The Unicorn

by Delphine Dryden

  “He hates piña colada,” Dee explained in a near whisper. Then the two women shared a conspiratorial smile, and Mara was tempted to wink. She no longer thought Dee resembled Amie quite so much. Her features were smaller, neater. She had the same pouty upper lip, but the expression was completely different: hers fell into a naturally sweet smile in repose, unlike Amie’s characteristic irritation-face. Mara had caught Daniel’s scene-name slip, and she thought “Delia” suited this woman perfectly: soft and kind of lyrical, not short and sharp.

  “Dee!”

  “Master?”

  He was gesturing her over, and Mara felt slightly abandoned as Delia left her to confer with Daniel. Then she couldn’t help but smile at the thought that she must feel exactly as Delia had the previous night. Because the two of them were doing the same thing she and Master Daniel had, talking not quite softly enough to block out everything—letting her hear only enough to tease. Something about the horse, and tongues, and a sweet ass, all of which was enough to give her plenty of ideas.

  “First things first,” Master Daniel said after he had shared all this with Delia and she had nodded with a look of barely suppressed excitement. He took a seat on the couch, leaning back on his arms, getting comfortable like a guy does, with his legs spread apart. “Time for subs to undress each other. Leave the corsets and shoes on. Put on a good show and I might even let you both play with each other for real later.”

  Delia looked almost shy as she wandered back toward Mara. It was a charming look, completely inappropriate to the situation. Mara felt oddly moved. She was inclined to forget about Master Daniel entirely, ignore the literal male gaze in the room and focus on the beautiful woman she got to undress. But she knew it had to be both, it had to be that balance, for her and for Delia. Taking pleasure in each other but always mindful that the ultimate arbiter of pleasure was their master.

  Their master. Our master.

  Not that he was their master. Mara knew a moment of sharp pain, gone almost as quickly as it started. He was only Delia’s master, but at least they were sharing tonight. She would make herself believe that was enough.

  So she started with the pearl buttons on Delia’s sleeveless, pink silk blouse, and was pleased to discover it opened onto a corset not unlike her own. Only in white, which seemed to be Delia’s favorite color for kink garb. It should have washed her out, Mara thought, but somehow she had enough golden undertone in her skin to make it work.

  The blouse was only for cover on the street; it hadn’t even been tucked in. It was easily dispensed with, as was Mara’s own shrug, which Delia pushed off her shoulders in one easy motion.

  Then Mara gasped at the feel of Delia’s fingers skating down from her shoulders, over her collarbones, to the crests of her exposed breasts.

  “Did I say you could get handsy?”

  “No, Master. Sorry, Sir.” Delia bowed her head meekly and got to work on Mara’s skirt. But Mara caught the twinkle she sent her way, not quite a wink or a smirk but just a little something amused.

  Delia had it relatively easy. The skirt was tied on, and a single tug at the bow was all it took to release it. It swirled down and around her ankles, leaving her in her underbust and a matching thong, along with strappy black heels. She tried not to fidget, tried not to look nervous as Delia traced the spaghetti straps over her hips with slim fingers and looked at Master Daniel for permission.

  “The thong too, Sir?”

  He nodded, but said nothing. He didn’t look particularly interested or impressed. Mara thought he must be getting better at the control thing every day. And then she didn’t think as those same cool, slender fingers tucked themselves under the straps of her panties and pulled them down her legs. One hand clasped her calf gently, coaxing that leg up. Then down and around, off the other leg, and the thong was gone.

  Nothing but a corset, heels and a whole lot of waxed skin. Mara’s favorite outfit. With it came the feeling of delicious, naughty freedom. She was a wanton, and anybody looking at her in this hardly there ensemble would know instantly that she was a needy little slut. Which gave her permission, in her mind, to act like a needy little slut. Problematic outside this setting, maybe; inside the walls of the club, she didn’t care if it was correct or not as long as it worked for everyone involved.

  “Pretty.” Delia made a stroking gesture with her hands over Mara’s ribs, not quite touching the lace. She felt the heat and thrill as clearly as if she had been touched, felt her nipples and clit start to swell in approval of the goings-on.

  “Dee,” warned Master Daniel.

  Delia snatched her hands behind her back, toed her shoes off, and waited patiently while Mara unfastened her jeans. It took both of them to peel the jeans off and they were giggling by the time the process was over, but at last Delia stood in her lingerie, which didn’t include a thong or other underwear of any sort. Just the underbust corset, which in her case came a bit lower on the hips than Mara’s and featured garters. Any good garter deserves stockings, and she was also wearing those—very sheer, with lacy, white tops. She’d put her shoes back on—shocking-pink silk stiletto pumps that looked like some crazy-expensive designer brand.

  Daniel repeated his observation of the previous night. “Snow White and Rose Red.” He sat up and scrutinized them both from head to toe and back again. “The story had a prince who’d been magically transformed into a bear because a dwarf stole his treasure. The two girls ended up killing the dwarf, the bear transformed back into a prince, and of course he ended up marrying one of the girls.”

  “Snow White,” she piped up, as always unable to keep her mouth shut when she knew a thing. “I looked it up too. Sorry, Sir.”

  “I’ll add it to your tab. Let’s see, where was I? Oh right. So the story goes, he marries Snow White. Rose Red marries some brother the prince pulls up from somewhere, who wasn’t in the story before that. And they all live happily ever after. But—” he lifted one hand in a dramatic flourish “—I don’t buy that ending.”

  He got up and walked to the spanking bench as he continued, fussing with the straps and smoothing a hand over the long top surface. “I think the prince ended up with both of them. Why pick one over the other when they were both brave enough to help him get rid of the dwarf? Okay, who’s first on this thing? Eeny, meeny, miney . . . Oh fuck it. Mara, get your ass over here.”

  “Oh! Yes, Master.” Mara had been caught off guard by the sudden shift. She was still puzzling out the possibilities of the revised story ending. She liked Master Daniel’s version better than the original, she knew that much at least.

  She liked the spanking horse too, far better than its crueler angle-topped cousin out in the main room. This one was flat on top, wide as a balance beam. It was big and solid, and felt sturdy enough to take anything she did to it. Kicking, screaming, biting. The thing had an air that said it had seen it all before. She climbed atop and straddled it almost reverently.

  “All the way down,” Master Daniel instructed. She pressed her chest and face against the padded leather, letting her arms hang down on either side. He must have gestured Delia over, because the next thing she knew was the feel of small, cool hands at her ankles, fastening her to the bench. And then at her wrists, shackling her firmly into place.

  She turned her head in time to see Master Daniel pointing to the couch, obviously asking Delia to bring him something. But then he spotted her looking and smiled, palming her head with his long-fingered hand and gently turning it back to face the corner.

  “No peeking. So yesterday, my sub reminded me that I had been horribly remiss. I owe you an apology.”

  “I don’t understand, Master.”

  “You will. But there’s also the matter of you sneaking in some activities last time that weren’t authorized, isn’t there?”

  “Oh. Y-yes. I’m sorry, Sir. I got carried—”

  “No excuses. You knew you were over the line, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Way over th
e line. But she hadn’t been able to resist. They’d been so cute together. She’d wanted so badly to be part of it.

  “So today there will be some overdue rewards, but there will be some punishment first. You’ve told me your hard limits. But I also talked with Dru, and she says that according to a former mistress of yours, you’re something of a pain slut. So I thought this might be a good time to explore that.”

  She took a deep breath, trying not to let it out with an audible tremor, then nodded. Hopefully her silence would speak volumes.

  “You cool with ‘Brussels sprouts’?”

  “As a food or a safeword?”

  “Smart-ass. That’s going to earn you more time on the horse.”

  She smiled. “And this is bad because . . .? I’m fine with ‘Brussels sprouts.’ As a safeword. If I forget, I’ll use ‘red light.’”

  “Fair enough.”

  She had seen him with the tawse, so she felt fairly comfortable with his ability not to do her butt any lasting damage. Though she might have to stop him before he got to the cane.

  But it was soon clear that stopping him wouldn’t be necessary. He began with a flogger, and he started so slowly she would have been concerned about falling asleep if she hadn’t seen him leave welts on Delia’s ass the night before. But he was a fast learner; she was starting to get that about him. And he paid attention. Every moan, every flex and strain of her body against the leather, resulted in a correction, until there was a whole silent conversation taking place between him and her, between the whip and her body. Give and take, give and take. Lulling her down, lulling her deep.

  And then, the unexpected.

  “Favorite movie?”

  “Huh?”

  It took her a second, during which the tails of the flogger smacked sharply against her haunch again. She tried—and failed—to think of something that sounded impressive. Cool, hip, modern. Nothing.

  “Princess Bride.”

  Whack.

  Not her intent to blurt that out. Not a hip choice, probably. But at least it was the truth, so what the hell.

  “Favorite class you ever took?”

  Favorites, what the fuck?

  Whack!

  “Astronomy of the Plains Indians.”

  “Seriously?” This from Delia. “Cool.”

  “Yeah, it really was. I was surprised.”

  Daniel shushed them, and she stifled a giggle that bubbled up from the depths of her soul. A conversation about astronomy class?

  Whack! The flogger reminded her where she was.

  Oh yeah, ouch, we were in the middle of doing that.

  “Last significant other?”

  Not quite sure I want to go there. And who, even? Jeremy doesn’t count.

  Whack!

  “Amie. It’s been over for months. Ouch! She’s a Dom. Scenes were good but real life didn’t work for us.”

  Her eyes had drifted shut, and she was surprised to feel fingers drifting running through her hair, almost as if she were being petted. She snuck her eyes open a crack, then shut them again. She was being petted.

  Whack!

  Delia was standing at her head, stroking her hair. While Daniel whipped her ass.

  Okay.

  Whack!

  “Not seeing anybody else right now, then?” This was Delia, her voice soft and musical, a melodic counterpoint to the whip’s percussion.

  “No.” Did she mean to sound so plaintive?

  Poor little Mara, all alone in the world. Take me home like a lost puppy. Every cute poly couple wants a unicorn of their own, right?

  Delia’s hand was on her cheek now, smoothing hair back from her face. Delia let her fingertips rest over Mara’s temple, right above her ear.

  Whack!

  Something pressed on her cheekbone. Lips, rose-petal soft. They were pink, even when the lip gloss had worn off them. She couldn’t see them now, with her eyes closed, but she had seen them earlier. She had noticed.

  “Dee. Don’t get mouthy either. Yet.” His voice was soft too. It sounded warm and candlelit.

  “Yes, Master.”

  Whack!

  This, Mara thought. This, yes.

  Master Daniel stepped back, trading the flogger for the tawse. As he took a few practice swings through the air, Mara pressed her face against the warm leather again, reveling in the sensation of Delia’s fingers working the stiff knots on the back of her neck and shoulders. She wanted more of that. But she wasn’t ready for the pain to end, either. She’d get shaky and almost sick when the endorphins overloaded her and she was ready for the scene to be over; this wasn’t that, not even close. She just . . . wanted, so much, so many things, and suddenly that ache overwhelmed her more than the physical pain could have.

  Her very first Dom—Sir Psycho . . . she’d never known how he earned the scene name, but everybody clearly knew it was a joke because he was an incredibly levelheaded guy—had done the question thing a lot during scenes. It kept her grounded, present, slowed her ascent into subspace. He’d teased her with it, asked her all sorts of stupid trivia shit, quizzed her on things he’d told her to remember from previous scenes. Daniel’s method was clumsier, but she liked it better. He seemed interested.

  So did Delia.

  The stroking on her neck paused, lightened to a bare press of fingertips. That and a warning swish told Mara to expect the pain. The next swish ended in a crack of fire across one ass cheek. She gasped, too shocked to cry out.

  Swish, crack! The other side, a tongue of flame that burned and burned long after the leather made its short, brutal connection with her skin.

  But then . . . soothing fingers stroking her neck again, smoothing the bunched muscles. And Delia’s soft voice.

  “Shhh.”

  The tawse flicked across her upper thigh, burning—hurts, hurts, too much—and she pressed her face harder against the leather of the horse as tears sprang up. She didn’t want them to see her cry. Because she didn’t want this to end. The pain that was almost too much to bear, the caresses that made everything better, like a scene and aftercare all rolled into one. She felt as if the whole thing could go on forever—an infinite loop, like a clichéd tattoo. Using the single, unending line to scrawl love along the way.

  She knew that was ridiculous. But in that moment, she couldn’t seem to find her cynicism.

  There was a tempo to it, Daniel had realized. A way to pace things, to keep it all in hand. The pain, the rest, the repositioning. The natural end to one whip’s usefulness and the logical time to pick up a different toy. He was better organized tonight, and determined not to accidentally deviate from his planned scene.

  Mara’s ass and upper thighs were rosy, glowing from the flogger and vivid red in a few spots from the tawse, but not so bad he needed to stop yet. She was drifting in subspace, and probably able to take more pain now. Give that freshly whipped skin a few moments to recover, he knew, and it would be sensitive beyond belief.

  The cane was slender, some translucent fiber rather than bamboo, and slightly whippy. He tested it on his palm awhile, figuring out how it would fly in the air, realizing he would not need to use his wrist as much. A short, almost choppy, flat stroke.

  First, more questions.

  “What about tabletop games?”

  “Uh . . . you mean like Monopoly, or RPGs? Or European-style? All of them are yes.”

  “Nice. Who shot first?”

  “Greedo! Just kidding, just kidding. Han, duh.”

  The duh thing couldn’t be allowed to stand. Daniel brought the cane down across the crest of her rump. It sounded thuddier than he’d expected. Mara’s reaction, a shocked gasp, was very gratifying. He gave her a few seconds to let her decide whether to continue.

  “Original series or Next Generation?”

  She answered this one more promptly. “Both, but for different reasons.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Delia grumbled. “Picard forever. Also Seven of Nine forever.”

  Mara li
fted her face from the horse; tears streaked the cheek Daniel could see, but she didn’t sound upset when she spoke to Delia. “You are not one of those Voyager people?”

  “No!” Delia stroked her dark hair, hastening to reassure her. “No, I just think Jeri Ryan is really hot. Just throwing it out there.”

  “Everybody thinks she’s really hot.”

  Daniel cleared his throat, getting the subs back on task. He didn’t really mind the conversation, though. He liked the apparent truth-serum effect of the whips. Mara had opened up some online, while they were playing, but he wanted to know more. Delia had wanted to know more too. And asking her random things seemed to keep Mara from getting too trancy. Maybe it would let the scene draw out a while longer.

  But after a few more questions and strokes of the cane, he was having trouble thinking up stuff to ask her. There was so much eye candy in the room he was really mostly proud of himself for not actively drooling. And Mara, he could tell all too plainly, was already so aroused. Her pert, rounded ass was moving in tiny circles between strokes, as she tried to rub against the nap of the time-softened leather bench. And her mouth kept making an O shape that drove him insane with lust.

  Not that it was any better to watch Delia. Sweet merciful heavens, she looked like a kinky angel in that outfit. Or a porno bride. And the expression on her face, gentle and curious, as she bent down to kiss Mara . . .

  He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to fuck them, or rub them both all over his body in some way, or what.

  Mara’s ass was turning to red-on-pink stripes, and her lollipop lips were getting dry from panting. Time to move on, maybe.

  “You still with me, Mara?”

  “Yes, Master Daniel.” She didn’t sound all that with it, but at least she was coherent.

  He put the cane down and rounded the bench, running a hand over her hip before curling his fingers down the cleft of her ass, trailing them across heated skin until they reached her cunt.

  Then he had to have another stern Dom talk with himself to keep from tearing his pants off and burying himself inside her right then. Because she was soft, and smoothly hairless, and hotter than hell . . . and wet, so wet and ready. He couldn’t resist pushing a finger inside her, then two, rocking them back and forth.