by Nikki Chase
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 follow 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.
End of preview.
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Bonus: His Virgin
A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance
Caine
“Hey! There’s a line here!” shouts a man somewhere behind me.
He sounds angry, but I don’t give a fuck. The Chief of Medicine himself said we’d always get the priority here, so that guy can go to another hospital if he wants.
I guarantee, though, that there’s no place in the world where everyone is treated equally. That’s just a hippie pipe dream.
Hey, I don’t make the rules. I just happen to be good at this game called life, and I’ll admit there were also quite a few lucky rolls of the dice.
So there are benefits to being a Foster. You can hardly blame a man for taking advantage of all the privileges he’s been given, especially at a time like this.
A young nurse behind the laminate counter fixes her green eyes on me like she’s ready to chew me out. “Sir, I’ll have to ask you to go back to the end of the—”
“Listen,” I say calmly, cutting her off. “Maybe you’re new and you have no idea how things work around here, so I’m going to let that attitude slide. You’re going to do exactly as I say or you’re going to lose your job. Understand?”
She looks bewildered, her pretty green eyes big as saucers. No doubt her training hasn’t prepared her for this. To her credit, she shuts up and gives me a small nod.
There’s a hint of defiance in the way she clenches her jaw. She’s indignant, but she doesn’t want to get fired. Smart girl.
Under normal circumstances, I’d crush every little sign of impudence in her. She looks exactly like the kind of girl I’d enjoy doing that to. But this is not the time.
“Daisy,” I say as I glance at the name tag on her chest. “Get someone who’s in charge and tell them Robert Foster needs immediate attention. Repeat the name for me so I know you understand me.”
“Robert Foster,” she says with a pair of furrowed brows over her angry eyes. She’s not happy about being treated like an imbecile, but I need to know she’s going to relay the correct message. My father needs immediate medical attention; who cares if her feelings get hurt?
“Good girl. Now go,” I say.
I’d love to watch her walk away. The baby-blue scrubs she’s wearing don’t cling to her body, but I can just make out some little indications of the tantalizing curves underneath. I’m sure I could get a better idea if I took a better look.
I have more important things to do, though. I turn around to see the automatic glass doors of the main entrance part to let Pop into the lobby of St. Peter’s Hospital. Some guy from the office has managed to find a wheelchair for him.
Pop is clutching his chest. He looks like he’s in pain. His breaths are labored, his whole body covered in a layer of cold sweat.
Seeing him in that condition makes me want to shout at somebody to fix him right away, or at least give him something to get rid of the pain. The man seems weak; it just looks wrong.
“Mr. Foster?” A voice from behind the counter calls me. A man’s voice this time, alert and ready to jump into action. When I turn around, I see him already taking big strides around the counter to approach me.
Good. This is the kind of urgency I expect from one of the biggest recipients of our corporate charity program.
“My father needs help.” I put one hand on the back of the man in scrubs and lead him toward the wheelchair. I have no idea who he is, but he knows who we are and that’s all that matters.
He rushes toward Pop, a couple of younger men in scrubs following behind him.
I watch from the sidelines as the men do what they do best. This is the best damn hospital in San Francisco, and this is exactly why we’re so generous toward them—for times like this.
I take deep breaths and follow the men down the hallway. Depressing fluorescent lighting and the smell of disinfectants fill my senses. My muscles slacken a little, knowing Pop is in good hands, even as my heart continues beating faster than usual.
I ball my hands into fists. If it weren’t for them, my father wouldn’t be in this condition.
Fucking cops.
Daisy
“Are you okay?” Katie touches my arm softly, but it’s enough to make me jump in surprise. She gives me a mischievous grin when I turn to look at her. “I love when I accidentally manage to prank you. I wasn’t even trying.”
I shoot her a dirty look. I’m not in the mood for any of her shenanigans today.
Don’t get me wrong, I love how fun Katie is. That’s why we hang out a lot since we were in nursing school together, and also why we decided to get an apartment together.
Turns out she sucks as a roommate; she’s messy, loud, and makes a habit of bringing home a carousel of men into her room—a different one every weekend.
But she’s my best friend, and my surrogate family. The only family I have, other than Jack.
“What happened? You look like you want to stab those potatoes to death.” Katie drops her plastic tray on the table and pulls out the chair across from me, the metal legs dragging noisily against the linoleum floor. She ignores the annoyed stares of other hospital workers around us in the cafeteria.
“An asshole happened,” I say curtly as I impale another piece of potato with my fork and put it in my mouth.
“Oh, that’s right. I heard you met Caine Foster.”
“Yeah.”
I’m not surprised Katie knows his name. Apparently, I’m the only person in the entire hospital who hadn’t heard about that guy. Caine Foster, everybody says, his name always mentioned in full and in a voice full of admiration.
“Tell me all about it.” Katie picks up her ham and cheese sandwich and looks at me with anticipation.
“There’s nothing to tell. An asshole came. He was rude. That’s all.”
“Damn. Everybody else is raving about how hot he is and how lucky you are to have talked to him. And here you are, acting like it was nothing.”
“It was nothing.” I shrug.
“Yeah, sure. That’s why you’re fuming. Because it was nothing.” Katie takes a big bite of her sandwich and raises her eyebrows.
“Okay, fine. It wasn’t nothing. He was condescending and entitled. He acted like he’s superior. He treated me like an idiot.” The red-hot anger in my chest flares up again, the fire kindled by Katie’s comment. Now I remember all the infuriating things he said, the words I’ve been trying to forget all day.
Good girl. Like I’m his damn dog.
“Well, he is superior, if you think about it. Let's see. Caine Foster is rich, hot, and he practically holds Dr. Pratt’s balls in his hands. In what way is he not superior?”
“Why would he have Dr. Pratt’s… Why would he have anything to do with Dr. Pratt?”
“Oh, Daisy. You sweet summer child. You can't even say balls.” Katie grins. “It's not even technically a bad word. Even kids say balls all the time. Hell, they play with balls.”
I grimace. “That's...disturbing.”
“What? That kids play with balls?” The grin on Katie’s face widens.
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“Oh, Daisy!” Katie gasps and places a hand over her mouth. “Honestly, that is nasty. Get your mind out of the gutter, young lady.”
I give Katie a flat stare. With impatience, I ask, “What's the connection between the Chief of Medicine and the asshole?”
