by Brynley Bush
She nods. “Except for the flogger. I…I don’t want to be whipped again.”
I mentally kick myself for asking Collin to use the flogger on her during Western Night. Now it has negative connotations for her. I know I’m an asshole for wanting to push her on the only thing she wants to limit, particularly since she’s leaving the rest to me, but my God, do I love flogging a woman. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t imagined how her pale skin would redden under the flogger’s kiss, or how intoxicating it would be to mark that flawless skin. “Will you at least consider it? A flogger in the hands of the right Dom can take you to subspace.”
“What’s subspace?” she asks suspiciously.
“Subspace is when a submissive’s mind and body are so deeply immersed in the intense experience of pleasure and pain that the nervous system dumps epinephrine and endorphins into the bloodstream, producing a similar effect to morphine. It can increase your pain tolerance, but it also produces a trancelike state that most submissives find extremely satisfying.”
“I see.” Then she shakes her head and levels that straightforward gaze back at me. “Actually, I don’t see at all!” she admits with frustration. “How is that even possible?” She takes a breath. “This is a lot to absorb in one day. Can I say no for now, but I’ll think about it?”
“Of course you can,” I assure her. “I only have the power that you give me.”
She smiles at me tentatively. “Okay, then.”
I smile back. “Okay, then. There’s just one last thing to do.”
Chapter Seventeen
Ava
Roman’s one last thing is stopping off at Tiffany & Co. at the Bellagio and buying a small padlock made out of eighteen-karat gold and engraved with the Tiffany & Co. logo that sets him back two thousand dollars.
“What’s that for?” I ask suspiciously.
“You.”
“You can’t spend that on me!” I protest.
He silences me with a threatening look, and I immediately acquiesce, unwilling to earn one of the punishments he’d referred to at Lemongrass. Although Roman’s last punishment had resulted in an earth-shattering orgasm, the thought of a true punishment, even at Roman’s hand, makes me shudder. We make two more stops—one at a tiny, out-of-the-way jewelry store where I stay in the limo while he goes inside and the other at the small boutique at the Helix where guests can purchase a variety of toys for the kind of kinks and pleasures the hotel caters to. I go upstairs to get ready for dinner while he shops at the hotel boutique, and he returns to the suite with a nondescript brown package that’s quite honestly making me a little nervous.
At dinner, I’m too preoccupied to do much more than push my food around my plate and listen halfheartedly to the conversation around me. We’re sitting with Luke, Tessa, Jake, and Rose, and the conversation centers on Sabrina, Shawn, Eva, and Sam, who have been the most recent contestants to be voted off.
“If you guys will excuse us, we have some matters to attend to,” Roman says abruptly, pushing his chair back and holding his hand out to me. The look in his eyes is smoldering, and it matches the heat that’s been burning through me since we negotiated the terms of our relationship for the rest of the games. I have butterflies in my stomach as I lay my napkin down, and my gaze darts to Tessa. She winks and smiles.
“See you two later,” she says with a wave.
Rose looks from me to Roman. “Damn!” she says softly. “If the hotel catches on fire tonight, we’ll know where it started. You two stay out of trouble.”
“Speaking of trouble,” Jake says, capturing Rose’s chin in his hand. “We have a few matters to discuss ourselves.” He looks at her meaningfully, and she flushes.
“Yes, Sir,” she breathes.
I don’t get to hear any more because Roman’s guiding me out of the restaurant, his hand firmly pressed against the small of my back.
“I’ve been waiting all day to get you out of that dress,” he growls as we get into the elevator. The door isn’t even closed all the way before he’s crushing me against the wall, one hand pinning my wrists over my head and his other hand fisting in my hair. His lips bruise mine as he kisses me brutally. When the elevator door opens on our floor, we’re both panting.
The door to our suite is barely closed before he’s kissing me again, his tongue skirting the fine edge between lust and violence. He angles his head to kiss me deeper, and when he pulls away, his eyes are glittering with desire.
“I want you naked,” he rasps. “Now!”
I move my fingers to lower the straps of my dress, but he intercepts me, brushing them away roughly. “I’ll do it.”
He turns me around and methodically unlaces my dress, then spins me back around to face him. I stand still as he gives one sharp tug, and it puddles around my ankles. His gaze roves over my bra and panties.
“Take them off,” he commands. Roman’s in full-blown Dom mode now, and tiny daggers of anticipation prick across my suddenly hypersensitive skin.
But I’m ready for whatever this evening holds. I want to be initiated fully into Roman’s world. I hold his gaze as I slowly unclasp my bra and remove it, conscious of the way the cool air of the hotel room caresses my nipples, making them pucker. His eyes darken. I peel my panties off and step out of them so I’m standing naked in front of Roman, who’s still dressed in his trademark expensive dark suit.
“Kneel!”
I awkwardly lower myself to my knees.
“You will practice that until you can do it smoothly,” he continues as he slowly circles me. “When I command you to kneel, you will do so immediately. Keep your back straight, your thighs slightly parted, your hands resting on your thighs, and your gaze down unless otherwise instructed.”
“Why can’t I look at you?”
“No more talking!”
Duly chastised, I lower my gaze and close my mouth. He leaves me there for a while, and I can hear the rustle of paper as he moves around the room, but I don’t dare look up to see what he’s doing.
“Good girl. You may stand now.”
I slowly stand, still keeping my eyes down. He lifts my chin with his finger. “The rule about keeping your eyes downcast only applies to when you’re kneeling,” he says softly. “I like to see your eyes. It’s the only time I have any idea what you’re thinking.”
He holds up a thin circle of polished silver about five millimeters wide that fastens with a hasp and staple—a horizontal slot in the metal that fits over a U-shaped ring on which the padlock he bought at Tiffany’s hangs. My breath catches as I realize what it’s intended for.
“This is your collar,” he says, confirming what I’d already guessed. “Lift your hair.”
I gather my hair up with trembling fingers, holding it in a pile on top of my head as he fits the collar around my neck and fastens it, locking the padlock onto the collar with a tiny key. The reality of being truly owned settles over me with a knowledge much heavier than the slight weight of the collar. Although it’s barely thicker than some necklaces I’ve worn, what the circle of silver represents and the fact that it’s locked into place and only Roman can remove it sends my pulse racing.
“You’ll wear this for the remainder of our time on the show. It’s sterling silver, so you can wear it everywhere—in the shower, at the pool, and to sleep in. It will serve to remind you that you belong to the one who put it around your throat. You’re mine.” His eyes smolder with desire.
I try to swallow past the lump that has suddenly lodged in my throat as my heart rate careens wildly.
“On your hands and knees,” he snaps. “Crawl to the bedroom.”
I look at him in outrage. “You want me to crawl? Like some kind of animal?” I ask indignantly.
He grabs the padlock and pulls me toward him, tugging up until I’m standing on my tiptoes, my eyes gazing into his uncompromising ones. With his other hand, he grasps one of my nipples between his thumb and forefinger and twists cruelly, making me squeak.
“Th
at’s enough,” he says, his voice quiet but lethal. “You will obey me without question, Avalon. You will address me as Sir from this point forward. And you will not speak again unless it’s to say yellow or Anthony.” His face hardens at the mention of Anthony’s name, and his hand on my shoulder isn’t soft or gentle as he pushes down, forcing me to my knees. “Now crawl to the bedroom and wait for whatever I decide to do to you.”
With humiliation flowing over me, I crawl on my hands and knees to the bedroom as he follows behind me. I hate that he’s making me do this, and I hate that I’m actually doing it, my sex becoming slick from the degradation as much as from his absolute authority. What the fuck is wrong with me that this treatment makes me want him even more?
Once we’re in the bedroom, he pulls me to my feet and wraps leather cuffs deliberately around each of my wrists. This time he doesn’t ask for my wrists; he simply takes them. I’m his now to do with as he wants.
“Kneel on the bed.”
I’m not sure whether to walk or crawl, but I’m certainly not about to ask him. Deciding to play it safe, I drop to my hands and knees again and climb the single stair onto the platform where the bed is positioned like it’s the focal point of the room. I crawl onto the bed and assume the position Roman taught me just a few minutes ago—spine straight, knees parted, hands resting on my thighs, eyes downcast.
“Nicely done,” he says approvingly. “You may look at me.”
My eyes meet his. They have darkened to a stormy blue and are filled with the promise of sin and debauchery.
“I realized at the restaurant that I need to work on your concentration and your ability to tune out what’s going on around you and focus only on me. If I gave you a stroke for each time you looked at the cameras today, you wouldn’t be able to sit down.”
I look at him wild-eyed. There’s a faint hint of humor in his hungry eyes that makes me think he’s not actually going to punish me, but then again, this is Roman. He’s blatantly admitted he loves nothing more than to hurt me, and I’ve given him the perfect excuse. Trepidation wars with excitement, and my traitorous body is the battlefield. I’m dying to ask him what he’s going to do, but he was very clear on the fact that I’m not to speak, so I wait, my heart hammering.
He bounds up onto the platform with agile grace and reaches up to grab a carabiner clip attached to a chain that dangles from the scrolled-gold inset above the bed. He grabs another one and pulls it to him until it too is overhead. Holy shit! The intricately carved ceiling inset isn’t for aesthetic purposes. It’s an ingeniously constructed grid of channels that allows a Dom to restrain his submissive in an endless variety of ways.
My breath catches as he fastens each of my wrist cuffs to the chain above so my arms are bound over my head while I’m kneeling. I watch silently, my heart in my throat, as he goes to the armoire and returns with a metal bar with cuffs attached to either end. He attaches a cuff just above my knee and then widens my stance so the bar fits between my legs, holding them open as he secures the other cuff to my opposite thigh. He goes back to the armoire from hell, and when he comes back to where I’m bound, he carefully sets several dozen wooden clothespins strung together with string, a blindfold, and a single-tailed whip on the bed next to me.
I’m practically hyperventilating as I look at the diabolical assortment of things he’s arranged around me.
He runs a finger along my cheekbone, and I fight the urge to turn my face into his hand. The juxtaposition of his gentleness with his harsh cruelty is unsettling.
“You don’t seem to have a problem keeping your attention focused now, Avalon,” he observes with amusement. “Particularly when you’re wondering what I’m about to do to you.” He chuckles darkly.
I look at him frantically. “The whip is a hard limit,” I whisper.
He goes back to the armoire and returns with a ball gag dangling from his fingertips.
“No! I’ll be quiet. I promise,” I plead, struggling so hard that the chains clang melodically overhead. Except I’m not going anywhere, ball gag or not.
“One more word, and you won’t have a choice,” he says firmly, placing the gag on the bed next to me as a reminder. He slowly trails his fingers up my inner thigh.
“You will trust me to push your limits but not exceed them.” It’s a statement, not a request. “I haven’t forgotten anything that we discussed,” he adds quietly.
I notice he hasn’t specifically said he won’t use the whip. But he knows it’s a hard limit, and I realize I have to trust him.
My body is thrumming with anticipation as his fingers travel higher, lightly skimming the crease of my sex. He’s a master at the mindfuck.
“I’m also going to test your limit for pain a little while we work on your focus. I want you to say yellow if it becomes too much. Do you understand?”
I nod, although I’m quaking inside.
“Say it.”
“I understand.”
He frowns, and his open palm strikes my pussy. I jolt at the unexpected blow, even as electricity sizzles through me, my sex puffing until it feels huge and throbbing. I try to close my thighs, but the bar prevents me from moving at all, and I’m more aware than ever of just how vulnerable I am to him.
“Try again.”
I gulp air into my lungs.
“I understand, Sir.”
The smile transforms his face. “Good girl,” he says.
He picks up the blindfold and places it over my eyes, tying it tightly so I can’t see anything; now I don’t have the slightest clue what he’s about to do. It’s terrifying and absolutely mind-blowingly intoxicating.
He skims my inner thighs again, and I can feel my muscles quiver slightly beneath his feathery touch. Then there’s a sharp bite on the skin of my thigh that doesn’t go away. He caresses again, his fingers stroking my skin lightly, and then another pinch. Oh. The clothespins. He resumes the erotic stroking and clamping until he’s attached a row of clothespins in a line along both of my inner thighs.
His warm, strong hands travel up over my hips and abdomen and caress my breasts. They feel heavy and tight in his hands, and my nipples harden as his thumbs brush over them. He circles each breast and then the pinch again. Oh, God. He’s putting the clothespins around my breasts. I squirm as he continues his torturous play, stroking my chest sensually, occasionally rubbing his thumbs across the hardened peaks or flicking them and then attaching the clothespins until I can feel them completely encircling both of my breasts.
“Are you still with me, Avalon?” he whispers.
I haven’t forgotten the ball gag lying on the bed next to me, and I’m silent.
He chuckles. “You’re a quick learner. You may speak. I want you to tell me how it feels.”
I’m silent, searching for the words to explain the strange but undeniably erotic sensation of the nip of the clothespins. He spanks my pussy again lightly. Apparently I didn’t answer quickly enough.
“Answer me,” he commands. “Don’t think about it. Just tell me what you feel.”
“I don’t know what I feel,” I say with frustration. I’m not used to allowing myself to feel anything, much less explain it. “Pain. Pleasure. I don’t know. But it somehow makes me feel your touch everywhere else even more.”
“Try again.”
I try to put the convolution of sensation I’m feeling into words. “It pinches a little at first—actually it pinches a lot—but then it just feels warm, and all I can really feel is the pressure.”
The sudden intensity of the jaws of the clothespin closing over my erect nipple elicits a yelp of pain from me.
“Do you feel something now?” he murmurs, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Can you name how that feels?”
“Fuck! Yes, Sir!” I gasp. “It hurts!”
I can only imagine the sadist in him is loving this. But if I’m honest, I welcome the agony, because with it comes the heady knowledge that I haven’t completely lost the ability to feel something, even i
f it’s just this inexplicable concoction of pleasure and pain. It means I’m strong; I’m alive. Anthony hasn’t won.
“I made what’s called a rose with your breasts and the clothespins,” he explains. “You look so fucking beautiful.”
He attaches a clothespin to my other nipple, and I try to concentrate on my breathing, deeply pulling air into my lungs, holding it, and letting it out again until the pain recedes.
“Is this how you keep that control you hold on to so tightly?” he asks, lightly tapping the clothespins that line my inner thighs so I feel their pull again. I don’t answer, and he tweaks several of the pins surrounding my breast. “Just breathe and shut down to tune the pain out?”
How does he know? I feel bared to him, stripped of the defenses that have seen me through the past two years.
“Something like that, Sir,” I whisper.
“What happened to you that you’re so afraid to feel?” he asks softly, his fingers probing my sex. I try to tilt my hips up to him, hungry for him to fill the aching need that’s growing in my core. But I don’t answer, and he plunges a finger into my wet heat.
“I’m going to make sure you feel plenty tonight,” he says, his voice thick with desire, and my blood simmers at the forbidden promise.
I can feel my pulse throb beneath the pinched skin, and I fall into the pain. Everything grows and shifts as he uses his fingers inside me, edging me toward oblivion. Then he clips a clothespin to each side of my labia, and the sensations engulf me completely. There’s no painful pinch here, just a subtle but overpowering tug of sensual awareness that’s amazing.
I feel the bed give as he stands up and I can hear the sound of the armoire opening and closing again. I wait with bated breath. With nothing else to distract me, I’m focused on the clothespins again and the inexplicable, painfully erotic pressure they exert. Then he’s next to me, caressing over the curves of my stomach and hips. But his hand’s not bare; it feels like he’s wearing a leather glove, and the hide is soft and sensual against my skin. I sigh as he caresses over my chest and across my back with the soft leather. Then he presses harder, and it feels like tiny knives are carving open my skin.
