Leather and Grace

by Maggie Ryan

  On his right towards the back were several stations where public play took place. A few rooms had been set up for fetish and role-play. There were a half dozen rooms in the very back, available for booking for those who weren’t into more than a little public display. He’d seen that every room had been booked for the entire weekend.

  A shriek had him turning back towards the bar only to see a blur of black hair and a flash of gold running towards him. “Master Quentin!” a woman squealed, breaking every protocol in the book by throwing her arms around him and jumping up and down. “It’s really you! Oh, God, it’s really you!”

  “Hello, Jessica,” Quentin said, giving the woman a hug and chuckling as her Dom approached at a much more sedate pace. “Hey, Keith.”

  “Hey, Quentin,” Keith said, grinning and rolling his eyes. “She’s just a little excited.”

  “So I see,” Quentin said, bending to buzz his lips across Jessica’s cheek. “I gotta say I’m glad to see your enthusiasm hasn’t waned.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Jessica said, though her tone belied the truth of her statement. “I just couldn’t believe it when Master Brody said you were coming back but oh, I’m so very glad you did.”

  “Okay, honey, you can let him go now.”

  Quentin felt her arms release him but she didn’t step back more than an inch. “Um, I-I can’t,” Jessica said.

  “Why not?” Keith asked.

  “I-I seem to be stuck.”

  Keith chuckled. “The whole room has seen you sticking like glue. Not a very good example for the newbies, Jess. Now, come away.”

  “I really can’t,” Jessica said, “my-my um, nip… um, I’m really stuck, sir.”

  Quentin looked down to see her face turning scarlet and grinned. She’d always been a bit uneasy talking about her body and it seemed some things hadn’t changed. But she did indeed appear stuck. “Permission to touch your sub?” he asked, the proper protocol easily coming back.

  “Seeing as how my wife threw herself at you, I’d say you don’t even need to ask. Touch away.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t make the wedding,” Quentin said.

  “You were missed,” Keith said, then grinned when his wife gave a soft sigh of exasperation. Lifting an item hanging from his belt, he said, “Your gift has been very much appreciated by me and, well, tolerated by my little miscreant.”

  “I’m glad you’ve enjoyed it,” Quentin said and then chuckled when Jess gave a little snort. “I seem to remember a good spanking did wonders towards settling this one.”

  “A memory that shall be tested as soon as you manage to release her.” Both men chuckled again as another squeal of protest sounded.

  Quentin moved his hand and worked to untangle the small chain from around the button of his vest. Jessica’s sharp yelp told of the discomfort she felt when he had to release the clamp attached to her nipple that had been hidden by a spray of purple flowers. “Sorry, little one,” he said, helping her to step back. He considered dropping the clamp but felt Keith’s eyes on him. Remembering his place, at least for the next few weeks, he said instead, “Deep breath.”

  Jessica nodded and once she’d obeyed, he placed the jaws of the clamp around her pinched nipple and slowly allowed the teeth to close, once more trapping her tender flesh in its bite.

  “Than-thank you, sir,” she said.

  “You’re welcome. Very pretty jewelry, Jessica.”

  “Isn’t it? It was a wedding gift,” she said, turning to smile at her husband. “One that I also both adore and hate.”

  Keith laughed and taking her arm, turned her slightly in order to apply the flat of his hand to her right cheek. “Go over to the spanking bench. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “Yes, Master,” Jessica said and then giggled, turned back and lifted herself onto her toes to press her lips against Quentin’s cheek. “Welcome home, Master Quentin.” She yelped when another swat added a matching red handprint to her left cheek and then, giving a little wave, bounced across the room towards the waiting spanking bench.

  “You know, kudzu is said to be eating the south,” Quentin said, recognizing the pattern of the body jewelry worn by the precocious sub.

  “Yeah, but since she’s managed to wrap herself around every part of my soul, I couldn’t think of a better design,” Keith said, his pride in his wife evident in his tone. He slapped Quentin on the back. “Come over in a few minutes and you can see the pattern repeated across that lovely little arse of hers.”

  “Ah, now I understand the request,” Quentin said. He was known to provide a custom paddle to those few who he’d come to consider more friend than client. When he received his invitation to their wedding, he’d known he wouldn’t go but had also known he’d do his best to fill Keith’s request for a depiction of the kudzu vine and its flowers on the surface of the leather paddle he’d created as his wedding gift. “I’ll be over in a bit.” Keith nodded and turned to follow his wife’s path, this time with a definite bounce in his step.

  Quentin approached the bar and shook hands with Adam, who was on duty. He didn’t even have to order as an ice-cold bottle of his preferred beer was set before him. “Thanks.”

  “I considered leaping over the bar to plaster myself to you but, well, seems someone else had the same idea, and she makes a much better leech. All the same, welcome back.”

  Quentin just shook his head and both men turned their attention to the spanking bench when a sharp cry immediately followed a rather solid thwack testified that Jessica’s spanking had begun. Quentin could remember the day Jessica had come to her first class. She’d been as bouncy then as she was now. Her earlier stumbling words told him that while she’d come a long way, proven by her instant obedience to her Dom’s order, she was still coming to terms with her submission. She’d found her perfect match in Keith, who would never hesitate to correct her, but would also never fail to let her know he loved her dearly.

  When he’d finished half of his beer, Quentin stepped back and moved to observe the punishment. Several others had gathered to watch, all keeping a respectful distance and maintaining silence out of respect for the couple. The only one making noise was Jessica who was yelping with every stroke of the paddle yet not attempting to rise even though she wasn’t restrained. Yes, she’d come quite a long way as each stroke left the imprint of the same design she wore around her neck, at her breasts, around her waist and, from this vantage point, even held deep within her body if the spray of three blossoms nestled between her reddening buttocks was any proof.

  Gradually her yelps turned into softer moans as the pain began to morph into pleasure. Quentin saw smiles of approval on both the faces of the subs and their Doms surrounding the area. This was the true meaning of the club’s name. Plaisir, translated from French, meant pleasure. Though pain was freely given and accepted, it was one way to ultimate pleasure for the women who gave the gift of their submission to their partners within these walls. As the spanking drew to a close, couples began to drift away. At the last stroke, only Quentin and a woman staff member remained.

  “As I said, beautiful,” Quentin said, looking down at Jessica’s now very red bottom.

  Keith helped his wife up, holding her close as her legs were a bit wobbly. She lifted her cheek from his chest to give Quentin a smile. “I really do love you, sir, but that paddle…”

  Quentin chuckled and bent to kiss her cheek. “Remember, little one, lying will get you paddled again. Now, go and let your Master take care of you.” Keith swept her up into his arms and carried her towards one of the more secluded couches. Before Quentin could say a word, the staff member was wiping down the station.

  “Thanks,” he said, giving her a smile.

  “It’s Molly, sir,” she said with her own smile.

  “Thanks, Molly,” he repeated and left her to her work. These staff members were almost invisible, and yet they made sure that the clients didn’t have to wait for a station to be cleaned and sanitized between uses, o
r ask for a condom as bowls were placed and kept filled within easy reach of both the seating areas as well as the equipment. They helped secure subs to apparatus and were also available to step in and play if requested. None were attached permanently to any one Dom but while they were all expected to obey any order given, they were women who found their own happiness in serving a variety of men.

  Quentin made a circle of the room, greeting those he knew and introducing himself to those few faces he didn’t recognize. He returned to the bar to see that Conner had taken a seat.

  “So what do you think?”

  Quentin had just taken a sip of his beer and was about to answer he thought everything looked as if it were going great when Conner qualified his statement.

  “I mean about the class next week. I know you and Brody don’t think…”

  “Hey, give him a break. He just got back,” Adam said.

  Finishing his beer, Quentin said, “The club looks great and the clients seem happy. Let’s get together tomorrow to catch up and discuss it then. How about noon? I’ll put in a request to Hannah for lunch.”

  “Sure,” Conner said. Quentin nodded, thanked Adam for the beer and dropped a ten-dollar tip on the bar. As an owner, his drinks were free but he never failed to tip his servers. They provided more than good service with their bartending skills. They provided complete confidentiality for any one of the rather affluent members of New Orleans’ society who valued their privacy outside of those who shared in the lifestyle.

  “Night, boss,” Adam said, as if to remind Conner exactly who he was talking to.

  “Night,” Quentin said. As he nodded to Ellen and entered the elevator, he realized how exhausted he was. Though he had to admit once he was in his bedroom stripping off his clothes, it hadn’t been as hard or as foreign feeling as he’d imagined it would be. He slid naked between the sheets and instead of tossing and turning as he’d feared he’d do, he was sound asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

  Chapter Three

  Grace didn’t know what was worse. Having to keep a smile on her face as she mingled with complete strangers or having to do so while wearing the devil’s shoes. Her feet were killing her in the four-inch stiletto heels. She had just begun to toe off her left shoe when she gave a startled gasp, her drink sloshing over the rim of her glass as she twisted to see who had just grabbed her arm. The move had her ankle twisting as she toppled forward.

  “Easy,” the man said as he tightened his grip, grinning as she bounced off his chest.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, finding it awkward to attempt to shove her toes back into her shoe while pushing against him while he maintained his grip on her arm. “You can let me go.”

  “Are you sure?” he said, “it wouldn’t be the first time an artist overindulges in cheap liquor waiting to see if they would be the new toast of the art world or… well, simply toast.”

  Feeling her face flush, Grace no longer cared how it looked as she planted her palm against his chest and pushed up. “I’m not tipsy, you just startled me.” At his look of disbelief, she lifted her glass. “It’s ginger ale, not champagne.”

  “Ah, so you can’t even blame alcohol for your lack of grace, Grace.”

  His chuckle had her really having to fight not to remind him that if he hadn’t grabbed her, she wouldn’t have to hear a phrase she’d heard ad nauseam throughout her life. She also didn’t appreciate the fact that he had yet to release her arm even as he lifted his own glass to clink against hers.

  “David Brooks at your service.”

  Of course he was, Grace thought with a silent moan. Who else would it be except for the critic Charles had warned her to be nice to. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Brooks. Again, I apologize for stumbling into you. I hope I didn’t spill anything…”

  “Relax, you only spilt on the floor.” Looking around he spotted a server and snapped his fingers, pointing to the small amount of liquid pooled at their feet. The girl immediately came over and dropped to mop up the ginger ale. Once she straightened, he plucked the flute from Grace’s hand and handed it to her. “There,” David said, “problem solved. No more fake champagne for you and no more mess.”

  Grace hadn’t liked his snatching her glass from her without even asking, but she was really affronted by the snapping of his fingers and the fact that he hadn’t even bothered to thank the girl. She also didn’t like that despite her slight tug, he’d yet to release her arm. It took everything within her not to tell him he was a pompous ass, but managed to refrain as Charles had told her this man could either help make or break her career.

  “I must say, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect but your work has definitely kept me from being bored.”

  “I’m glad you are enjoying it,” she said, hoping the grimace she couldn’t quite conceal as she forced her toes back into her shoe didn’t belie her statement.

  “I’d enjoy it far more if you’d join me after the show for a more in-depth discussion of your work.” His eyes raked up and down her small frame. His smirk had her practically able to read his mind before he spoke again. “You could slip into something more comfortable and tell me how you convince your subjects to agree to be forever frozen in such… well, shall I say titillating poses? While I consider myself a man of the world, I’m afraid I’m in the minority.”

  Grace just barely managed not to roll her eyes. “I disagree. I believe people can appreciate art even if they don’t understand or agree with the subject.”

  “I hardly think the subject matter is difficult to understand. After all, we’re not talking physics.”

  “If we’re discussing the sciences, I’d have to point out that physics is the study of motion, forces, and energy in our physical world.” She met his gaze and realized he didn’t appreciate her attempt to educate him but she didn’t appreciate his thinly veiled insults of her art… her passion. Forcing a smile, she shook her head. “Perhaps it would be better to consider the fundamentals of raw chemistry, the way people interact with another without even truly understanding…”

  “Or we could simply tell it like it is. Aren’t you afraid your work will be labeled as pornographic?”

  Again, tugging did nothing to release his hold, and she was afraid she was about to release a slew of words that would definitely be considered vulgar. Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she looked over his shoulder and saw a familiar face, pleasure rushing to replace her growing anger. Turning her gaze back onto David’s she said, “Only by those who don’t understand the difference between erotica and porn. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see someone I must speak to.”

  His hand tightened a bit as he spoke. “I’d think you’d be interested in continuing our discussion. After all, I’ll have my review written in my head before we part… unless, of course, you are smart enough to take me up on my offer. We can have a much more detailed discussion over a glass of good wine instead of this godawful swill.”

  “As lovely as that sounds, I’m afraid duty calls. I’m sure you’ll agree that an artist who ignores any of her guests is lacking in both manners and the appreciation that they’ve taken the time to come to her show. Now, please, let go of my arm.”

  David did so and she immediately began walking towards the doorway, only to be pulled to a halt yet again, the recapture of her arm causing her to stumble off her heels for the second time. Before she could speak, David practically growled, “How do you know Doucet?”

  Grace couldn’t believe he’d grabbed her yet again and also had no idea who he was talking about. “Please let go of me.”

  “Is that what Doucet calls it now—duty?”

  “What? Who?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about,” David said, shocking her by squeezing her arm tighter. “Doucet… the man with the blonde.”

  His words and his actions were the last straw. Looking up, she saw that Laurie was practically dragging her escort towards where David had her trapped. Grace was aware of two thi
ngs. Laurie evidently understood she was in trouble and, if the tick in his jaw was a reliable indication, the man with her wasn’t pleased, either. The reason became clear when David spoke again.

  “Well, it if isn’t Quentin Doucet. What’s the matter? Discover that not even the gators wanted you? What brings New Orleans’ prodigal son slinking out of the swamp?”

  Grace recognized the name Quentin, as Laurie and Brody had often talked about their absent friend. What Laurie had failed to mention was that Quentin Doucet was an artist’s dream subject. His wore a black leather jacket that had to have been custom tailored. It fit perfectly across a pair of the broadest shoulders she’d ever seen. His white shirt accentuated the bronze color of his skin where the buttons gaped at his throat. She could see his pulse beating in the vein on his neck and felt an almost irresistible desire to press her lips to it to soothe his tension. She felt her body quicken as her eyes dropped down the flat expanse of his abdomen and locked onto the buckle of his black leather belt. His legs were a mile long, encased in a pair of tan trousers, and the fact that he was wearing a pair of scuffed cowboy boots instead of some fashionable dress shoes had her smiling. The man could have stepped out of the pages of any fashion magazine and yet she knew without a doubt that he’d never truly considered his looks. He exuded the sense of confidence of a man who was comfortable in whatever he wore… or didn’t wear. She felt her face heat as she forced her eyes back up to meet his. Again, her breath caught and her fingers itched to be holding a camera. Could she capture the different shades of grey of his eyes? Would any artist be able to translate the expression she saw onto canvas? What would his eyes look like if they softened in pleasure? It took her a moment to realize that his gaze had seemed to harden even more, the reason becoming clear when the tail end of David’s words finally registered.