Fulfilling Her Fantasy

by Tabitha Black

  "What? What is it?"

  "David Dean Marone. Owner of David Dean's, the five-star restaurant I just ripped apart in last week's Windy City Eats."

  "Uh oh. Does he know what you look like?"

  "I don't know. He might. We went to culinary school together, but that was almost twenty years ago. He is notoriously self-absorbed, he probably would never remember me."

  "Good. Then just play it cool. Dropping coffee all over our boots is not cool."

  "Sorry," she muttered, bending to pick up the cup. "I'll get some napkins."

  "Don't. Just chill out. Everything's going to be fine."

  Easy for her to say.

  "Come on, let's get on the bus," Portia said between clenched teeth.

  "Okay," Tina said, grabbing the handle of her rolling suitcase.

  The two of them marched forward while she held her breath, trying to look as though she owned the place.

  This New Year's was going to suck. Big time.

  The bus driver checked off their names and took their bags. They found a seat in the back. It was like junior high all over again—the cool kids seeking out seats where they could stake out their own space.

  Portia slouched in her seat and pretended to check her email on her phone, stealing glances at each person who climbed on the bus. Lots of other excited submissives, coming alone, like them. A handful of couples. And three Doms. David Marone and his friend, and one other guy.

  David looked right at her when he climbed on, but his gaze traveled to Tina and then around the bus to the other women with nothing more than an assessing gaze.

  She exhaled. He didn't recognize her. If he had, he surely would have stalked over and given her a piece of his mind because her article hadn't just been negative—it had been scathing. And she'd hit below the belt, attacking David Dean as a human being, not just as a chef.

  All the vindication she'd experienced when writing it now ebbed in the reality of having to see the man face-to-face and stand behind her critique. She grit her teeth. But she could. She'd said absolutely nothing that wasn't true. David Marone deserved to be put in his place—he was not God's gift to diners, as he seemed to believe. Nor was he God's gift to women.

  Although seeing him here did make her squirm a little in her seat. He probably made a damn good Dom. He'd had the confidence of a politician even as a twenty-two year old.

  She looked at the back of his head where he'd chosen to sit about four seats ahead of them. With dark, thick, wavy hair, brown eyes with curling lashes and one dimple on his cheek, if she remembered right, he had the handsome look of a politician, too.

  She squeezed her fingers together to stop the trembling, which was just nervousness about having to defend herself to him. It had nothing to do with the strange squirming going on deep in her belly when she thought about his aggressive charm.

  #

  He could not believe it. Portia Sands, here at the Castle. She'd recognized him, too. He'd seen the way she'd dropped her coffee and left it spilling across her boots when he'd stepped out of his car. And she'd come alone. Or at least, not with a partner. She and her friend both had the aura of submissives, no matter how haughty they'd tried to appear. And they'd sized up him and Paul with the assessing interest of females in search of a mate.

  He sank into his seat on the bus, realigning his view of the stuck-up princess from culinary school with a BDSM submissive. Maybe that was why he'd been interested in her way back then. He'd picked up her vibe. But she certainly had rejected his.

  He'd tucked a copy of Windy City Eats in the outer pocket of his suitcase, not because he wanted to read the review again, but more to prove to himself that it truly didn't matter, and that he wasn't hiding his head in the sand by running off this New Year's. Now he rejoiced at that stroke of genius, because before his trip had ended, he resolved to get the little brat over his knee for a thorough spanking—with the rolled up magazine, of course. The thought cheered him, and he smiled to himself in anticipation.

  The bus pulled up at the Castle and he got out, stretching his legs. On going to retrieve his suitcase, he was reminded that the Castle porters brought all luggage to the respective rooms. David hadn't visited in winter before, but, if possible, the structure appeared even more impressive; the great stone structure appearing like a mirage against the Ohio landscape. Just seeing it made his pulse quicken with excitement at all the thrills the coming days would hold for him. He couldn't wait to put on his white Dominant's bracelet and begin the play.

  "Welcome to the Castle," the submissive at the outdoor reception tables said with her sweet, eager-to-please smile.

  He gave her a wink and handed over his paperwork.

  She wasn't quite his type—big-eyed and dimpled, with the naïve innocence of the submissive who needs a strong daddy. No, his type was more... he stole a glance to his left where Portia stood, her back ramrod straight, her black hair twisted and pinned on the back of her head. With the regal composition of her face, only the tight cords in her neck belied her nerves. Yes, he preferred a challenge. He liked a complex woman, the kind he had to drag to the edge but take care not to drop. A woman with a heavy dose of pride, where humiliation became the game but crossing the line ended it. Okay, if he admitted it, he wanted Portia Sands. He wanted her on her knees begging his forgiveness for the damn review; not out of fear, but out of a genuine desire to please him—her only master.

  He gave himself an inward shake. Pull it together, David; that's not going to happen. And the sooner he got over her nasty review, the sooner he could start enjoying himself with the multitude of other submissives far more likely to kneel at his feet.

  Mrs. Hardwick, a stern-looking housekeeper, called them over for orientation and he dallied, watching the others moving toward the cluster of new guests.

  "See anyone interesting?" Paul said, appearing at his elbow.

  It took David tremendous willpower not to turn his head toward Portia.

  "Not yet," he said, making his decision and striding toward a seat. He took the place directly behind the slender food critic, loving the way she jerked her head straight forward to avoid seeing him. But he knew she'd noticed him. The flush of color spreading down her bare neck told him everything.

  He wanted to torture her until she screamed.

  Mrs. Hardwick gave her usual lecture about safety and Castle rules, which he barely heard. Instead, he spent the entire introduction becoming intimate with every detail of Portia Sands's back. She'd crossed her long legs, her full-length, fawn-colored jacket falling open to expose tight black jeans and high heeled, knee-high boots. The toe of her boot jiggled in a frantic dance. She held her hands clasped in her lap, her lightly manicured nails appearing natural and healthy under a clear coat of gloss. She wore the yellow wrist band for the naughty maid program, and she and her friend also sported black velvet ribbons around their necks. He couldn't recall seeing neck ribbons on any of his past visits. What could they designate? He made a mental note to find out as soon as possible.

  He pinned his gaze to her left ear and willed her to turn and look at him. People know when they're being watched, particularly so intently. She would feel it. Sure enough, her head wobbled a little on her neck and her chin began to turn, her eyes sliding to look over her shoulder.

  He smirked, meeting her gaze with cool amusement.

  She drew in a sharp breath, her eyes widening before she whipped her head back to face the front, sitting up straighter than an Army general with a pole up her ass.

  David almost laughed out loud. Paul shot him an amused look, and he grinned. If life came with a personal DJ and soundtrack, right now he would cue "Bad to the Bone" because he truly felt like the big, bad wolf.

  Mrs. Hardwick divided the group into Dominants and submissives, and his group left for a separate orientation. David knew without looking that Portia's eyes were following him as he left.

  After the Dominants' orientation, he stopped at the reception desk. "What do the black
velvet ribbons designate?" he asked the sweet-looking girl who had checked him in earlier.

  "Oh! Those are worn by the slaves who will be participating in the charity auction. Do you plan on attending?"

  "Hmm, no. But what happens if I change my mind? Do I need to register or anything?"

  "No, you can sign up when you get there. The auction will take place in the Middle Ballroom, and there will be a Meet and Greet in the adjoining ballroom an hour before the auction so you can mingle with the slaves and get a feel for each one."

  He tapped the counter thoughtfully. "About how much would you guess the slaves will go for?"

  "I'm not entirely certain. Of course, all the money goes directly to charities that fund cancer research."

  "Yes," he mused. "But do you know what the starting bids will be?"

  "I heard two hundred dollars, but please don't quote me on that."

  "Thank you," he said, giving her a smile.

  He went straight up to his room, hardly aware of all the frolicking going on around him. His mind kept repeating one thrilling idea: he was going to make Portia pay.

  #

  Portia and Tina followed a pretty staff member named Kaylee to the orientation for the auction slaves. She counted twenty or so women in all, but probably quite a few more had arrived the day before. She'd been told they could come up to thirty-six hours in advance in order to enjoy the Castle experience prior to the auction. Tina had not been able to afford an extra day off work, and Portia hadn't wanted to come without her only friend, so they would only have the remainder of the day. She didn't mind. She knew it would be easier to experience all the Castle had to offer under the direction of a Dominant.

  That was the beauty of submission—all she had to do was follow directions and she couldn't mess up. She found it far easier than attempting to navigate situations on her own, where she got bogged down with trying to figure out just how she was supposed to act, or what she should do or say.

  Master Marshall, whom she recognized from the brochure as the head honcho and one of the owners of the Castle, greeted them himself. She tried not to stare at the handsome man, who cut an elegant figure in a nineteenth century gray suit, his piercing blue eyes sweeping across them. "Thank you all for volunteering to serve as slaves for our New Year's charity auction. While you will not have a choice of who you will serve, nor will you have a choice of how you serve, your hard limits will be respected, and the Castle safeword, "onions," will always be in effect."

  Tina looked at her and grinned, her nervous excitement palpable. Portia returned the smile, but with slightly less enthusiasm. After sweating through the first orientation with David Marone breathing down her neck, her nerves had frayed. While fairly confident that he hadn't recognized her, the less she had to see of him, the better. Honestly, she couldn't wait until the auction when her master took control of her and she no longer had to worry about interacting with the masses.

  Portia had given the name "Kitty" as her alias while at the Castle. Not the most original name, but it seemed like a decent porn star name. Tina had opted for "China," which suited her in a china-doll sort of way. Portia didn't know whether Kitty really suited her. The cutesy vibe wasn't her, but she did have the aloofness of a cat, and she had a feeling she could wear the hell out of a catsuit. Not that she'd checked 'pet play' on her interest list.

  After the welcome, she and Tina walked to their adjacent rooms to check them out before the optional tour.

  "Oh my God," Portia said in awe, when she opened her door. The four-poster bed sported rings, and more rigging hardware had been installed in the ceiling. Her nipples tightened at the thought of being strung up from one or more of them, the pulse beginning in her sex making her squeeze her thighs together.

  "Nice," Tina said, entering behind her to look around.

  "I hope I get strung up to one of those tonight," Portia said, imagining herself blindfolded and secured spread-eagled, while her new master fucked her with a vibrator. Or his hot cock. A tremor ran from her pussy, down her inner thighs, to the arches of her feet. Now she knew where the term 'curled her toes' came from. She suddenly wished Tina would leave so she could get busy with her fingers. But no, they had to meet back downstairs for a Castle tour in fifteen minutes. Tina had befriended a submissive who'd offered to take them around with some other new arrivals.

  "I'll just head to my room and freshen up," Tina said, rolling her shoulders. "Meet you back here in ten."

  "Sounds good," Portia said absently, still imagining the feel of restraints on her wrists and ankles. Shaking herself, she removed her winter coat and threw her suitcase up on the bed. Pulling out her cosmetic case, she went to the bathroom and freshened up herself, brushing her teeth and reapplying lipstick. She gave the mirror a fake smile, examining herself critically. She rubbed the line between her brows. Worry marks. Her face looked pinched and anxious. She stretched her lips wider, as if the smile could hide the almost forty years of high stress living. Well, the lighting would probably be dim at the auction. And besides, a Dominant looked for more than just a pretty face when choosing his play mate.

  She met Tina in the hall and the two walked back downstairs, joining a group of men and women for a tour. "First of all, everyone will need to visit Wardrobe, because street clothes are not allowed. Otherwise, you risk being spanked," their guide said cheerfully.

  A man with dark hair, ocean-blue eyes and a goatee gave Portia a seductive look, just bordering on a leer. "Your first time, too?"

  She gave a nervous bark of laughter. "Does it show?"

  "Well, no. But you're on the tour."

  "Oh, right," she said. Duh. "Sorry, I'm a little nervous."

  He moved in closer, his predatory look warming into a friendlier one. "Nothing to be afraid of. Everyone here just wants to have a good time."

  She should appreciate being chatted up by a good-looking Dominant. So why had her belly tightened into a knot? "Right," she said, drawing a breath and looking around for an escape.

  Tina caught her eye and gave her an encouraging smile.

  The Dom picked up her hand and touched the bands on her wrist. "Yellow is for... what? The school room?"

  "The naughty maids, actually," she said.

  He gave her a leering up and down look. "Mmm, I hope I get to see you in one of those outfits," he said, lifting his chin toward a girl who tottered by in high heels and the most revealing maid costume she'd ever seen

  Portia managed a tight smile, but turned away, toward Tina, who had not yet picked up the 'save me' vibe. She couldn't explain why she'd taken a disliking to the guy, who had done nothing worse than show an interest in her, but she had.

  Available Jan. 24th, 2014 on Amazon, Barnes & Noble & Blushing Books as part of the “Master’s of the Castle” Box Set, “When The Gavel Falls”

  Owning O

  By Maren Smith

  Free Preview

  Chapter One

  Standing before the mirror, Alan finished getting dressed. It wasn't often that he bothered to don his ceremonial black leathers: the pants, the boots, vest and silver-studded wrist cuffs. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd put them on. It had been even longer since he'd last felt this level of giddiness. High school probably came close, but he was twelve long years beyond his graduation of that. The last of his wild and wooly college days were a good six years behind him as well. So why did he feel like a schoolboy on the verge of his first date, and with none other than the homecoming queen? He felt shaky, but his hands in the mirror were as steady as they'd always been. It was why he'd once aspired to be an architect… back before he realized that, while precision work suited him, sitting at a drafting table for hours on end bored him to tears.

  He tightened his armbands, but his gaze had already drifted from his reflection to the series of photographs stuck by their edges all around the mirror's frame. Of all the people captured there, only one was represented in every picture: Octavia Sutters. Though she signed her name as
Tavy on all her Castle admission papers, while she was here, she only ever went by the simple, anonymous moniker of 'O.' He knew this not because they were great friends, (although they had exchanged the occasional word or two of conversation over the years) or because he had once managed to score a highly-coveted scene with her and her Dom-of-the-moment. No, he knew who she was because three weeks ago, when he'd first learned that Tavy had volunteered to be one of the thirty or so submissives invited to take part in the Castle's first slave auction, he'd broken into Master Marshall's office and looked up her records.

  Getting caught might have cost him his job, but Alan hadn't been able to help himself. He'd been here three years now, not quite as long as the Castle had been open. Tavy had been one of its first guests, staying for one or two days every month, as reliable in her attendance as clockwork. And just like clockwork, she had a routine she never deviated from and a reputation that made her one of the most highly-sought after submissives among the regular guests and the in-staff Masters alike.

  From the moment Tavy donned her usual costume (black corset and garters, with five-inch high fuck-me heels) and knelt to submit, she did whatever was asked of her. Rumor had it she never said no. At least, not apart from her hard limit of no conversations of a personal nature, and she never—ever—played with the same man twice. Had Alan known this the one time he'd unexpectedly been pulled into a scene with her, her current Top ordering her to her knees before him, he'd have done more than watch and savor it while she, with her hands bound high behind her back, opened the fastenings of his pants with her teeth and obediently took his cock into her mouth. She'd choked herself on his length, she took him so deep into her throat. Willingly. Enthusiastically. He still went to bed at night remembering how it had felt to have the muscles of her throat milking him as she'd swallowed, hummed, swallowed again and, in a ball-spasming series of spurts so strong it had almost dropped him to his knees, sucked down every last drop she could wring out of him.