by Maren Smith
She left the bathroom, and for the first time in years she didn’t care that she was naked or that her marred side was exposed to anyone who cared to look. She walked through the crowded dungeon feeling so sick to her stomach that she wanted to throw up all over again. She passed all the occupied stations, the talkers and gawkers, those negotiating scenes, those waiting in line for equipment to become available, without really seeing any of it. A couple had indeed taken advantage of their hastily vacated station. Jackson was talking to them, probably reassuring them that it was okay to keep playing, perhaps even apologizing for not having wiped down after she fled in such a panic—although, knowing Jackson, that would have been a stretch. He’d gathered her clothes. They were wadded up under one arm like a football, and as she drew closer, he glanced up and looked right at her. She didn’t go to him. She veered instead, heading straight to the occupants of the padded table beside the cross where the fire-play was now done and the cleanup had just begun.
The two men were laughing, talking together. The submissive was nodding, “You’re right. That was fun.”
“This is actually a form of therapy, you know. Kind of like massage.” The dominant was grinning. “How’s your back feel?”
“Better, actually. Very relaxed.”
“Good.” The Dom’s grin grew as he plucked a disposable cleaning towel out of a nearby package and tossed it to his submissive. “Because now we’re going into one of the private rooms and, baby, I’m going to destroy your ass—” Spotting Sara, he stopped and his smile faded, which cued his submissive that something was wrong. He turned and then quickly stood up when he recognized her. His Dom took a single step forward, moving in between them, a gesture at once both familiar and endearingly protective. “Are you all right? I’m sorry if we startled you.”
“I’m fine.” Sara tried not to sound abrupt or as if she held them to blame for her flight of panic. She didn’t want to explain herself, but she also didn’t want them to feel responsible for her panic attack. She gestured to the table. “I was wondering if we could take the table when you guys are done with it.”
The Dom glanced at his partner, the table, and then her again. “Yeah, sure. We’re just cleaning up now.” He turned to gather the fire wands and fuel, stuffing them into a small nylon bag. The glass cups were packaged individually and took a little more care.
“Is that your equipment?” Sara asked, as she stepped in to help.
“Nope. They loan it out over there.” The man pointed back at the implement station where Hannah was still working, not quite pouting the same way she had been before Jackson had stopped to talk to her, but definitely not smiling either. She didn’t look like she was having a very good time down here. At this point, Sara could sympathize with that. What she was about to do she didn’t for a second think would be classified as a good time.
“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to keep those here.” Sara gestured at the nylon bag. When she held out her hand, the Dom hesitated, but then passed it over.
“Hey.” Sara turned just as Jackson reached her side. He cupped her elbow, but she wasn’t about to be drawn away. “Are you all right?”
“I secured us a table.” She held the bag out to him, but didn’t look at him right away. She didn’t think she could look at him and keep her nerve up at the same time.
“We don’t have to do this,” he told her. “There isn’t a damn thing in this world you have to prove to me.”
“No.” She held her breath a moment, and then looked up at him. “But I have to prove it to me. Please, Jackson…light me up.”
* * * * *
Jackson double and then triple-checked his set-up. Everything was unpacked on a small side-table—the cups were in a neat line, although he probably wasn’t going to use them. The flash cotton, however, would be used. He had the package sitting next to the wands. The bottle of alcohol was firmly capped, but he had a small amount set aside in a cup. The wands looked brand-spanking new, but he checked them over anyway. On the one hand, he was honored that Sara would chose him to do this for her; on the other, all he could feel was the pressure to make sure this went well. He held no illusions—this wasn’t going to automatically fix anything, but he didn’t want to make things worse either. And there were so many ways in which this could all go badly.
He tried not to look like he was fussing needlessly. He wanted to give her plenty of time to back out if she wanted, but she only sat on the edge of the padded table, her hands folded tight between her knees, and never even attempted it. Her lips were compressed in a hard, unsmiling line. Her face seemed ashen.
“Sara.” With nothing left to fidget with, Jackson braced his hands to either side of her and leaned in close, forcing her to look at him, making sure his words were for her alone in spite of the loud music and the natural commotion of so many people gathered in one place. “You don’t have to do this. I don’t care if you ever do this again.”
“I care,” she said, and then repeated, “Light me up.”
“You remember both the Castle safeword and ours?”
“I don’t want a safeword.”
“Too bad.”
“I’m afraid I might use it when I don’t really mean to.”
“Baby,” Jackson cupped her chin, caressing his thumb back and forth along the bow of her bottom lip. “In this case, regardless of when you use it, it’ll be okay.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want it to be okay.”
A myriad of emotions collided inside him—amusement, irritation, admiration, supreme annoyance. “If I can’t trust you to use the safewords, then I’m not going to do this.”
A flicker of defiance temporarily broke through her fear. It would have been cute if it weren’t so maddening. “I’ll get someone else to do it. That’s one of the perks of this place. There is at least one good Dom, literally, around every corner.”
That little statement pretty much killed his amusement right there. He still chuckled, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “All I have to do is say one word, baby, and I guarantee every Dom in this particular place will happily tie you up and hand-deliver you to me. At which point, you’d better believe I will use all of my considerable talents to ensure you never sit down again. Ever.”
She squirmed slightly, as if his threat had sent prickling aftershocks of awareness scampering across the surface of her pretty little bottom. “All right. You win.”
Jackson smiled again, his palm itching. He touched her face instead, smoothing her long hair back, liking these few seconds when she instinctively leaned into his palm and looked just a little less afraid. “Fine. We’ll trust each other, then. Lie down.”
She glanced only once at the equipment spread out on that narrow side table and then quickly looked away again. Her breathing came faster. A shimmer of unshed tears began to fill her eyes, and still she rolled onto her stomach and lowered herself to lie with her arms pillowing her cheek. Both her bottom and her shoulders remained flushed from her flogging, a pretty rosy shade of pink unmarred by a single welt. He caressed her bottom before letting his hands wander up to touch her back. All he felt there was the tension she was trying so hard to hide from him. Knot after knot quivered under his palms.
“It’s okay, baby.” He massaged her, taking his time, sweeping stray wisps of blonde hair back over her shoulder, keeping her face clear so he could keep careful watch on her emotions. He lit a short candle and set it on the side table. She tensed even tighter, but otherwise she didn’t move. Her lips parted. He didn’t realize right away that she had done so to help hide the fact that she had begun to cry.
“It’s okay, baby.” Her back felt even tighter when he put his hands on it. He stroked her, massaging his way from her neck to her ankles, trying to relax her as much as he could, but she wouldn’t stop staring at the candle. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No,” she mouthed, but there was no sound to it and she wasn’t relaxing.
Glimpsing movement, he looked
up in time to see a dungeon monitor slip past a group of watchers, glancing at each of the scenes—including Jackson’s—on his way to check the private rooms. Raising one hand, Jackson caught his attention and mouthed, “Blindfold.”
Nodding, the dungeon monitor retreated to the implement station, returning with the requested blindfold a short time later. He passed it to Jackson and moved on, professionally going about his rounds to make sure every submissive in every scene was being attended carefully.
Jackson bent, smoothing his hands over her shoulders before gathering her hair. “Lift your head and close your eyes.”
“I want to see it coming,” she said.
“Do as you’re told, or we won’t do this at all.”
She raised her head, shooting him an angry look. “Don’t tell me how to do this, Jackson. This is mine!”
His grip on her hair went from gentle to controlling before she had finished speaking. Wrenching her head back, he slapped her ass, and that wasn’t gentle either. “And this is mine,” he said, resting the flat of his palm on the fullest swell of her bottom. He squeezed each cheek, giving her plenty of time to feel his ownership, to protest it if she wanted to, but she didn’t. If anything, incredibly, her small body melted a little under his touch. “Do as you’re told.”
When he let go of her hair, she offered only the slightest hesitation before raising her head and closing her eyes. He put the blindfold on her and tied it securely into place.
“Lie down.” When she had once more settled flat on the padded table, he smoothed his hands down the gentle slope of her spine. On his second pass he felt her soften. On his fourth, she began to relax. “Our safeword is ‘red.’ If you drive yourself into a panic because you’re too damn stubborn to use it, I will bust your ass in a way you won’t find sexy or fun.”
Incredulously, as he turned to gather up both wands, he thought he heard her mumble, “Promises, promises.”
Jackson smiled, shook his head once and then nodded. “Oh, baby. Be careful what you wish for.” He began, dipping both wands in the alcohol. He ignited one. “Can you hold still, or do you want me to tie you down?”
The question was out before he remembered the original accident had happened with her tied to the table. He could have bit his tongue when she shuddered, tensing all over again.
“I’ll hold still,” she promised.
Holding both wands in one hand, he massaged her back until she began to ease once more. The thickness of his fingers held the flaming wand well away from its alcohol soaked twin. “Pay attention now. I’m going to write something on your back, and I want you to tell me what it says.”
She shifted a little when he laid the cool wetness of the alcohol-soaked wand against the skin between her shoulders. He drew in small, carefully linked letters. Her eyebrows drew together before, hesitantly, she offered, “Strong?”
Jackson smiled. “That’s my girl.”
He tapped the flaming wand to the wet on her skin and ignited the word. Sara immediately stiffened, catching and holding her breath. She made only the softest mewing sound before he brushed the fire out with his open hand. He took his time, caressing her gently until she grudgingly relaxed once more.
Dipping the unlit wand back in the cup of alcohol, he rolled the excess liquid from the cloth against the lip of the glass. He could feel her trying not to stiffen as he wrote out the next word.
“Brave?” she guessed, her voice trembling.
“Good girl.” He ignited that word, too, and caressed the open flames away before she could do more than flinch. Her breathing quickened, but she didn’t panic. He felt the heat the way she must have felt it, warm against his palm but not painful. He was careful not to let it burn either of them and took his writing the next word further down her back, tracing the letters directly across the blushing globe of her ass, two for each cheek.
“Sexy,” Sara said and even laughed a little, just before he ignited her and brushed the flames away.
“Courage” went down the back of her right leg, each letter linked so that all he had to do was tap the flaming wand to the back of her thigh and whoosh it went, amber fire burning the alcohol and wicking along her skin all the way down past her knee. “Beautiful” went up the back of her left leg, and he caressed that back into blackness almost from the moment he set her leg aflame. He brought his hand up her bare skin, dropping into the valley of her buttocks and descending into the moisture hiding between her thighs. Smooth, silken drops of new-budding arousal.
“Good girl,” he said, bending to drop a kiss upon the nape of her neck. “Let’s do another. Tell me what this says.”
Sara lay still, arching just a little as she felt the cool tip of the alcohol-soaked wand leave its trail in bold letters all across her back. “Mine?” she whispered.
“Damn right,” he agreed, as he brushed the flames promptly away. Clamping his hand back between her legs, he found her clit and gripped it in a way that made her jump. She gasped, twisting her face blindly toward him, her bottom humping up and down, her thighs gripping at his hand. He let go, swatted her, and picked up both wands to write his last word.
In scrawling cursive, Jackson wrote his name from her shoulders to her blushing buttocks. Without waiting for her to guess, he lit the alcohol and Sara gave a shivering cry. It was not a frightened sound. She seemed to know what he’d written, that he was marking his territory in ways they both could see even after he rubbed the fire out.
He bent, kissing the small of her trembling back, smelling the alcohol on her skin and feeling the heat with his mouth as he nipped her hip. He smoothed his hand down her scarred side, then stroked it with the wand and set that on fire, too. She jumped, but when he smothered out the flames, she arched to find his touch again. Her feet came up off the table as she writhed, her toes curled in tight. He drew a three-ring bulls-eye on her ass next and set each of those on fire, too.
“On your back,” he told her. She tried to take her blindfold off first, but a sharp slap to her bottom put an abrupt end to that. “On your back, Sara.”
Feeling her way along the edge, Sara carefully rolled over and lay back down, centering herself between the two edges before she gripped them.
“Spread your legs,” he commanded. “Put your hands above your head and keep them there.”
She obeyed, her hands faltering only once before grabbing onto the top of the table. Her chest rose and fell in swift, shallow breaths.
He set the peaks of both nipples on fire and as soon as they were extinguished, bent to capture first one and then the other in the heat of his mouth. He suckled her, then withdrew, only to draw a line of alcohol down between her breasts to her belly. He lit it up, rubbed it out, and then he bent to kiss her navel, laving a path of nipping kisses all the way down to the soft mound of her bare sex. She quivered, her mouth open as she breathed. Her toes curled once more. Her muscles were tight, but if there was fear anywhere in her right now, it was overshadowed by the sheer enjoyment she had in his touch.
He rubbed between her legs, loving how she bucked up into his hand and how wet she was. He knew he could get her even wetter, though. Her legs began to shake. She tipped her hips, rocking up into each stroke and widening her legs to give him even greater access.
The flame on his lit wand was running out of alcohol. It was about to wink out. He had just enough time to light one more line. He did it on a whim, running his fuel saturated wand over her mound and down her labia, and then he set her alight.
Sara shouted at the touch. Her hips bucked wildly up into his hand, but he was already rubbing it out. And not just rubbing now, but well after the flames were gone, he opened her up and bent to bury his face in the fragrant temptation of her pussy. He kissed her, suckled her, latched onto her pretty little clit and worked it until her hips were rolling and lifting, offering herself up to his attentive mouth. He got his fingers into her. He felt the uncontrollable shaking of her legs echoed in the clenching motions of her sex, milking hungr
ily at his fingers and trying so eagerly to draw him all the way in.
He had no clear memory of just when he put the wands down, but the next thing he knew, he was circling around to the bottom of the table. Grabbing her hips, he pulled her down to meet him before catching her hands and heaving her up to sit. Blindfolded and gasping, she arched, but he still threw her up over his shoulder.
He didn’t wipe the equipment down—a major no-no in dungeon etiquette. One he was sure to hear about later on, but at the moment, he just didn’t care. He took her out of the crowd. The vulnerability she was about to gift to him with was for his eyes alone and he had no interest in being anything but the most selfish of bastards. He would not share this, not with anyone.
He should have taken her back upstairs to his apartment.
He couldn’t bring himself to wait that long.
Instead, he carried her into one of the empty private rooms there—faux dungeons, set up like torture chambers, dark cells of stone that were decorated with every implement designed to make a submissive groan in pain and writhe in joy. They weren’t soundproof. Even as he lay her down, his ears were filled not just with her gasps but with the muted whispers of those writhing and groaning, suffering and coming in the rooms all around theirs.
Jackson made love to her on the unyielding floor. His knees would thank him for that for the rest of the day, if not the rest of the week, but he didn’t care about that, either. It didn’t matter where they were, so long as she held him like this, wrapped in the hungry embrace of her arms and legs. So long as he was buried like this inside her, slammed to the hilt in all her soft, wet heat, pumping hard just to hear her cry out and fighting his own pleasure back for as long as he could. He luxuriated in the way she came, when she came, those hot, raw guttural sounds she made as she arched up under him and her whole body trembled all around him.
In that moment, he’d have died to stay with her like that—just like that—forever joined in the way lovers ached to be.
