Chasing Chelsea (Masters of the Castle)

by Maren Smith

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “Only if you lie to me.” Judging by his expression, he already suspected she was, but he didn’t press. Not yet. “Since you are neither wearing your bracelet nor in costume, is it safe for me to assume you also bypassed Miss Hardwick’s pre-admission rundown of the rules?”

  She rubbed her thighs again. Her palms were sweating. “I’m sorry?”

  “Another question,” Master Marshall noted, faintly amused. “You were found where?”

  This one Jackson answered. “She was spotted outside the nursery by one of our Daddies, and I found her on the second floor just off the playground.”

  “Ah.” Laying two of the three bracelets on his desk, Master Marshall stood up. He walked straight past her with little more than a glance and crossed the room to open up the armoire against the wall. Wood clattered against wood and thin chains softly rattled together. From this angle, she couldn’t see inside, but there was a rather impressive display of wood, leather and rubber spanking implements hanging from hooks on the inside of the door.

  Chelsea quickly faced forward again. Either she wasn’t hanging out with the right gossips or no one in Granger had a clue what kind of resort this really was.

  Making his selection, Marshall returned to sit on the edge of his desk directly in front of her. His feet were bare centimeters from hers. She could smell his cologne. It was very nice—masculine, heady.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said, but his reassuring smile made her heart flounder and her stomach tangle up tight enough to strangle her breathing. He extended what he’d brought, another bracelet exactly the same as the three that had come in the envelope she’d found, except instead of purple or white, this one was blue. “No one is going to mind if you want to switch programs. Does the nursery intrigue you? I doubt I’ll have any trouble at all finding a nice Daddy or Mommy to take care of you. For a day or two—” He cocked his head, watching her closely. “—or perhaps the rest of your stay?”

  Two men in the courtyard zipped through her mind. Oh please don’t let her look as appalled as she suddenly felt.

  “No, thank you,” she whispered, squirming in her seat.

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded.

  Master Marshall turned partway to set the blue bracelet on his desk. Then he reached for her hand and slipped the purple one onto her wrist. “The bracelets are to be worn at all times. In the shower, while you sleep, any time you leave your quarters. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” She turned her wrist, looking at the bracelet. Obviously the blue one had something to do with the nursery. What exactly did the purple mean? Jackson had mentioned the royal program, but what was that?

  “The second rule is no civilian clothing allowed. I’m going to have Jackson take you to Wardrobe where you will select your first costume. You may have as many wardrobe changes as you like throughout your stay, but like the bracelet, if you leave your room, you’ll be in appropriate attire. Now, do you understand that?”

  “Yes.” Her stomach quivered. The kind of quiver that didn’t just stay in her stomach, but sank in, deepening and drifting low until she was clenching in and shivering in a place nobody ever associated with stomachs. She squeezed her thighs together, trying to still the sensation.

  “Good. Since this is your first time with us here, there is a list of rules we are going to go over and they are to be strictly adhered to. Are you listening?”

  Chelsea nodded again.

  “The first is anonymity. This is mandatory at the Castle. No one but myself and a few key members of my staff—Jackson, for instance—knows the true names of our guests. You would have selected a false name at the admission desk, but since you bypassed that—” He gave her a mildly censoring look, though his smile softened it. “—I want you to go ahead and pick your new name now.”

  She blinked at him, twice. “Any name?”

  “Any name but Beth or another Elizabeth derivation.”

  She was already faking so much, at this point. She ought to keep all further deception as simple as possible. “Chelsea?”

  He twisted around, leaning sideways far enough to pen her name across the top of her file. “Would you like me to match you with a play partner while you’re here? A Dom or Dominatrix, someone with a gentle hand, perhaps? Or perhaps you’d like a hand that is anything but gentle.”

  If that quiver got any tighter, something inside her was going to snap right in half. “No, thank you.”

  He made another note on her file. “You may, of course, go looking for mischief on your own, but I want you to understand no matter what situation you find yourself in, nothing will happen here without your consent. Whether you are paired with someone or not, you always have the right to negotiate a safe scene.”

  Negotiate a safe scene? What did that even mean? “Okay,” Chelsea said, but she was starting to think she was in over her head.

  “All sexual contact must be discussed with your partner and approved by you both before play begins. If you do not want sexual contact, say so. Your wishes will be respected at all times. If something should happen that makes you feel uncomfortable, whether you initially agree to it or not, all you have to do is say the Castle safeword: Onions.”

  Immediately, a sharp electronic click from speakers hidden somewhere around the room was followed by an even sharper voice. “Cease all activity immediately. Castle security has been dispatched to your location. Submissive, give me your name.”

  Chelsea sat frozen in her chair, her huge eyes locked on Master Marshall.

  He gestured for her to comply.

  “Um…” She had to clear her throat. “Chelsea.”

  “Sit tight, Chelsea. We’re on our way to get you.”

  “Stand down, Andrew,” Master Marshall said, lifting his chin a little so his voice would carry clearly. “I was demonstrating what would happen if she used the safeword.”

  “Sorry, sir,” the voice of Andrew replied. “If I break protocol, Jackson will have my ass.”

  Marshall looked at Jackson.

  “I would, too,” Jackson agreed, but then to whatever unseen microphones were scattered through the room, said, “Stand down, Andrew. I’m sitting right here.”

  “Recalling security and standing down.” With another sharp click, the hidden speakers fell silent.

  “Wow,” Chelsea breathed.

  “There is no part of the Castle or grounds that we won’t hear your use of the safeword and be able to respond in less than three minutes,” Jackson said proudly.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to be matched to someone?” Marshall asked again. “You’ve come all this way. The Castle is one of the safest places in the world for you to explore any fantasy you desire. I’d hate for you not to have a good time.”

  Was he going to think her strange if she didn’t take him up on that offer? Would he get suspicious? She twisted at her fingers. On the other hand, what in the world was she going to do matched up to someone who thought she was as fetishly-inclined as he was?

  “No, I think I’ll be fine.” She tried to smile and sound convincing. “I just want to look around. You know…see what’s out there. Maybe shop at the gift shop.” Please, dear God, let there be a gift shop. “And just, you know…”

  “Get into mischief on your own?” Marshall inquired.

  “Is that okay?” He didn’t look suspicious. She glanced from him to Jackson again. Neither of them did. They looked, in fact, like this was still fairly routine. She relaxed a little.

  “Absolutely,” Marshall said and stood up. “This is your vacation and I’m sure you’re eager to get started, so wardrobe first. Jackson will take you. Then feel free to explore to your heart’s content. Remember, you can change programs as often as you like. Simply come to my office and we’ll set you up with any fantasy you want. If you decide you’d like a play partner, one can usually be found in the Rainbow Room or even in the media room, or simply ask me. That’s what I’m here for. Wo
uld you like a map?”

  That would definitely make things easier. “Yes, please.”

  When Jackson stood up, so did she. She took the map Master Marshall offered her and then (hoping she didn’t look as if she were fleeing) headed for the door.

  “Beth,” Master Marshall called after her.

  Damn. She reluctantly turned back. “Yes?”

  “There’s one more Castle rule you should be aware of.”

  She braced herself. “And what is that?”

  He came toward her slowly, sauntering, his uncanny blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “Little submissives who get sent to the Master’s office don’t leave without a spanking. You can look it up, if you like. It’s in the brochure, page two, right next to that little black box at the top with the picture of the crossed canes.”

  When he thumbed back behind his desk, she obligingly glanced past him to the two crossed canes mounted on the sliver of wall between the tall windows. She didn’t think it was possible for her eyes to get any bigger than they were. How was one supposed to respond to a statement like that?

  “Oh,” Chelsea said. Strangled, really. It was all she could think to say. Master Marshall was enjoying her discomfort. So was Jackson. He was grinning again, arms folded across his broad chest while he watched to see what she would do. Frozen, Chelsea stood rooted to the floor, eyeing his approach with rapidly increasing—was this tingling sensation crawling up her arms and down her legs excitement or dread? Whatever it was, she trembled at the very thought of how it would feel to have him, either of them, grab her.

  Except that he didn’t. Neither Jackson nor Master Marshall even tried. Stopping directly in front of her, the Master of the Castle held up his index finger instead. So much power in one little finger. Slowly, he twirled it, motioning for her to turn and, swallowing hard, a marionette upon his string, Chelsea obeyed.

  Her trembling legs turned her, but her brain was firing on overload. This was crazy. What was she doing? Why was she complying? What would happen if she said “onion”? They would probably suspect her, that’s what. Because really, what kind of person paid for a vacation like this, then came and expected not to get spanked?

  Chelsea faced the door, staring at the wood grain without seeing any of it.

  She was going to get spanked.

  This was crazy. She was crazy. Absolutely stark raving mad.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Beth,” Master Marshall said, and she jumped a little because she hadn’t realized he had come right up behind her. Then he swatted her.

  That was it. Just one sharp smack that was more sound than impact, but which she felt in a shower of sparking awareness throughout every inch of her jean-clad bottom. There was no discomfort—he hadn’t hit anywhere near hard enough for that—but her knees still tried to buckle. She caught her balance, but otherwise didn’t move. Was that it? Was it over? Was that…disappointment now, tangling in the very pit of her stomach along with all those knots?

  “Good girl,” Master Marshall murmured, his breath heating the skin just behind her ear. “Welcome to the Castle, Chelsea. I sincerely hope you enjoy your stay.”

  “Thank you,” Chelsea said back. Because she was crazy, and that’s what crazy people did.

  She walked out of his office with eyes that were still just as huge as huge could be, her bottom tingling as though his hand were still right there upon it, and every nerve inside her positively singing with arousal.

  What in the world had she got herself into?

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Wardrobe was exactly what it sounded like—an assortment of adjoined rooms filled to overflowing with a wide array of colorful costumes. One area was dedicated to childish costumes—clothing from the Victorian-period, dazzlingly authentic-looking prince and princess wear, and, of course, every outfit any Disney hero or heroine ever wore. In another section, Chelsea found adult period clothing—Victorian, Edwardian, Roman-style garments for noblemen and women took up entire aisles. Others were dedicated to servant attire, with some looking so authentic it was a wonder Hollywood didn’t have this place on speed dial. Some were so scandalously skimpy, Chelsea couldn’t imagine how one could move around and still keep the clothing on. Then again, keeping clothes on probably wasn’t the point in the Castle.

  One entire wall displayed corset after corset after wild, western, floozy-girl corset. Another wall had nothing but leather and latex. There were stockings and shoes, and package after package of brand new panties that, her dressing assistant hastened to assure her, were part of the clothing allotment price and could be taken home as souvenirs after her stay. There were headpieces, tiaras, and hats of all kinds. She could dress up as a musketeer if she wanted, historically accurate or a seductive approximation that—when out of sheer curiosity she tried that outfit on—left very little to the imagination. There were even wigs—real human hair, styled or powdered, beehived and pixie-dusted. Nothing had been overlooked, not even the jewelry; not even the makeup.

  Because Chelsea was in the royal program, the section she was taken to was seven long aisles draped to overflowing with floor-length gowns that would have made any titled Lady of old swoon with envy. She was torn. Some of these gowns were truly, truly beautiful. But if she wanted to avoid getting roped, figuratively or even literally, into any of over a hundred unique and kinky Castle activities, then attracting unwanted attention by overdressing was not something she wanted to do. The idea here, she thought, as she perused through row after row of elaborate and brightly colored dresses, was to skate by the next ten days without getting noticed.

  At first Chelsea gravitated to a plain gray dress with bright yellow trim that matched its lacy underskirt. Absolutely no one was going to notice her in that, so really, it was perfect. But, her eye kept straying to something much grander: a shimmering white satin gown with off the shoulder sleeves and emerald green highlights that matched the color of her eyes.

  “It’ll look stunning on you,” her dressing assistant tempted. “Are you sure you don’t want to try it on?”

  “It’ll never fit me,” Chelsea hedged, trying to sound uninterested. It was so pretty, though. She couldn’t stop looking at it and her assistant wasn’t fooled.

  Leaning in close, she whispered to Chelsea, “That’s what corsets are for, honey. Don’t worry. I can make it fit.”

  And just like that, the gray and yellow dress found its way back on the rack and Chelsea found herself standing in front of three dressing room mirrors in nothing but tie-in-the-back bloomers while the assistant stuffed and squeezed, and cinched and laced—very, very tightly laced—her into an emerald corset the same color as the trimming on her new gown.

  Breathing quickly became a luxury she struggled for, but when the assistant was done and Chelsea stood looking at the results, air seemed a fair exchange for an hourglass figure like this. She looked like a model. Or a Barbie doll. Her breasts were flippin’ fabulous! The corset all but flattened them to her chest, forcing the creamy mounds up until they nearly spilled right out over the lacy top. The corset made them look so much bigger than they were, and sure enough, when the assistant helped her into the gown, it fit as if it had been tailored just for her.

  Chelsea couldn’t stop touching it. While her assistant brushed out her long strawberry hair, twisting it up into a coif of braided loops and bobby pins high on top of her head, Chelsea caressed the stomacher, the off-the-shoulder sleeves and the full bell-shaped skirt. The sparkles in the fabric caught the light with even her smallest movements. It was very beautiful and definitely not the sort of dress a woman should wear when trying not to get noticed. She was going to stand out like ballroom Cinderella at a scullery convention, but when would she ever have the chance to wear something this fancy again? She just didn’t want to take it off.

  And so, on her first day at the Castle, Chelsea walked out of Wardrobe wearing both the best and the worst choice of dress she could find. All the way back to her assigned room at the rear of the second
-floor wing (“R” for Royal, according to the map), she told herself over and over again that she didn’t look any different from the other “noble” women that she passed on the way. No fancier, no plainer. For the first time in her life, when she noticed people staring at her, Chelsea knew it wasn’t because of her height, but because she was pretty. One man walked straight into a door because he was paying more attention to her than to where he was going. The woman accompanying him was not amused. Fighting to keep from laughing, Chelsea pretended not to notice.

  When she finally found her room, she learned two unexpected things. First, the room was every bit as opulent as the rest of the Castle. It was sparsely furnished with a massive four-poster bed (suspiciously studded with metal rings at strategic points all along the posts at the head and foot) and a three-drawer dresser. Everything she’d brought with her fit neatly into the bottommost drawer, which was good since the top drawer was already full of dildos, vibrators, canvas and leather restraints and a variety of other such marital aids, all encased in brand-new packaging with prices clearly labeled and a typed note that invited her to take anything she desired; the credit card on file would be billed at the end of her stay. Chelsea quietly closed the dresser drawer without touching any of it.

  The second thing she discovered was there was no Internet available in her room. A study of the map Master Marshall had given her revealed the only room in the Castle equipped with Wi-Fi, television and daily newspapers was located on the first floor near the main entrance. Called the Media Room, it was open twenty-four hours a day and available to everyone. So was the main cafeteria, one of apparently two dining establishments also freely available to all guests. The other, a much fancier establishment, would result in an extra fifty dollars per customer charge, but offered an interactive “show” along with dinner.

  Having not eaten yet, Chelsea planned out her next few hours.

  Her first stop was the media room. All the computers provided for guest use were currently occupied, so she picked up a newspaper instead and headed for the main cafeteria. Even at two in the afternoon, it was very busy with only a few open tables and a line of hungry patrons filling their plates at the buffet. The food looked really good. Apparently, it was Italian day. She avoided the spaghetti (but only because she doubted her ability not to spill sauce on her new dress) and loaded up on two slices of pizza and… her passing nod at nutrition… a leafy salad.