Truly Helpless: A Nature of Desire Series Novel

by Joey W. Hill

  “Why don’t you drink? Recovering alcoholic, health nut, control freak, or you just don’t like the taste?”

  He blinked. The silver and red beads threaded through her hair seemed to have caught his attention. His eyes tracked the sparkling movement as the black locs spilled over her shoulder. “What do you think?” he asked in the unreadable monotone he was favoring.

  “Control freak, definitely.” She put the first aid supplies back in the cabinet. “I can’t imagine what amount is worth going through all this, but I hope you get paid well tonight.”

  He grunted. She wondered if it mattered to him if he was paid at all. Whatever his day job was, it didn’t visibly pay him well, if the condition of his car meant anything. During his playtimes at the club, he wore street wear and stripped out of it. If he wore any “fetish wear,” it was either the clingy style shorts, or an outfit provided by the Domme. For his job there, he wore The Zone staff shirt with his jeans.

  So he didn’t spend his money on fancy sub outfits like some of the other males. He didn’t seem to spend money on much of anything. Except the tattoo. She wondered what had inspired him to get it, because she was sure something had marked the occasion. He had no other body art.

  She touched it with light fingers after making another pass with the gauze to wipe a missed smear of blood off the shoulder. “That’s some good work there.”

  Another grunt of assent and an irritable twitch. She stepped back. “You’ll do. I suppose you know a hot shower when you get home is the best remedy, on top of the ibuprofen you just took. Though I’d highly recommend a tetanus update and having your head examined.”

  He kept staring at her. He wanted to make her nervous with his silence. Tough luck with that, boy. You want to self-gag, it doesn’t bother me.

  Answering in kind, she tossed one final wipe into the trash and headed for the door. Embracing her Mistress side meant understanding there was an energy flow between Dom and sub once a connection was made, even if the connection was the rope in a tug of war. She rode that energy the way it was meant to be ridden, not forcing her own expectations on it. It worked better that way. She’d accomplished what mattered most to her here, which was confirming he’d released that surfeit of potent energy from his session. He was leveling out. While he could use a lot more aftercare, they were quite a distance from him welcoming or earning that kind of treatment from her.

  “You don’t want to talk about what happened in Tyler’s office?” he said abruptly. “Or why you followed me here?”

  “No.” She continued to move toward the opening between the panels that would lead back to the cage and, even better, out toward the parking lot. She didn’t need to stay any longer, and what she really wanted was a deep breath of clean air.

  She didn’t anticipate that he would do or say anything to hold her there longer, so it was a pleasant surprise when he did.

  “You didn’t say what you thought of the fight.”

  She pivoted at the opening and met his gaze. “No, I didn’t. Would you like to know?”

  He could look wary, like an animal being baited into a trap. He had thick, dark lashes. Though he’d let his face get pummeled too often, nothing could dim the impact of his eyes. They were like the mirror surface of a lake. “Yeah,” he said at last.

  “Okay.” There was a pen sitting next to the tray of gauze. Returning to him, she picked it up and extended her hand, looking pointedly at one of his. When he offered it, she clasped his wrist and wrote an address on the inside of his forearm, along with Friday, 6:30pm.

  His fingers flexed above her grip. She was aware of his breath stirring tendrils of hair against her cheek. Her hip pressed against his knee. She let herself imagine sliding between his spread thighs, tasting the metallic flavor lingering on his lips, feeling the flex of his shoulder muscles under her splayed fingers and firm palms. His hands would curve over her hips, his own fingers digging in, showing he wanted and needed her.

  Careful, girl. Don’t fuck with your own head. He’ll do enough of that without your help.

  “Meet me there and I’ll tell you.” Setting the pen aside, she laid a hand on the side of his face. “Get some rest. Take care of yourself.”

  When he tried to clasp her arm, she drew back and shook her head, a denial. His lips set in a thin line. “That a command, Mistress?” he asked tonelessly.

  “Take it however you want.”

  He curled his fingers around the edge of the table, body leaning forward, eyes suddenly cold and hard. “It wouldn’t matter anyway, since you don’t really like me.”

  “No. I don’t,” she responded frankly. “But I care about you. That doesn’t require that I like you.”

  Maggie O’Day was a woman of considerable wealth. Currently in her seventies, she’d decided a decade ago to establish “The Preserve,” a Dommes-only playground of over seventy-five acres. The property was populated by trails and woods perfectly suited for primal scenes, slave hunts and capture fantasies. The two roomy barns were stocked with stalls and a few carriages for pony play, adjacent to a dirt track for Mistresses to race their “ponies.” Covered shelters scattered throughout the property offered other outdoor setup options for equipment, or there was a fully stocked dungeon room in the “clubhouse,” along with sitting areas, kitchen and wide screen TVs with full cable hookups. A library of adult films catered to female tastes.

  Like The Zone, The Preserve’s membership was intended to weed out dabblers. The vetting process was handled by Maggie’s savvy personal assistant and collared slave, Emile, but Maggie always had final say and reviewed his every recommendation. If she took a shine to a Mistress of lesser means, she would offer a membership proportionate with the woman’s income. She’d been known to say, “I don’t really need the money, but people appreciate what they have to pay for or earn. If they don’t,” she’d add, “they’ll be out the door. With my size ten Army boot up their asses.”

  Maggie had been out as a lesbian since her teens, and was a vast resource of laywoman history on lesbian rights and struggles to be accepted by mainstream society. She was also a strong champion of women in general. From the beginning, The Preserve welcomed Dommes, gay or straight, but the only men allowed through the gates were submissives under the supervision of a specific Domme. “Children must be accompanied by an adult,” Maggie would quip. The men and women who maintained the grounds were all submissives and slaves loyal and bound to Maggie.

  She’d imposed The Preserve’s gender restrictions with an unapologetic and succinct explanation. “Girls need a place to be girls.” Twice a year, she held an eclectic fertility festival that also honored the Greek poet Sappho. Regina was on the invitation list, along with about a hundred other Dommes Maggie counted as her friends. They could each bring their chosen subs for a weekend of fun, frolicking and debauched revelry.

  But Maggie believed in committed relationships, and it concerned her that Regina didn’t have one. Sometimes her grandmother and mother side emerged, as much a part of her matriarchal personality as her Mistress traits. At the last event, Regina recalled Maggie cornering her about her long-term relationship plans.

  “You like the challenging ones, but you train them to be better for the next Mistress and don’t keep them for yourself. You’re looking for the right one, aren’t you?” The older woman had adopted a dramatic tone, clasping her hands over her heart. “Your soulmate.”

  “Maggie, if you’re taken, there’s no one else for me,” Regina teased her. But fueled by fertility festival moonshine, she’d allowed some truth to come out. “Nothing wrong with having my own personal treasure hunt. I’m happy single, but when I find him, I’ll know he’s who I want.”

  Maggie had sighed and hugged her. “Dumb, sentimental bitch. Just don’t be too picky.”

  Regina smiled at the memory, but the smile disappeared as she thought about Marius. She might be a little more absorbed in him than her recent past engagements. But that didn’t translate to him being “it
,” “the one,” or choose the romance novel term of choice. She’d committed to this much, this day, and she’d see where it went. If he even showed up.

  When she pulled up to The Preserve’s gate at 6:30, he was waiting. That was a mark for him, his understanding that she wouldn’t take any disrespect up front tonight. If he’d been even a minute late, she would have turned the car around and been on her way. So he’d decided to see where this was going to go. Or he wasn’t giving up on the question and challenge she presented, seeing whether he could fuck with her the way he did other Mistresses.

  He’d healed up some. The bruises from the face shots weren’t so purplish, and the cut from Killjoy’s ring had scabbed over. However, he’d still be feeling some aches and pains from the overall battering, and she’d use the physical and emotional effects of those for her own purposes.

  He’d shaved earlier in the day, and wore jeans and a button-down dress shirt. Southern straight white boy’s way of “dressing up” for a girl on a casual date. It didn’t displease her.

  She rolled down her window and gestured. He came to her, a saunter of motion that was part deliberate cockiness and part just the way a man moved who was in superior shape. A fighter, who walked light on his feet with full awareness of his physical capabilities. She’d been around cops and former military who had that vibe, but there was a different quality to it for Marius. His version had an edge, like he’d honed the skills for personal survival and retaliation, not protection and specific service to a cause greater than himself.

  He looked good, though. No matter his fucked-up nature, Marius had a body meant to be used hard by a Mistress. If she got nothing else out of this, she would get that. But he was more than willing to provide that to any Mistress who hooked up with him at The Zone. Maggie was right. She was looking for more. If she didn’t find more than that tonight, she’d probably be done with this.

  “Mistress.” He spoke the one word as a greeting.

  “Marius. Are you familiar with The Preserve?”

  “Heard of it. Never been here.”

  “Follow me in. There’s parking at the clubhouse. I’ll take you where we’re going from there on foot.”

  She rolled up her window and eased forward to the gate. In her rearview, she saw him pause and then move to his car. He’d probably expected more chitchat. She saw no reason to delay the program she wanted to execute tonight. Until then, the only thing she’d be getting out of his mouth was bullshit.

  Yesterday, she’d stocked the area she would be using with the equipment and supplies needed, so it left her hands free as she exited her car. When he left his own to join her, Marius looked at her like she looked at a cupcake. He didn’t try to hide his interest in a deeper exploration of her body, showcased in snug jeans and a red tank that clung and caressed her curves. A ruby pendant winked in her cleavage, drawing his gaze there.

  “Seen enough?” she asked tartly.

  “Not nearly. Mistress.” He added it with a grin she wanted to slap off his face, but she logged the data it gave her. The smile at the fight, that lopsided gesture when he’d told her his favorite flavor of Jell-O? That had been real. This wasn’t.

  “Does it get exhausting?” she asked. “Always playing a part? Or do people falling for it energize you? In the right kind of way?”

  She meant it seriously, not in anger. Though he didn’t appear to expect that, he shrugged in answer. Letting it go for now, she strode up the dirt road to the nearest barn. Once there, she led him down the wide corridor of stalls to the one at the end, next to her personal supply cabinet.

  She saw him noting the tack mounted on the wall, the array of combs and brushes. His expression became wooden. Stoic.

  “Are you familiar with pony play?”

  “Yeah. Done a little bit. I’m not usually a fave for the pony play Mistresses. I don’t get into it the way they want. Just because I’m hung like a horse doesn’t mean I know how to be one.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Your cock has the proportions to please a woman, but I’ve had subs who are hung like a horse. They’d put you to shame.”

  “So why aren’t you with them?” he asked with a touch of belligerence that made her hide a smile.

  “Because it’s not about size.” She drew him into the stall that had a knee-high wooden platform covered by a rubber mat. An array of rings were driven into the platform to allow for tie-down straps. “Take off your clothes and get on your hands and knees on the dais.”

  “Just like that? No preliminaries, no talk of safe words?”

  She moved toward the shelf of supplies. “I’ve watched you plenty at the club. You don’t ask for limits, and you never volunteer a safe word. A Mistress can impose one on you, but you never use it, so why would I waste my energy? What I’m going to do to you here won’t be half as physically demanding as other sessions I’ve seen you handle.” She arched a brow. “Or are you asking for a little romancing? You don’t seem the type to need pointless reassurance.”

  “A woman who thinks romance is pointless reassurance.” His voice was dry. “Sure I haven’t died and landed in male heaven?”

  “I haven’t killed anyone in a session, but there’s always a first. Enough chatting. Clothes off and on the platform, hands and knees.”

  She pulled a stool over and took a seat, hooking a boot heel over one of the slats as she crossed her arms and leaned back against a pole. He stopped in the act of unbuttoning his shirt. “You like to watch, Mistress? Want me to make it a strip tease?”

  She shook her head. “Take off your clothes the way you do it when you’re alone, Marius. Are you capable of not performing?”

  Tossing her a cheeky grin, he started to swivel his hips, like a male stripper. Sighing, she rose and put the stool aside, turning toward her supply cabinet.

  “Okay. Jesus. Fine, I’ll do it the way you want. Boring.”

  “I don’t have patience for second chances or attitude, Marius. Let me know when you’re on the platform the way I ordered you to do it, or head back to your car.”

  She perused her liniment choices and thought the one with eucalyptus would be excellent. She ignored his grumbling, because she’d made enough of an impact he kept it low so she couldn’t hear the words. She would have liked very much to watch him undress, shrug out of the shirt, wriggle the jeans off his hips, hook the underwear beneath and drop it to the floor, showing off the whole man. But the first part was often like this, both of them having to be denied until he got with the program.

  She hadn’t considered her previous pet projects easy—pun intended—but he was already more of a challenge than any of those had been. She wasn’t going to anticipate it going in a right direction any time soon. Hearing him kick the clothes to the corner with definite attitude, she was certain of it.

  “I always figured the Mistresses who are into this never got their birthday pony from Daddy,” he said. “I’m on the platform. Buck naked, by the way. On hands and knees.”

  She hummed a note of acknowledgement, but selected and arranged her supplies to her satisfaction before she at last turned.

  Oh, Lord, what a fine creation You have made. It was something her mother said when she saw a particularly good-looking specimen of manhood.

  Marius was in an acceptable hands and knees posture on the raised platform. Head up, eyes forward, back straight, knees spread to shoulder width, palms braced flat, weight distributed evenly. The position showcased the layers of muscle over his ribcage. Hip bones and ribs were more prominent in this position, making her wonder if he fueled his muscles with protein shakes rather than actual food. His buttocks were taut and begging to be marked, his thigh muscles flexing as he shifted. Siren’s marks were still there among the fight bruises, but fading. She wished they were gone. She wanted a blank canvas, no evidence of another Mistress’s hand upon him.

  The hair on his neck was groomed to a small point. He’d gotten a haircut. It had been longer, spikier, at the fight.

  Picking
up a handful of short straps, she ran them over his knees, calves and ankles, fixing them to the rings embedded in the platform to restrain his legs. Cuffs around his wrists were likewise snapped to rings. The cuffs were a temporary measure, but would limit his ability to quickly resist what she had in mind next.

  He was watching her closely out of his peripheral vision. She’d take care of that, but first she’d put the piece on him that was most difficult for her to add without betraying her emotions. A collar wasn’t part of the usual tack she used for pony play, but something told her she should use it on Marius, as another essential way to alter his headspace.

  Maggie wasn’t entirely wrong about Regina looking for a particular kind of sub. Or being picky. Regina merely refused to settle for less than what she wanted. A lot of women did it and made it work for them. They figured out how to chisel pieces of themselves away to fit with a lover who likewise chiseled at himself to make that fit happen. It could be a lovely way to show love growing and adapting.

  The problem was—no. She wasn’t going to call it a problem. It wasn’t a problem to be a woman who was enough for herself. She liked every bit of who she was, and had never met the man who made her want to adapt any of that to his nooks and crannies. If she found one who did, she’d expect a similar sacrifice from him, a meeting in the middle. If she didn’t, she could live every fascinating, glorious moment of this life without a lover at her side. But that resolve didn’t mean she didn’t want to find that man.

  As a Mistress, she wanted to collar a sub and call him her own forever. It was one of the deepest wishes she had, and one she’d never said aloud to anyone. When she put a collar on such a man, she’d finally let her fingers tremble, her heart leap. She’d trust him enough to let him see her eyes and mouth go soft with need.