And nine o’clock came…and went.
* * * *
Jeez. Emily kicked the door of her little car shut, wincing when her unprotected toes took the brunt of her action. Stilettos were sexy, open-toed stilettos sexier, but they were hell to drive in and worse to wear while going around kicking things. Although it would have felt good to kick that damned cop.
She anxiously checked the tiny silver face of the watch her parents had given her on graduation, a lifetime and different life ago, and her belly roiled when she saw how late she was. It had been the proverbial day from hell, and her continual thoughts about what might unfold this evening hadn’t made things any easier. She’d been assigned an entirely new curriculum for the term, and an additional seven students to squeeze into an already too small classroom.
Teaching English as a second language and high school math wasn’t the easiest load, but one she’d assumed and carried off, the only thing she’d been able to take pride in for ages. The higher number of students, coupled with the crowded conditions, was going to challenge her ability to cope and do right by her class, and Emily had fought ridiculous tears and panic all day long. She was terrified of failure. She taught adults because she thought children would see right through her with their uncanny ability to read others. She’d had that ability as a child herself, not that it saved her.
The time had dragged, and then she had to stay late to engage the director and push him into finding her more seating as well as enough texts to go around. Tablets were but a fond wish.
By the time she got home to change and ready herself for her next session with Master Jordan, she was exhausted, both mentally and physically. A shower had restored some of her equilibrium, but nothing went right after that. She wasn’t happy with the outfit she’d fussed over the night before and laid out to wear, her waterproof mascara had dried out and clumped in the container, and she couldn’t match her shoes to the clothes she finally settled on.
Knowing it was her nerves making her second guess everything didn’t change it, and when she spilled the shake she’d concocted for her dinner down the front of the third replacement outfit, the storm of tears and meltdown was one for the record book. She briefly considered she might be losing what little mind she had left, and was grateful the only witness was her Siamese cat. Analise viewed her with that slightly cross-eyed, disdainful look the animal had perfected over the years and took herself off with elegant grace and a twitch of her crooked tail.
So late, she forced her small car through traffic, choosing gaps and changing lanes with determined skill as she anguished over keeping Master Jordan waiting. She thought, fleetingly, of calling the Club and letting him know, but believed she might yet make it on time. Until the flashing blue and red lights in her rearview knocked that hope askew.
“Driver’s license and registration.” How original. Emily fumbled through the glove box and located the necessary documents and pried her license from the tiny window in her wallet. She smiled winsomely at the officer, who smiled back before giving her a look that told her he’d seen it all before and nothing she said or did was going to change the outcome.
Accepting he was only doing his job didn’t mitigate her attitude, and she knew her sullen demeanor added to the length of the lecture about speeding and taking risks and how she was lucky she was only getting ticketed for the former and not for dangerous driving. Yada yada yada. Her job didn’t pay all that well, and she managed a short nod at his munificence. Maybe if she had told him she was going to be late for her date with someone who was going to make her a better person—nuts. Not only was that an insane thought to share, she was expecting Master Jordan to work a miracle.
Her steps toward the Club faltered, and she clattered to a halt. What was she doing? Surely everything that happened today was a message that tonight wasn’t going to go any better. And miracles were the stuff of storybooks and the bible, neither of which she paid any mind, any longer. Time to back up, cut her losses, and head for home. Master Jordan would have given up on her by now in any event, and being late for…class…just wasn’t done here.
As she retraced her steps through the well-lit parking lot, her innards chilled and froze into a block of ice. Fear and second-guessing herself were familiar companions, and the cold was the best way to lock things down and get back to the status quo.
“Emily.”
His very recognizable voice reached out and wrapped an invisible restraint around her. The asphalt surface of the lot gritted beneath her soles as her feet stuttered to a stop, and the sultry air of the unseasonably warm evening pressed around her body. She stared forward and sought for the will to run. This could only end badly like everything else in her life.
“Emily.”
Her body hitched around against her will, drawn to its Master, no matter she hardly knew him. She was really late, and by rights he should have written her off and moved on. But he was outside, standing on the steps, his tall frame and broad shoulders silhouetted against the imposing building. Waiting for her? Maybe even concerned for her? Even the terrified individual living behind all her shields knew this for the last chance that it was. Heels tapping on the hard surface, she crossed the pavement, drawn to him by that invisible tether. He came down the steps to halt at the bottom.
Fetching up directly in front of him, she went to her knees, the grit and dirt of countless feet and vehicles imbedding into her skin, but she ignored the slight discomfort. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what, sub? For being late? Or for running?”
“Both.”
“Then you’ll accept correction.”
The dark, implicit assertion threaded its way through her collective senses like a velvet skein, and her head nodded in response. “Yes.” That’s what she needed at the end of the day from hell, and what she deserved.
“Up.” A firm grasp at her elbow brought her to her feet, and when his big hand cupped her chin, she lifted her eyes to meet his intense stare. There wasn’t a hint of softness, only awareness and certainty. She shivered in the face of it and accompanied him up the stairs, past the huge bouncer with the inscrutable face who held the door.
Master Jordan led the way, and she followed. Not once did he check to determine her progress nor ascertain she was actually behind him, secure in his arrogance. No, trusting that she’d keep her promise. Emily kept all her promises, except the ones to herself.
The submissive at the coat check station took her little bag. The speeding ticket protruded from the top, the color distinctive in the overhead lighting, and Jordan put his hand out. With a sympathetic glance at Emily, the sub handed the purse over. Extracting the paper, Jordan scanned it, then fixed her with a look so full of fury her breath failed in her chest. With visible restraint, he passed her belongings back for safekeeping and tucked the claim check into his waistband. It appeared she wasn’t leaving until he decided she could, and his reaction to that ticket made her wonder if he wasn’t a traffic cop in his other life.
It wasn’t a member room, private except for the video surveillance and the checks by the dungeon monitors that her Dom turned into next. Instead, it was a semi-exposed scene and punishment room. Crap. She quaked and trembled and couldn’t bring it under control.
Master Jordan’s calm stare, one hand set firmly on her shoulder, absorbed her terror, and she leaned into his touch, closing her eyes against the people all around.
“Strip.”
Eyes popping open, she mourned the loss of his touch and tried to moisten a very dry mouth and form some kind of plea. He waited, only the tic in his jaw belying his overt patience. You can do this.
Keeping her eyes on his, she worked the tiny buttons on her fitted shirt free and let the fabric drift down her arms, grabbing it before it hit the floor with the fingertips of one outstretched hand. Aside from a hot flare of his dark eyes, immediately contained, Master Jordan simply stared. The skirt’s zipper whispered its subtle purr, and the garment pooled around her feet. Stepp
ing out of it, she then bent to scoop it up and paused to work the buckle of one stiletto strap.
“The shoes stay on.” He made no secret of his desire for her, lust coloring his tone and his leathers bulging as they contained his junk.
Her nipples beaded harder, rasping against the lace of her bra, and her sex drew up, clit pulsing in recognition of his dominance and desire. Awkwardly folding the two articles of clothing, knowing she was merely prolonging the inevitable, Emily dropped them to the side and reached behind her to work the hooks of her bra loose. Jordan watched heatedly as her breasts rose, pushed forward by her efforts, and emboldened, she took her time removing the scant piece of lace. Allowing the straps to slide slowly down her upper arms, she shrugged each cup free, one at a time, and the garment drifted to the floor.
He was on her without warning, dragging her close, putting her on her toes as one hand wove through her hair to tug her head back, while the other palmed her buttocks and ground her pelvis against the bulge of his leathers.
“You have no control in this room, sub. None. I told you to strip, not tease. You’ve just added to your correction.”
That should have scared her, but she was so very aware of how he’d responded, and that in itself gave her a sense of power. Her pussy flooded with excitement, and her hips jerked incrementally, rubbing her apex against the hard length of him. Both nipples were painfully erect, pressed into the fine linen of his shirt and the hard muscles behind the material.
A sardonic twist to his lips, Master Jordan squeezed one buttock. Hard. A hiss of pain escaped her, but his handling only added to her arousal. Pleasure and pain. Pleasure because of pain. He spun her toward the spanking bench and Emily wobbled on her heels, but he instantly corrected her stance, lifting her to put her in position.
All of the pictures of submissives restrained on this piece of furniture didn’t really make the same impact as being personally bound to it. Well padded, with adjustments for the placement of her knees and arms, it supported her torso as comfortably as a punishment bench could, she supposed. But Jordan worked her placement higher, cancelling out any possibility of kneeling, and Emily realized she’d be stretched high on the balls of her feet, the shoes elongating her legs and lifting her ass prominently on display. It was all beyond her control, and part of her relished the fact and joined with it, but the young girl inside shrieked against her powerlessness.
“Emily.” He’d felt her ambivalence. “What is your safe word?”
“Uncle,” she stammered.
“Original,” he murmured. But then, he didn’t know.
As he secured her wrists and thighs to the bench, running one callused hand down her spine, pausing to rest at her buttocks, she rejoined the moment. He’d stop if she fell into the past, into her terror.
“Tell me why you’re being corrected.”
“I was late for our…session.” She wondered that he could hear her over the jumble of voices as other members began to fill the room. But in her position no one could really see too much her breasts hanging free on either side of the bench, and she still had her panties to veil her bottom and pussy.
Master Jordan remained silent. She tried to lift her head enough to catch a glimpse of him, seeking a hint. Then it came to her. The speeding ticket. What did that have to do with anything? “The ticket?”
“You will never take such reckless chances with your safety. You’ll have a reminder of that for some days to come.” The grim finality of his statement gave her pause. He was worried about her. When was the last time anyone had worried about her? Not in forever, because she never let anyone in.
A strap snugged around her hips, ensuring total immobility, and she heard the unmistakable sound of metal shears opening and closing. Her safe word trembled on the end of her tongue when the cool point slid alongside one hip…and the crunch of fine fabric being sliced marked the moment. The cooler air on one buttock announced its unveiling, and then the same glide of metal inserted itself to deal with the other side of her inoffensive underwear. It was far easier focusing on the destruction of a favorite pair of panties than to consider what everyone in the freaking Club was privy to viewing. Despite the humiliation, she could admit to a certain twisted titillation, an awareness of the audience’s appreciative murmurs. But Emily screwed her eyes shut and opened her mouth to cry uncle, running hard to the end. But the heated drape of a hard body over her back, and the huff of warm breath, redolent of mints, against her cheek made her blink, and her mouth snapped closed.
“Exhibitionism wasn’t a hard limit, my sweet. You show me that brave girl. It’s a count of twenty. No need to thank me for them.”
Holy shit. Her skin prickled at the contact, and her arousal warred with convention. She decided to immerse herself in the experience and let the chips fall where they may. She didn’t have to see any of these people again.
The smack of a very unforgiving piece of wood against the fullness of her ass pushed the air right out of her lungs, and any thought of a protest died when the second blow mirrored the first. It stung like fury, awakening all those tiny nerve endings in the upper layers of her skin, and the burn that set in had her biting her tongue. Sweet Jesus. She’d never do twenty of those. But then she didn’t have to do anything. Unlike the stealthy slicing and cross hatching of her thighs with the razor blade she’d chipped free of the small plastic handle, huddled in secrecy in the only bathroom of the family home, this pain was administered for good reason, for her mistakes. Not applied as misguided penance and an often futile effort to release the agony within.
The pain blooming in her ass grew exponentially, and the spate of sobs erupting from her chest, past the belabored breathing, was accompanied by a flood of tears, pouring over her cheekbones to drip to the floor. Emily whimpered and moaned, the moans turning to pleas, but not for her Dom to stop…and then she escaped it all, the scene, the room, and the prison of her body, adrift on the stew of emotional release.
A stealthy circling and pressing on her clit announced itself as if from a great distance, and as the rubbing increased in intensity and speed, a sudden orgasm shoved her even higher, leaving her to clench helplessly against the enormity of it.
* * * *
Jordan cupped Emily’s pussy, folds swollen and heated from her release. He tossed the paddle to one side and freed her binds. He hadn’t been easy on her. Some of his frustration at her tardiness—which had worried him—leaked through his control. But it was the insane amount of the ticket, eighty-five in a fifty-five zone. The relief that nothing had happened to her sweet ass nearly crippled him. It was his sweet ass, and he would be the something happening to it. The sight of her curvy little form, stretched out, secured and at his mercy, had driven his lust for her to new heights. Her pink pussy, folds glistening to his avid inspection, fine ass aloft…
She hadn’t given her safe word, although he suspected she’d been close, what with being displayed and the fairly severe licking he’d just laid on her. Instead she had wept out such a painful storm of emotion that it silenced even the more experienced members of Pleasure. He’d seen her hit sub space just before the final count, and he’d been driven to give her an orgasm to keep her soaring. Now he was worried she’d drop hard, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t use it for the greater good.
Accepting a blanket from Jon, who had booked the area for someone else and probably wasn’t happy to give it up, he nodded his thanks, marking the quizzical look on the other man’s face. So Patrick had filled him in, and Jon expected a snail’s pace with Emily’s training instead of this immediacy. Well, neither Jon nor Patrick had witnessed the little dance in the parking lot, and Jordan blessed his earlier need to join Maurice, ostensibly for a chat but actually to watch for the little sub. He’d hoped she had actually made it to Pleasure, but was frozen in place in her car, too afraid to seize the moment. In a way he’d been correct in his assumption. Her clear surrender to fear had been a painful thing to observe. But she’d come to him, and now he
’d do right by her. He’d train her and get the shit she’d buried so deeply out of her system so she could see her life clearly and make some better choices.
“I’ll have someone clean up, Jordan.” Jon’s deep voice held no censure. “You take your sub and care for her. She flew.”
They’d have a little chat, and maybe he’d ask about those fine lines decorating her silky thighs, too. Nodding again, he scooped her up, boneless and unaware. As he bore his blanket-wrapped little burden to a convenient member room, the scent of sweet arousal drifted to his nose and he inhaled deeply. He’d made the right choice in pushing her, and feeling her cunt spasm against his hand was something he’d never forget.
Choosing the baby-making chair, he cuddled Emily to his chest and rubbed his chin over her soft hair, patiently waiting the moment when she came back to him. As she stretched a little, a small sound of contentment emerging from her full mouth, he spoke into her ear. “Who hurt you, sweetheart?”
He marked the sudden increase in tension, the long muscles in her arms and legs tensing as if for battle, and he silently cursed. Shushing her, murmuring nonsense against her hair, he assured her how safe she was and then asked again. This time her eyelids flickered and he was treated to a slumberous look of appeal. “Who, Emily?”
“Uncle Thomas.”
Jordan didn’t need to ask anything further. He knew. It couldn’t be anything else. It was sexual assault she’d endured, and by a trusted family member. But he needed to know about her family’s response.
“Did your parents believe you? Your mom? Your dad?”
A tiny shrug. Another languorous look. She wasn’t yet in the present. “They said they did. Everyone did.”
Enough [Club Pleasure 7] (Siren Publishing Classic) Page 4
