When her skin glowed a rosy red, he decided to up her arousal. Some masochists were a straight line—pain alone. Some liked a base of pain and sex, and he loved to drive both sides of that triangle right to a peak at the top.
After pulling a stool over to her side, he donned a glove and lubed the fingers. With a hand on her belly to keep her still, he forced his slick his fingers between her ass cheeks.
“Noooooo.” Even her whining was beautifully musical.
Trying not to laugh, he pressed one finger against her anus, breached the rim of muscle, and slid in.
Her back arched in unspoken protest as she gasped.
“We’re just getting started, you know.” He emphasized the statement by sliding his free hand up to give each breast a hard squeeze. Even as she hissed a protest, her ass cheeks clenched on his hand, making him grin. He added another finger. Damn, she was tight. His dick was uncomfortable inside his leather pants.
When he moved his hand from her breasts down to her pussy, she was as slick as any Dom could want. Still seated on the round stool, he pinned her legs between his knees. Watching her face, he set his thumb over her clit and thrust two fingers into her cunt. Her asshole clenched in response around his other fingers. Circling her clit, he alternated finger thrusts between her cunt and asshole until he heard her breathing change, until he felt her leg muscles tighten as she approached orgasm.
The perfect time to add in more pain.
When he slid his fingers out, she groaned in frustration.
After disposing of the glove, Sam took a kiss, playing with her nipples at the same time. When he lifted his head, her eyes were closed, her cheeks flushed. Beautiful Linda.
Wrapping an arm around her waist, he bent and swatted her ass. Her body tensed—no, she wasn’t in subspace yet. The beast in him loved this point, when she still felt the pain a moment before the pleasure. She was almost to the shift, after which every blow would feel good.
As guttural Lesiëm chants came from the dungeon’s speakers, Sam spanked her ass in time with the music. Undoubtedly, each swat vibrated that tender little asshole he’d just stretched.
When a few people came into the dungeon to stand by the wall and watch, Linda noticed and flushed.
Sam grasped her chin, turning her head toward him. “Attention on me.”
“Yes, Sir.” Her eyes focused on him. Only him.
“That’s right, girl.” He ran his knuckles gently down her cheek. A submissive’s need to please could often override any other instinct, and Linda was deeply submissive.
And ready for more. Her breasts were puckered nicely, her cheeks flushed, lips reddened. Damn, she was pretty.
He picked up the cane from his bag and started on her ass. Eventually, he’d move around to her breasts for some fun.
SOMETIME LATER, AS Linda slid back into reality, her skin swam with lingering sensations. Her breasts ached with the most delicious burn from the light caning followed by the crop. As if in balance, her back, bottom, and upper thighs felt scalded with sublime pleasure.
Everything had felt so good. Her head sagged against her upraised arm; her mind as hazy as if filled with fragrant smoke that made curling tendrils in the empty space.
Time had passed. Maybe a lot. She’d gotten off twice and still wanted more. More pain, more touches. More, more, more. But Sam had said no—said she’d had enough. And now he flicked the crop up and down her back in mere touches of velvety pleasure rather than a conflagration. He was bringing her up slowly, barely cracking the window to reality. He was so careful of her.
And she loved him so much.
Her body throbbed, but now she could feel how the air was slightly cool against her legs. How her shoulders were starting to ache. The heavy sound of a flogger came from her right. People were talking somewhere in a low hum of conversation. She tried to raise her head and gave it up as a lost effort. Didn’t seem to matter. Everything was so comfortable. Her blood sang through her veins with lovely little surges; air flowed in and out of her lungs. What a nicely working body.
“Linda?”
“Mmmm?”
Sam made that low snorty chuckle. “You’re still off in space.”
She started to close her eyes—realized they’d already closed—and instead tipped her head, hoping he’d make that growly sound—the one that squeezed her spine, hand over hand, right down to her core.
Instead, she heard other voices from the observers. A tenor, a baritone, a woman’s contralto. Then a higher tenor with an odd…scratchy sound.
Goose bumps broke out on her body as her chest tightened. That voice. Her hands fisted as the stench of the slave cages swept over her. Her own body stinking of urine and fear, women sobbing and screaming, and—
“Goddamn.” Hard hands closed on her shoulders, a body pressed against her, and she cringed, shook her head, trying to get the fog to lift. “No. No.” Her lips were numb, her words slurred.
“Open your eyes.”
The rough command swept through her, lifting the pressure on her chest so she could take a breath. Many, many breaths. The air was too heavy to fill her lungs.
“Eyes on me.” Fingers gripped her chin, lifted her head.
Eyes. Hers were scrunched shut. She forced them open and stared into the blazing blue fire of Sam’s gaze. As her knees buckled, her weight dropped painfully onto her restrained arms. She jerked at them, needing to be free. Get away. Run.
“Easy, girl.” His powerful arm closed around her waist, holding her up. With his other hand, he used the quick release to free her left wrist, then the right.
“I’ll get her ankles, Sam.” A woman’s voice. Worried.
Chills ran up Linda’s spine, spreading to fill her until she shuddered. A blast of heat swept over her skin, followed by more ice. She couldn’t stop shaking.
The world spun as Sam lifted her into his arms. “Look at me, Linda. Just at me,” he growled. Lights flickered to the sides as if she were in a car moving through a fog-filled landscape. Lost in a blurry world.
But his arms were around her, his chest solid against her side. A tremor shook her so horribly she moaned, and the fear-filled sound of her own voice shocked her.
Somewhere darker, quieter, he sat down.
He said something incomprehensible, yet the senseless growling smoothed the terrified knots in her head. Something wrapped around her. Warm. Fuzzy. Sam shifted, pulling it securely around her.
Naked. She’d been naked. Now she wasn’t. She blinked, expecting to see a ballroom filled with buyers and slaves. Her gaze focused on a pedestal planter filled with ferns. Another held begonias. The tiny blooms were like stars in the dark foliage. Life in the darkness. No one was screaming. The police had shouted and—no, that wasn’t here.
She wasn’t at the slave auction.
Men were talking. Her brows drew together as she tried to understand the words.
“What happened? She didn’t seem anywhere close to a panic attack.” A voice like the most expensive of dark chocolates. Familiar.
“Hit some trigger, but damned if I know what.” The subterranean rumble through the chest under her ear. She could listen to him forever. “Never had a sub panic at the end of a scene. She’d been totally in subspace, and I was bringing her down.”
“That is odd. May I speak to her?”
“Do it. She’s back with us.”
She felt a brush of something on her hair. Sam was rubbing his chin on the top of her head in the most comforting of gestures, the one that said, I got you.
The other man’s voice lowered. “Linda, I feel you listening. Can you look at me?”
Why did her eyes keep closing? Sam’s arm was across her waist, his fingers holding her hip. She curled her fingers around his forearm—stay here—and forced her eyes open. Saw nothing except skin. Her face was pressed against his chest. Don’t want to move. Don’t want to see.
“C’mon, baby. Head up.” His voice was deeper. Rougher. She’d worried him. Love him.
Don’t want to worry him.
She dug her fingernails into his skin so no one could snatch her away, then lifted her head. He held her tighter as if to reinforce she was safe. She turned her head.
Master Z was on one knee, both forearms on his thigh as he waited for her. “That’s a good girl.” His smile was faint, his gaze dark gray. Someone else she’d worried.
“I’m sorry.” Her throat felt as if it had rusted from years of disuse. “It’s your coming-home celebration. I didn’t mean—”
Sam made a gruff sound of disbelief, but his arms didn’t loosen.
As long as he held her, she didn’t care how many noises he made. Her body was waking, starting to feel everything he’d done. The burgeoning fear made her skin feel as if a scrub brush had scraped her raw.
“You’re more important.” Z’s voice was low, patient. He didn’t move. She’d lured a kitten from under her porch in just that way. Fuzzy, soft kitten. “You had a panic attack,” Z said. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Did he think Sam had done something wrong? “Not Sam. He didn’t do—”
“Not Samuel,” he agreed. “Or you wouldn’t cling to him like that.” His gaze dropped to where her fingers were clenched around Sam’s arm.
She must be hurting him. She couldn’t make her fingers loosen. A whimper slid out of her.
“Shhh.” Sam’s whisper ruffled her hair. “Hang on all you want, girl.”
“Did you see something that frightened you?” Master Z asked.
“My eyes were closed,” she said as Sam muttered, “Her eyes were closed.”
“Feel something that brought back memories?”
She pulled in a breath. Right before she’d panicked, she’d felt the tiny flickers of the crop, like a light touch after an orgasm, just enough to keep it going. He was good at giving pain. Giving orgasms too. The corners of her lips tilted up as she brought her attention back to Z.
“You’re feeling better.” He was smiling slightly. “So not anything Sam did.”
“Did you smell something?” Sam’s voice was as soft as a gravel truck could get.
Think, Linda. She tilted her head, remembering the feel of the whip, then the smells of the dungeon. A mineral scent along with the fragrance of leather and a hint of the cleanser. “No.”
“That leaves sound,” Z said. “Tell me what you heard, Linda.”
The whip flicking. “Music. Gregorian chants. People talking. They were watching.” She moved her shoulders. “But that didn’t bother me.” Nice voices. Talking. A tenor, a baritone, a woman’s contralto. A higher tenor with an…odd scratchy sound. Her breath caught as if someone had stomped on her chest.
Sam’s arms squeezed the last of the air from her. “Got you, Linda. You’re safe.”
Her eyes had scrunched closed again. I’ve heard that tenor before. She forced her eyes open.
Master Z held her gaze. “Tell us.”
“He was here. Someone…someone from…” She forced the word past her lips. “A slaver. I know his laugh. His voice.”
Sam growled under his breath.
Master Z’s eyes turned almost black. “What does he look like?”
Over and over, she tried to put a face with the voice. Nothing. She was disappointing Sam. Tears stung her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Sam’s arm moved, even with her holding it, as he tilted her face up to look at her. “Sorry for what, baby?”
“I don’t know his face,” she whispered. “I never…”
They stayed silent.
“In the cages. We were in cages for a while. And when people came, I kept my eyes closed. Trying to make them go away.” Make everything all go away.
“Closed your eyes, huh?” Sam huffed an actual laugh. “Bet you hid under the covers as a little girl like Nicole did.” He wasn’t mad. Wasn’t blaming her. In fact, his hand slid from her chin to cup her cheek as he tucked her back against his chest.
She let out a sigh, feeling her body melt into him. Warm. Safe.
“Linda,” Z asked, “are you sure you heard someone from when you were imprisoned? Could the voice just be similar?”
“I’m sure.”
Silence. She felt the owner of the Shadowlands study her and realized her eyes were shut again.
“Talk later, Z,” Sam said. “I took her deep. She’s going to drop hard.”
The rustle of clothes. She didn’t want to open her eyes. Maybe the bad ones would all go away. Only they never had before. Closing her eyes hadn’t worked. Hadn’t saved her. Nothing had. She felt tears spill from her eyes to roll down her cheeks.
“Linda. Look at me.” When she opened her eyes, Z was looking down at her with a gentle expression. “Samuel and I are proud of you, little one. You did well.” He squeezed her shoulder and left, his gait smooth and silent.
A knot loosened inside her but didn’t halt the sadness, a thick ocean fog through the streets of her mind, covering her world in gray. Sad, sad gray. Is that where Holly is? Buried in gray?
A sob made her breathing stumble. Then another.
Sam rumbled something, and after a second she realized what he’d said. “Cry, girl. I won’t let go. Cry.”
Burying her head in his shoulder, she did.
* * * *
To see the redheaded ex-slave have a panic attack had been quite diverting. As the spotter strolled toward the unattached submissives’ area, he smiled.
Even more satisfying was seeing the Dom’s scene crash and burn. Such a pity, Master Sam. The asshole. Although Davies could wield a whip well, he always stopped too soon. Didn’t break the submissives, didn’t force them to grovel. And afterward, he treated the sluts like pampered babies.
Disgusting. Aaron’s jaw clenched. Stupid slaves would kneel and beg Davies for a flogging. Some of them were ones who’d turned Aaron down when he’d invited them to play. I’m far more of a Master than he’ll ever be. I’ve fucked more women, hurt more women.
Killed more women.
He smoothed his hair down as satisfaction filled him. Yes, he’d had a fine time recently. He’d been smart to continue using prostitutes. They were sleazy, but…nicely simple. Flash some money, pick one up, deal with her how he pleased. Leave the body in a ditch and take his money back. Yes, he had to be cautious about leaving evidence, but at least he had no Harvest Association Overseer to placate over damaged—or dead—merchandise.
And for a pleasant treat between kills, he used the Shadowlands.
As he neared the bar, he noticed the side door was ajar. Z must have opened the Capture Gardens. Now that promised to be fun. Perhaps a bit risky, since Z and the Masters kept a close eye on the proceedings. But there were ways around that.
As he approached the unattached submissives, he surveyed the offerings. Two of them he’d played with before. No. Not in a mood to exert himself unduly, he also rejected the most athletic-looking women. He’d save his energy for roughing up his prey. And fucking her. Up the ass would suit his mood tonight.
A tattooed one caught his eye. Nice. But then he saw the trainee cuffs on her wrists. Not a good choice. Z kept a close eye on the trainees. All the Masters did.
Ah, perhaps that brunette. She couldn’t be more than midtwenties. He preferred older slaves, but for what he had in mind in the Gardens, an inexperienced submissive would be best. He stalked into the sitting area, gave them all an impersonal, cold stare, and watched them react to his dominance. “I’m looking for some sport in the Capture Gardens,” he said.
Three of the submissives, including his choice, showed interest. He held his hand out to her. “Would you care to play the game?”
She jumped to her feet. “Sure.”
Noticing a slut he’d used before shaking her head no toward the girl, he smoothly moved the girl away. “Do you have a safe word?”
“I use red.” The girl tried to look confident.
He almost laughed. “Red will be fine.” Wasn’t it a shame she wouldn’t be able to yell with hi
s hand over her mouth? And he could tell that when he broke the insecure sub down and scared her enough, she wouldn’t return to the Shadowlands. Wouldn’t tell a soul.
Chapter Twenty-One
Sam scowled as he watched Linda drive down his farm lane toward the front gate. Goddamned stubborn woman. She sure as hell hadn’t slept long enough but still dragged herself out of bed to sing in a church service. Wouldn’t even wait for him to get the gate for her.
His mood lightened as he remembered how she’d snarled at him. Her grumpy morning face was damn cute.
And he’d see her later. Z had called already this morning. He’d arranged a late-afternoon meeting today with her, the Feds, and the other Masters. Just what she needed. More stress in her life. At least, she’d agreed to let him pick her up at her home after work and drive her to the Shadowlands for the meeting.
With a snap of his fingers for Conn, he headed down the drive. Since the construction crew took Sundays off, he’d lock the gate before heading to the orchards.
Halfway down the lane, Conn let out an “incoming” bark as a car turned in. The vehicle was an ancient two-door with dings and dents all over the bumper. One headlight gone. Blonde at the wheel. Hell. Even before he saw her face, he knew, and his gut felt as if he’d swallowed glass.
Without thinking—just to keep her from his house—he stepped into the center of the drive, forcing her to stop if she didn’t want to run him over. Muscles tense, he prepared to jump out of the way if she was too drugged out to notice an obstacle.
She stopped.
His fury grew, and he yanked open her door. Conn growled.
She gave him a beseeching look. “Sam. Darling. I know you didn’t want—”
“Get the hell off my land.” She wasn’t high but strung out instead. Face sweaty. Hands shaking. His jaw tightened. No matter how often he’d seen her like this, it still grated. No one—ex-wife or not—should do that to herself.
He smothered the maddening need to fix her. Year after year, he’d tried that. Programs, clinics, therapy, detoxing wards. The minute she was released, she’d return to shooting poison into her veins.
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