by Joey W. Hill
Yes, there was violence vibrating off him, which had contributed to her alarm, but his choice of that tactic helped keep her voice steady, her posture relaxed. She rose from the throne.
“Rob,” she said. Just one word, the command implied.
The man’s jaw flexed hard enough to crack at Marius's transgression, but he inclined his head in a respectful nod and gave way. She really was going to owe him and Thea dinner. An expensive one.
What was vibrating off Marius was a web of anger and confusion, but she wouldn’t get snared in it. Instead, she rested on the strands like an alert spider, anticipating what the vibrations through the threads might mean.
As he lifted the towel to press it against her skin, she didn’t move, except to lock gazes with him before he made contact. "If you touch me," she said coldly, "You will not touch me again. This will be over."
Not a dare, not a taunt. She meant it. She had to. No matter the clamor of her Domme senses that told her this was the sub who could kneel in the hidden depths behind her heart and stay there indefinitely, she would walk away if he defied her in this key moment. This was a game where every move could be the final move, and she couldn't back away from that. The question was, would he unwisely assume she was bluffing?
If he could get enough space from his emotions, he was smart enough to figure it out. But she knew it was equally possible the demons inside him might say fuck it, make him reach out and rudely tweak her breast like some stupid frat boy playing a prank. Was he stronger than his demons? Could he leash them before they took him past the point of no return? They hadn’t the other night with Siren. Had he regretted or learned anything since then?
Don't do it, Marius. Take control. You know you need a Mistress. No matter how fucked up your head is, somewhere in your heart, you know it.
She was in a hard battle of her own, not to betray any tells of anticipation, like a held breath or an increased pulse.
He still had the towel lifted between them, his arrested movement when she'd warned him not to touch her. She'd told him he had no leave to touch her, but she had no such prohibition. She closed her hand over his, clenching the towel with a white-knuckled grip.
She’d had her growth spurt in middle school, her tall, big-boned body suddenly endowed with high, proud breasts and an impressive ass. It had inspired more than one high school boy to think that grabbing the booty just because it was out there looking like it needed palm support was the right way to go. Until she'd laid out one of those horny good Samaritans with a solid blow to the nuts, using the handle of a PE class hockey stick.
She didn't need to be petite or act helpless to feel womanly. Yet she noticed he had a big hand. Long, thick fingers, wide palm, scarred knuckles. He'd have a strong grip, like he had on the towel.
She curled her fingers over his. "Release it," she said quietly. "Kneel at my feet."
She wasn't a negotiator. She didn't caress his fingers as she wished to do. She merely held him, reading the energy pulsing through the scarred knuckles. No new scrapes on them, so at least he hadn’t been back in the fighting ring since last she’d seen him. Though maybe he would have come here more settled if he had, that was a defusing tactic she didn’t want him utilizing.
She slid her hand to his wrist and held it as she took the towel from his loosened grip and handed it to the tense Rob. "On your knees," she said softly to Marius. "Or get out of my sight."
When she’d touched his hand, he’d adjusted his attention. He was staring down, at her breasts, at the taut nipples and rounded curves etched out by his wet T-shirt, her dark skin turning the white fabric a gray color, like a dove. Or like his eyes, which were fixated on them. Not in a lecherous way, but as if he was trying to understand something by holding his mind there, maybe following the rhythmic rise and fall of her breath.
He lifted a hand, his fingers half curled. For a moment, she thought he was going to brush his knuckles against one of her curves, or even her face, but he didn’t.
The switch flipped and the lights went off behind his eyes. Her heart sank three or four floors.
He stepped back from her. Took a couple steps, his eyes remaining on her face until he pivoted and left the sitting area. He headed toward the exit, not looking left or right. The abrupt decision and departure sent a hard jolt into her chest, which suddenly felt so empty her legs almost buckled from weakness.
Fuck. The ultimatum had been necessary, no question, but where did that leave them now?
Finished. It was done.
Chapter Six
For better or worse, that was the end of it. So there was no reason for her to contact Marguerite and request a meet with her. But Regina had and here she was, at Tea Leaves on an early afternoon. The sun was sending shards of mellow light through the branches of the oak trees canopying the porch at the café’s entrance.
She’d been here plenty of times before, and not just because the tea selection and the baked treats were incomparable. Once a year, Marguerite threw a card party for her Domme friends. Dress code was “dressed-up,” but the chosen outfit had to come from a time other than the present decade. Regina had worn a 1940s peach-colored dress with lots of gauzy fabric over figure molding satin, coupled with a white hat festooned by flowers and feathers. Donning elbow-length white gloves had made her realize just how erotic they felt, clinging to wrists and finger tips, a feeling increased by the plethora of rhinestone bracelets she’d worn.
Tea service had been handled by a small team of female submissives hired from The Zone staff. Gen had pitched in to coordinate their efforts. Gen had worked for Marguerite for some time, but when she became Lyda’s, she’d left full time employment with the café, with Marguerite’s blessings. She handled the books and other administrative duties at Lyda’s landscaping business.
Until she’d found her current subs, Noah and Gen, Lyda had been much like Regina, enjoying her submissives but not pursuing much with them outside the club-type environments. Perhaps one of the main reasons she and Lyda were friends was that they held the same viewpoint on relationships. When Lyda found the right one, she’d act on it, but until then she’d made it clear there was too damn much to do and enjoy to spend a lot of time on romantic pining. If she’d had any patience for such nonsense.
Lyda was even farther on the pragmatic end of the scale than Regina was. But Lyda had revealed a woman’s desire to love and commit when she’d found the two submissives she wanted above all others. She was still a hardass and a tough Mistress, but now the extreme end of that manifested itself only toward anyone who didn’t understand Noah and Gen belonged to her.
At the tea party, Regina had teased Lyda about leaving Noah at home. Lyda had promptly responded that Marguerite had said no pets. That bitch. Which was a shame, because looking at a collared Noah, kneeling at Lyda’s feet, was never a hardship on the eyes.
Regina imagined Marius doing that. When she’d ordered him to kneel, he’d wanted to obey her. She’d felt it.
After their two encounters, she had an even better understanding of why a lot of Mistresses didn’t go any further with him. Who would bother, even if they had caught that glimmer inside him she had? Most Mistresses would rightly decide he could take his precious dysfunctionality and go jump in a lake with it. Get over yourself already, dude.
But she was dealing with more than some narcissistic, self-pitying, the world-doesn’t-understand me crap. She went back to that moment when he’d stared at her breasts in a way that wasn’t entirely sexual.
As a woman, she’d responded to the desire of the fully grown, powerful man. But her inner spirit, that deep Goddess Mother that every woman carried, had felt the yearning of the child, his need. She thought he was trying to find his way to her through alligators and monsters, things so twisted in his own head they were blinding him. His only hope was that she would hear his silent scream with something that went far beyond hearing or sight.
What had happened to this man? The abyss within him was deep and
dangerous, and she knew she was too close to the edge. But she wasn’t stepping away. Which was the crux of why she was here, trying to find out more. Even though she’d told him they were over and had meant it.
Yeah, it didn’t have to make sense.
There were Mistresses who had the damsel-in-distress problem, only the damsel was male. However, no different from their male counterparts who embraced the surface role of hero, they lost interest once the “damsel” was seemingly “saved.”
It was a dysfunctionality she recognized and disliked. It had no more substance than falling in and out of love every six months to enjoy that euphoric high of the connection.
Up until now, she’d set clear lines with the troubled subs she’d taken on. She was up front about what the relationship would and wouldn’t be. But she wasn’t clear about what this relationship would and wouldn’t be. Which meant she wasn’t done with it yet.
As she entered Tea Leaves, Regina felt the spurt of warmth she always did at seeing Chloe, Marguerite’s full time employee. The young woman was working the mostly occupied tables with the help of another girl, perhaps a part-time hire from the local college. Marguerite would take her time choosing a second fulltime person to replace Gen. She didn’t enter into any relationship lightly.
Chloe was unique in the BDSM world. She was self-admittedly vanilla yet sexually adventurous, enough to have won the interest of Brendan, a delicious and fully committed submissive male who thought the sun rose and set behind Chloe. When she looked up and saw Regina, she beamed and waved with such infectious pleasure in her brown eyes, Regina couldn’t argue with Brendan’s assessment.
Chloe could top Brendan when needed. Dominance and submission were traits as well as an orientation, and everyone had a reservoir of either one. Fortunately, it seemed Chloe could call on her Dominant qualities in ways Brendan needed. He served her with all the devotion and care that any worthy man in love did, regardless of his sexual interests.
It was yet another example of why Regina loved the BDSM world. No relationship was predictable, though the undercurrent was something as familiar and stable to those in it as the foundation of a home.
Chloe straightened and pushed back a lock of her curly hair. She had it bobbed right now and it was tousled in a series of chaotic ringlets, some of them dyed blue. Her purple T-shirt had a Tree of Life on it with the gentle declaration “And it harm none, do as you will.”
“She’s in the back garden, Regina. Just go behind the counter and out the side door. She’s expecting you. I made you those little strawberry cakes you like.”
“Bless you. Just right for my mood.” Regina didn’t hesitate to give the girl a quick hug. Chloe responded with a strong return squeeze and a girlish, breathy laugh.
“Marguerite insists that Tyler stays with her only for my baking skills. I told her if that was really true, I’d kill her off and he could sample my goods anytime he wants.”
Regina laughed. “Don’t you have a man, you insatiable midget?”
“The best man in the whole universe,” Chloe agreed without hesitation. “But it’s Tyler. He’s a god, not a man. Those amber tiger eyes, the trace of sexy silver in his hair… Brendan understands.”
“Too true. But let’s not remind Tyler of that too often. He already thinks too highly of himself.” Regina ran an affectionate hand down the young woman’s arm and moved toward the counter.
No matter the suggestive banter about Tyler being the top of the pyramid in man candy land, Chloe knew the same truth that anyone else did who’d ever seen Tyler and Marguerite Winterman together. Those two souls had been forged in the fires at the beginning of time and would always be the only one for the other.
Regina initially had been dismayed when she’d heard that Marguerite switched for Tyler. Most Dommes’ hackles rose over that kind of thing, because way too often Dommes were interpreted one of two ways by an ignorant world. Either they were a pro-Domme, whose dominance was tied to professional services offered, or they weren’t really a Domme at all; just a strong-willed woman waiting for the right man to top her. Give me a fucking break. She’d like to break the first person who’d planted that seed. Probably from the same family of inbreeds who suggested a raped woman was asking for it.
Marguerite’s Domme skills had been legendary at The Zone, and they still were. Yet before meeting Tyler, Marguerite had been closed off, reserved, sitting on something in her past that had given her Dominance a different form. Powerful and amazing, yes, but…detached. Regina realized abruptly it might be a different form of what she felt in Marius, a wall between himself and sincere submission.
Remaining a Mistress yet submitting to Tyler, Marguerite had found a whole new level. She’d needed that ability to switch to tap into something she needed, both as a Domme and as a woman. If that worked for her, it wasn’t Regina’s place to pass judgment. And Tyler had clearly found the woman he’d been wanting all his life.
So again—there was nothing like the BDSM world. A carnival of possibilities, and nothing was written in stone. There was no one path, which was what kept it a maze of interesting adventures.
Marguerite was sitting at a wrought iron table beside a large pot of overflowing flowers and vines. A whimsical sculpture of a rabbit sat in the middle of it, matching the smaller one sitting on the table between two place settings. A pot of tea was waiting on the table, along with an assortment of small sandwiches, fruit, cookies and Chloe’s cakes. The cloth napkins at the place settings were in a triangle tent design on the matching china. Showing her usual style, Marguerite had created a lovely setting and props for their conversation. The relaxed environment eased something in Regina she hadn’t realized was tense.
Even with the changes due to her relationship with Tyler, there was still a reserve to Marguerite that set her apart from everyone. Frankly, it made her intimidating at times, and Regina didn’t get intimidated by much of anyone. So that coil of loosening tension suggested she’d been a little concerned about what Marguerite would think of the situation.
Well, she was looking for some genuine guidance, even if she was told some things she might not want to hear. She considered the woman a friend and amazing Domme, her opinion highly respected.
A semi-serious curve of lips was Marguerite’s version of a smile, but her gaze was warm as she rose to take Regina’s hand in a brief grip. “It’s so rare we get time for a one-on-one visit,” she observed. “I’m glad you called.”
“If you’d come to my place, I would have cracked open a bottle of wine and dusted the cobwebs off the porch chairs. This is beautiful.” Regina sat down, smoothing the table cloth. “You make a visitor feel like a VIP.”
“I’ve been to your place, and your back porch is a gorgeous outdoor living space. It needs no embellishment, and a glass of wine sounds like the perfect way to enjoy it. From your message, this felt like a meeting of import, and it’s been my experience that requires the right kind of headspace. An intimate tea, done correctly, gives us a quiet space to do that.”
“No arguments, though I may wolf down all Chloe’s cakes and get a sugar crash.” Regina chuckled and indicated assent as Marguerite gestured to her tea cup. Marguerite was elegant and graceful in all she did, but there was a ritual to the way she did tea that enhanced it. It created a calmness in the recipient, as well as a respectful silence as she poured and prepared the tea with spare movements. She’d remembered Regina liked mint-flavored tea, and the amount of sugar and milk she preferred, which didn’t surprise Regina.
After Marguerite was done, Regina sat back and sipped. A hanging planter festooned with dozens of tube-like lavender blossoms was being mined by a hummingbird. The creature dipped its long, sharp bill into each bloom, drinking the nectar. His wings were a blur of motion over his glossy green and purple body.
“I’m betting you never brought a sub to this inner sanctum.” Regina smiled.
“No. This isn’t a place for that. It’s a good place to think and plan about it
, though.” A glimmer of humor went through Marguerite’s gaze before it was replaced by something more serious. “Or consider big decisions like the one you’re facing.”
“Well, technically, there are no more decisions to be made. I drew a line in the sand and he crossed it, so I kicked him loose. I told him we were done. It wasn’t a bluff. It can’t be.” She sighed and put down the cup. “But I’m here, Domme to Domme, because I know it’s not finished. And I’d like some insight in how to reconcile those two truths.”
Marguerite pursed her soft lips. “There’s a difference between a bluff and changing your mind in the face of new information. Which is, I suspect, also why you’re here. You know I’ve had a successful session with him, and you want to know more about how that went.”
When she didn’t say anything further and the pause drew out, her expression remaining closed, it prompted Regina to ask the question. “Is there a Dom and sub confidentiality clause?”
“If the Dominant feels it’s necessary,” Marguerite said.
“Is it necessary, in this case?”
Marguerite gave her a long look over the tea cup, this one more Domme than friend. Regina held the pale blue gaze, giving as good as she was getting. Not a wise idea to let Marguerite Winterman see you flinch.
“Tell me the most important thing you’ve learned so far about him, in session,” the woman said.
Regina ate one of Chloe’s cakes, gathering her thoughts. “Most Mistresses think he’s a pain slut or uber-brat, craving physical punishment. But he absorbs that like a bottomless cup. Pain fuels the twisted part of him and shores up his defenses, so the last thing he should be given is extremes of physical pain.”
“Hmm.” Marguerite’s body adopted an eerie stillness when she was listening. Regina forced herself to say nothing further, to wait her out and not fill in the silence with pointless information. A few breaths later, Marguerite decided that confidentiality clause didn’t apply to Regina, revealing it through her most common method of communication. Minimalist and to the point.
