully with my proposal. I’ve been thinking for some time about opening another club. One with more of a het bent than Chains. The thing is, I can’t do it all, and my heart and time still belong to Chains. But you know what a control freak I am. I don’t want just anyone running my new club. I want someone with experience. Someone who understands the hetero mindset. Someone who is well-connected with people who would want to frequent the club. Someone who shares my passion for all things BDSM. In a word, darling, you.”
“Me?” Sylvie echoed, surprised.
“Yes. You’d be perfect. You’re beautiful, accomplished, sophisticated. People love your accent.” He laughed. “Seriously, though, I would give you all the support you need—waitstaff, all the latest toys, whatever you want. You would be the creative force, and of course the Mistress of Ceremonies, running the demonstrations, shaping the atmosphere and nuance of the place with your woman’s touch and European sensibilities. I’ll make you a partner with a fifty percent stake in the business. I put up the cash—you put up your time and expertise.”
Sylvie had no idea how much money Harry’s club generated, but she knew a venture of this nature would take a lot of time and a huge commitment, especially at first. At the same time, she recognized this might be the perfect venue for her—a way to ease herself out of the pro Domme business, but continue to earn a living. Still, it was so sudden, and the commitment was one that, if she made it, she knew she wouldn’t take lightly.
“I’m honored, Harry. It sounds like an ambitious venture. I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes!” Harry boomed.
Sylvie thought of Owen. He worked during the week, often spending as much as sixty hours in his role as partner of his architecture firm. A club like this would require her presence at night and on the weekends. When would they see each other? How would it affect their relationship?
When she didn’t reply right away, Harry shrugged, offering a sheepish grin. “Mark warned me not to come on too strong. I guess I don’t know any other way.” Harry reached into his jacket and extracted a thick envelope. “Here are the details of the proposal. I’m open to any and all input from you. This includes a general outline of my ideas, some possible locations for the venue, and some rough numbers regarding cost and projected revenues. There is also some balance sheet and revenue information for Chains, just to give you an idea of what this sort of venture can generate.” He pushed the envelope toward her. “Look it over. Take your time. Talk it over with your financial advisor. Sleep on it a few days and then let me know. Is it a deal?”
Sylvie smiled, placing her hand over the envelope. “Deal.”
Sylvie’s smart phone whistled softly, indicating she had a text. Putting down her novel, she reached for the phone, noticing the time—a little after midnight.
Sorry it’s so late. Hope I’m not waking you. The meeting went waaaaaay longer than I’d hoped. Exhausted. Can I see you tomorrow night?
It was from Owen. That afternoon when he’d called, he’d said he hoped to be done with his meeting by eight that evening. She’d saved him some dinner in case he came by, barely admitting to herself how disappointed she was when he’d called around eight-thirty, still stuck in a what he had called, “the meeting from hell.”
Now Sylvie texted back: I have appointments until nine pm tomorrow. Meet for a late dinner?
Great. We’ll coordinate tomorrow. I’ll have my people call your people.
Sylvie laughed and then sighed. Between the two of them, they were always juggling schedules. If she did take Harry up on his offer, something would have to give. As if reading her mind from afar, Owen texted: How did the lunch go with Master H. today? What was his big news?
I’ll tell you tomorrow at dinner. Je t’aime.
I love you too! Get some rest, sweet Mistress.
And you, my love.
~*~
Over dinner the next night at an Irish pub, Sylvie pulled out an envelope and handed it to Owen. As he opened it, she summarized Master H.’s proposal for a new BDSM club. “I’ve thought a lot about it, Owen. I’m just not sure I’m willing or able to take on such a big responsibility by myself. It seems overwhelming.”
Owen scanned the documents, his lips pursed in concentration. He had a good head for business, one reason his own company had thrived, even during recessions. “The numbers look good,” he said, glancing over at her. “Of course, any new venture has its uncertainties, but it sounds like he’s willing to bear all the financial risk. I can look into these locations for you—get the specs and the inside scoop on the properties.”
He put the papers down and took a breath. “I guess this is as good a time as any to bring up something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.”
“Go on.” Sylvie smiled at him and Owen’s heart warmed as it always did whenever she looked at him.
He hoped she wouldn’t misinterpret what he was about to say, or think he was moving too fast. What the hell—there was only one way to find out. “You know, back when I started as an architect, I worked for a huge firm. I was a tiny cog in a big machine, and for the first couple of years I was lucky if I got to design the bathrooms or parking garage of an office building. When I started my own company, I was in charge. I got to lead on the design work an
d make the big decisions. For years I haven’t minded the long hours because it’s been my business.” He shrugged and sighed. “You know as well as I do what running your own business can take. I hate to say it, but looking back, one reason my marriage cratered was I didn’t give the relationship the time and commitment it needed to grow.”
Owen reached for Sylvie’s hand. “I know it’s only been a few months, Sylvie, and I don’t want to rush you in any way. By the same token, I don’t want that to happen again. What we have is so special. I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life.” He frowned as he added, “But look at what I keep doing to you. Take last night as an example. My work just consumes too damn much time. I’m thinking of cutting back. Of selling out to my partner and just staying on as a part-time consultant.”
Sylvie nodded slowly, her expression difficult to read. Owen waited, biting his lower lip. Finally she said, “You know, Owen. It’s funny you mention this now, because I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
“You have? About me cutting back my hours?”
“No, silly, about me cutting back my hours. Isabel is hungry for the business, and frankly, since you’ve entered my life, I don’t have time or energy to deal with all those eager sub boys demanding my attention.” She grinned but then sobered. “Truth to tell, I have lost my fire with my clients, and as such I feel I am doing them a disservice. I’ve been thinking it was time to retire. I, too, want to focus more on us.”
She reached for the papers Owen was still holding, and he passed them to her. “So, you think this is a good idea, this new club? I don’t want it to become something else that takes away from us.”
Owen nodded. “If his numbers are reliable, then yes, I do. If this new club earns even half of what Chains is apparently taking in annually, you would earn plenty. But you’re right—it’s a big commitment, not something to be entered lightly.”
“Not something to be entered alone,” Sylvie replied.
“Excuse me?” Owen cocked his head at her.
“I want a working partner with me, from start to finish. I didn’t want to say anything to Harry until I talked it over with you, but I think he’d be amenable to me bringing someone else onboard, especially someone with your depth of knowledge of the real estate market in Manhattan, and your expertise in running a successful company. I need someone I can trust, someone who understands and shares my love of BDSM, and who knows what the people coming to such a club would be looking for. I want a man to stand by my side on opening night, and to help me coordinate the demonstrations. In a word, Owen, I want you. I want you to come into this venture with me as a full partner. If I accept, I’ll tell Harry that those are my terms.” She paused, adding, “If you’re interested, of course.”
Owen sat still, absorbing what Sylvie had just proposed. It would mean they would spend almost every waking hour together for the next however many months it took to get the place up and running. It meant they would be in business together, with all the pressure and aggravation that kind of relationship entailed. It could ruin their personal relationship if they let the stress get to them. Or it could cement and deepen it, as they shared something that mattered to them both.
“I would have to get out from under my obligations first—” he began.
“So you’d consider it?” she interrupted, gripping his arm. She was gazing at him with such sweet pleading. Owen had always felt, until this moment, that he had been the “needier” one of the relationship, if such labels could be applied. Now she needed him, and it made Owen swell with pride. At that moment, he made a solemn, silent vow to himself never to let her down, no matter what.
“I would definitely consider it, my sweet Mistress.” He lifted her hand and kissed her palm. “For you I would do anything. Anything in the world.”
~*~
Opening night jitters. If Sylvie had had a chance to breathe, she might have felt them. As it was, until this moment she had been too focused on last minute details to waste time worrying. Despite the inevitable complications and setbacks they’d faced in finding the right property, working with contractors and vendors, and getting the space designed in a way that reflected their shared vision, things had gone surprisingly smoothly, and in only three months they were ready for opening night.
The location Owen had selected wasn’t that far from Chains in the increasingly trendy meatpacking district. It consisted of a freestanding two-story building that had once been a warehouse. Built of brick, it had no windows on the first story, which was ideal to maintain the discretion necessary for this sort of club. The bottom floor was one spacious room, to which they’d added bathrooms and a kitchen, while the upstairs contained a number of smaller rooms designed for private scenes.
Excited with the drawings and plans Owen and Sylvie had come up with, Master H. had given them carte blanche to create the kind of upscale, sophisticated venue he had envisioned. There were still a dozen little things that could be done to make it better, but they’d picked a date to open the club, and had somehow managed to stick to it.
Sylvie took a last look around the space, hugging herself. This was it—opening night.
Owen, wearing an open-necked white silk pirate’s shirt tucked into buttery soft black leather pants that cupped the sexy bulge between his legs, came out of the kitchen behind the bar, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. The thick braided chain of silver and rose gold she’d given him as a slave collar gleamed at his throat in the ambient lighting. When he put his arm around her, Sylvie leaned into him with a sigh.
“Do you think anyone will come?” she asked, butterflies dancing in her stomach.
“Take a look out the peephole, why don’t you?” Owen suggested.
Sylvie moved toward the front doors, smiling at Jordan, the imposing six-foot-six man who packed maybe two-hundred-forty pounds of solid muscle beneath his black T-shirt and black jeans. A one-time client of Sylvie’s, they’d hired Jordan to serve as doorman and, if necessary, bouncer, though hopefully that function wouldn’t be called into play.
He stepped aside as Sylvie peeked through the peephole. She gasped in astonishment. A crowd of easily a hundred people was milling outside, clustered in groups, eyes fixed on the door.
“They’ve been lining up since eight,” Owen grinned. “Word is definitely out.” He turned to the three men and three women waiting near the entrance, each of whom was holding a silver tray of iced juices in champagne flutes. There was a liquor bar available, but only for those who opted out of any BDSM play.
“You guys ready?” Owen asked the waitstaff. They nodded or murmured their assent. Each one had been hand-selected by Sylvie. They were all in their mid- to late-twenties, each one model-gorgeous. Their uniform consisted of a crisscross of thin strips of white and black rope, artfully knotted by Riku, a Japanese shibari master who was a friend of Master H., the rope designed to expose as much as it hid.
Soft jazz was playing through the surround-sound speakers. The walls were painted a creamy, pale gold, a shimmering contrast to the white and black tiled floors. Just inside the front door was an alcove with a large closet where patrons could leave their coats and even their clothing, if they were of a mind. There were small tables with two and three chairs near the bar, as well as thick, plump sofas and loveseats scattered throughout the room.
Various play stations had been set up, with spanking benches, black leather slings hanging from chains, whipping posts and thick mats perfect for kneeling. There were several St. Andrew crosses set along one wall, the sturdy leather cuffs waiting to be closed around wrists, ankles and waists. In one corner stood a large framed spider’s web made of black rope and chains. A raised stage had been built along one wall, with two rows of padded folding chairs set in a double semi-circle around it.
Riku stood at the shibari station, ready to demonstrate erotic Japanese bondage techniques on willing subjects. Isabel, wearing a black leather mini-dress and matching stiletto heels, sat on a high stool beside a long stand filled w
ith whips, crops, paddles and floggers available for patrons who didn’t bring their own gear.
“Fabulous!” Master H.’s loud voice reverberated through the room, startling both Owen and Sylvie, who turned to see him entering from the kitchen. His long dark hair hung loose and he was dressed in a black silk shirt, open to reveal the matted curls on his massive chest. He must have let himself in the back door, which was located in the alley behind the building. Behind him was slave Mark, shirtless, his nipples pierced with thick, heavy barbells that gleamed in the soft light of the crystal chandeliers overhead.
Master H. turned slowly, his arms upraised as he took in the surroundings. Though he’d been involved in the club’s development over the months, during the last weeks of final preparations he had purposefully stayed away, wanting, he said, to see it with fresh eyes.
He beamed at Sylvie and Owen. “You have outdone yourselves, as I knew you would.” Moving toward them, he kissed both Sylvie’s cheeks and clapped Owen on the back. He looked them both over with a wolfish smile, offering a low whistle of appreciation. “I love the black and white theme. Très chic.”
Sylvie smiled. She’d had her outfit especially made for opening night. Her corset was fashioned from the softest black leather, sculpted with bone stays to fit her curves, over a flowing white silk skirt.
At the stroke of nine, Sylvie nodded toward Jordan, who turned the lock and slid the thick bolt aside. He opened the doors, controlling the flow of patrons by his mere presence. Sylvie recognized a number of her clients among the throng of people pushing their way inside, as well as other pro Doms and Dommes she had invited to the opening night.
Alana and her slave, Jerry, came in, both dressed in red, Alana in silk, Jerry in leather. Spying Sylvie and Owen, they moved toward them, and Alana and Sylvie embraced. “Wow, this is some place, Owen,” Jerry said, his eyes moving hungrily over the BDSM equipment.
The Story of Owen: One Man's Submissive Journey Page 13
