I is for...

by L. DuBois

  “What is on our list?”

  He raised one of those dark brows.

  She pursed her lips. “I asked. I didn’t order you to tell me.”

  “True. How about a please?”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “No.” He dropped his gaze to her breasts. “You’re not.”

  “Well then?”

  He flipped the papers closed, sliding them back into the envelope. “Let’s make something clear. I will not expect you to pretend to be something you’re not. I wouldn’t want you to lie by calling me ‘Master’ or ‘Sir’ when that’s not what you normally do.” He leaned forward, planting one elbow on the table. He crooked his finger, and she leaned forward. As soon as she was close he grabbed her chin, applying firm pressure.

  She shivered, and it wasn’t from fear. It was from arousal.

  There really was nothing sexier than a self-confident, dominant man.

  He moved his thumb, pressing it against her lower lip. She flicked it with the tip of her tongue.

  He smiled. Oh, what a smile it was. It was a bad boy smile. The kind of smile that preceded an invitation to jump on the back of his motorcycle and ride off into the sunset.

  Though he was wearing a white dress shirt, unlike so many of the men here, he didn’t look like he’d just shrugged out of a suit jacket and removed a tie. He was more rugged than that, more visceral. She couldn’t imagine him sitting behind a lawyer’s desk.

  “But,” he said, drawing her attention back to his words and away from her imaginings, “I am in control. This is not a negotiation. I have your checklist. I know your limits. You will have a safe word, of course, but I am not going to submit my plans for your approval.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “You are going to submit to me, Chastity.”

  She simultaneously wanted to drop to her knees and look at the floor—something she never did—and to jerk away from him. She prided herself on being different. On being someone who laughed at the more theatrical aspects of BDSM.

  And yet this man, this master, made her want to kneel, if only to see what he would do to her if she did.

  Clearly, he was used to women submitting with just a little show of dominance. And to be fair to her fellow subs, he did it well. But she wasn’t going to start murmuring Yes, Sirs just because he had a sexy, commanding presence and a very good Dom voice.

  “Oh, I am,” she assured him. “I’ll be your bottom, for the game. And if you don’t want to tell me what’s on the list, that’s fine, too.” She winked. “I like surprises.”

  His eyes narrowed. He hadn’t expected that response. Good.

  He considered her for several breaths before speaking. “Then let’s get started.”

  Chapter 3

  Master Raine stood, then held out his arm. It was a gallant gesture that didn’t seem to fit with his hard-ass appearance. Nevertheless, she placed her fingers on his forearm. Head high, she walked with him out of the Library.

  Once they were out of sight of all the people, her nerves started to jangle. In her boots, with the stacked heels and two-inch platform, she was only an inch shorter than him. Barefoot would be a different story. She almost always wore boots or heels of some kind when she was at Las Palmas.

  Chastity was tall. The person she was outside of here was just average height.

  She snuck glances at his profile. That did nothing to lessen her tension. There was a bump on his nose. He’d broken it at least once. She fought the strange urge to reach out and stroke it.

  That would be both inappropriate and weird.

  You think it’s inappropriate to touch his nose, but aren’t freaking out about the fact that you’re letting a stranger take you to a private location to beat you?

  Her inner voice sometimes wasn’t helpful.

  The knots in her stomach tightened so much that she stopped paying attention to where she was going, and nearly fell when she took a step that was half on flagstone and half on sandy soil.

  Master Raine caught her. Strong, hard hands on her waist. He was touching the bare skin between the top of her low panties and the bottom of the corset. The suddenness of the touch—the heat and power of his hands—made her catch her breath.

  He squeezed. “Are you okay? Did you twist your ankle?”

  “I’m fine.” The words were breathy.

  He grunted, then to her surprise—and delight—he picked her up and carried her back the way they’d come, into the Constellation Court.

  “Whoa! You’re…carrying me.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  She looped an arm around his shoulders. This close she could see the stubble on his jaw.

  Las Palmas was actually an estate made up of a series of Spanish-style buildings. All the rooms opened onto covered walkways that ringed the open-air courtyards. The center of the Constellation Court—called that because the playrooms here were all named after constellations—had small groupings of comfortable outdoor furniture gathered into several seating areas as well as a small stage.

  He carried her to an unoccupied chair in the corner. A palm obscured the view of the stage, which is probably why the chair was unoccupied in the otherwise full courtyard.

  She tried to climb down from his arms, figuring he wouldn’t be able to handle bending without being overbalanced, but he tightened his hold, fingers digging into her thigh.

  Once she was seated he dropped to one knee, examining her boot.

  “I’m fine, really. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going and stepped funny.”

  “That’s usually how it happens. Given how tight your boots are, you might not be able to feel an injury.”

  His fingers glided up the side of her calf, and even though she felt only pressure, not his actual touch, she shivered.

  He paused, clearly noticing the shiver, then looked up at her, his eyes hooded under his dark brows.

  Chastity raised her chin, head high. It was stubborn and stupid, given what they were going to do, but she didn’t want to admit how much his touch affected her.

  Master Raine found the zipper on the inside of her leg and slowly drew it down.

  This time she didn’t bother to hide the shiver—it was just a physical reaction to the cold air touching the warm skin of her lower leg. He drew the boot off, carefully holding her ankle as he removed it.

  “You’ve done this before,” she said.

  His lips quirked. “A time or two.”

  “Doctor?”

  He glanced up at her, then back to her leg. He peeled off the knee-high nylon she wore under the boot, leaving her with one bare leg.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know it’s taboo to ask people what they do in the real world.” Lord knew she didn’t want anyone asking her what her job was. That would lead to far too many questions.

  “Not a doctor, but I’ve treated my share of injuries. I have…field experience.”

  The way he said it, with a hint of amusement, ruled out some sort of army medic or paramedic. Besides, those were both underpaid professions and wouldn’t give him the kind of income needed to pay Las Palmas’s extravagant dues.

  He took the ball of her foot in his hand, and she jumped.

  “Ticklish?”

  “A bit.”

  He smiled.

  “That’s on my hard ‘no’ list,” she warned. “I hate tickle torture.”

  “Hmm, too bad. How does this feel?” He manipulated her foot. Nothing hurt, though the longer he touched her, the harder it was becoming to hide her reaction.

  “Fine. My ankle. I mean my ankle feels fine.”

  “Your joint seems okay. But to be safe, for tonight we’ll keep you off of it when possible.” He started to unzip her other boot.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Undressing you.”

  The words hit her like a punch to the solar plexus. “We’re starting now?”

  “We started the moment you walked up to the table.” He pulled off her bo
ot. “Nervous?”

  “It would be stupid not to be nervous.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to stop challenging me?” It seemed like an almost idle question from the way he said it.

  “I’m not challenging you. I’m not falling to my knees just because you call yourself Master, but I’m not challenging you.”

  “Do you switch?”

  “No, I tried, when I first got into it. But I was too...” She didn’t know how to finish that sentence without eliciting some sort of negative reaction from him, so she didn’t.

  He shifted so he was facing her, still kneeling. It was the classic submissive pose—one person seated, the other one on his or her knees. Despite that, nothing about him seemed submissive.

  “Let me guess. You were too harsh. Too brutal.”

  She stiffened.

  He smiled, but it was a tight, knowing curve of the lips, not a mirth-filled grin. “True submissives know how much they can take, which is usually a lot, and as a result are often brutal when they top.”

  “You think I’m a true submissive.”

  “Are you saying you’re not?”

  “No. I am. But I thought that maybe you wouldn’t believe that. Because I’m not…” She glanced around, then pointed. “Because I’m not like that.”

  Not far from where they sat was another chair, another couple. He was relaxed, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, a glass of amber liquid and ice balanced on the wide, wooden arm of his chair. He was watching the action on the stage. His submissive was completely naked except for a nipple chain—not clamps, but a decorative chain that was attached to her nipples with adjustable loops. She knelt on a cushion, legs spread, toes braced beneath her. Her head was bowed, her hands laced together behind her neck. She was open and available. Ready to be used or to please him as he commanded.

  “She has lovely manners,” Master Raine said mildly.

  “You mean she’s kneeling prettily and patiently waiting.”

  He pushed to his feet. “As I said. Lovely manners.”

  When he offered his arm, she accepted, pausing long enough to grab her boots. They dangled from the hand not holding onto him as they walked.

  They passed out of the Constellation Court. “Where are we going?”

  “What fun would it be if I told you?”

  “I would find it fun.”

  He laughed, a true laugh, and turned to look at her, seeming almost surprised by his own reaction. She didn’t bother to hide her answering smile. “Well, I would.”

  “Brat.” It was almost affectionate.

  Normally she didn’t like that term. Being a “brat” or “bratty” was a more common term in daddy Dom/little play. She didn’t want to be treated like a naughty child. She was a grown-ass woman who wanted to be treated as such.

  Yet the way he said it was different. She didn’t mind it, but still, she said, “I’m not a brat. I’m an adult.”

  “I never assumed otherwise.”

  “Just so we’re clear.”

  They walked into the Iron Court. Unlike the others, this one didn’t have plants in the center, but a collection of statuary. There were no comfy chairs. People stood to watch any scenes that took place here. The playrooms were set up for more extreme activities and scenes.

  “I had a room in the Sub Rosa court, but traded it once I saw what was on our list.”

  “We, uh, need one of these rooms?”

  He paused by a door and typed in a code. The lock clicked open. “Nervous?”

  “Like I said, I would be stupid not to be.”

  He paused, hand on the latch. “Excited?”

  She crossed her arms under her breasts. “Yes.” She wouldn’t lie about that.

  He pushed the door open. Walking backwards into the room, he once more crooked his finger, beckoning her. “Come into my web, little fly.”

  Chastity let out a little huff of laughter and, with her emotions a tangled mess inside, stepped into the playroom.

  He’d had a plan.

  Alexandre was great with plans. After all, that’s how you won games—plans, strategies. Those skills were how he’d turned his career as a Hollywood stuntman into a massive business training stunt people, designing cutting-edge visual effects, and consulting both on set and with SFX designers who wanted to make their computer-generated explosions look more like real ones.

  Most of the time, he offered to blow something up in real time—there really was nothing like a bit of C4 to get the blood pumping—but even he had to admit there were plus sides to the advances in computer tech.

  All that experience with people falling off horses, out of moving cars, or being flung away from explosions meant he was confident enough in his quick exam of her ankle to be sure there wasn’t anything wrong with it. Still, just to be safe, he wouldn’t keep her standing the whole time, which meant he had to change his plan.

  Then again, he’d been mentally revising his plan every five minutes. She wasn’t what he expected. From the look of her, he’d expected a leather fetishist who would lick her lips and revel in being forced to kneel and crawl, all while looking at him lustily.

  Maybe she would do that—crawl and revel—but she was more defiant than he expected. He’d called her a brat, but she wasn’t really that. He didn’t quite know how to classify her. They’d talked about types of subs and Doms. After their interactions so far, he wasn’t quite sure what her type was.

  Which meant that he might have to abandon his plans and wing it.

  The heavy door closed behind them, sealing them in the Iron Court playroom. He hadn’t picked the room, it had just been the one he’d been able to trade for, but it was one of several that had the equipment he wanted.

  Chastity stood only a few feet from the door, her fingers laced together and held at her belly button. The posture fit her name—it was a rather chaste posture, at odds with her black leather corset and fetish hairstyle. Her boots were set neatly against the wall.

  She was shorter than he’d first assumed—she’d seemed statuesque, silhouetted in the door, but most of that had been the shoes. She was probably 5’5” and, based on picking her up, 150 pounds.

  “What’s your safe word?”

  The room was lit by recessed lights around the perimeter. He knew from reading the helpful guide that there were spotlights that could be turned on, highlighting the various pieces of equipment. In the low light, her brown eyes seemed almost black, and he was struck again by what a contrast she was—pale skin and hair, dark eyes and clothes.

  “Cup,” she stated.

  “Cup?”

  “Yes. It’s better when it’s one syllable. Easier to say in the heat of the moment.”

  “Have you safe worded out of a scene before?”

  “Yes. But not here at Las Palmas.”

  “What about a warning word? I usually use the stoplight method.”

  She tossed her head, the long tail of her hair swinging. “I’ll take whatever you give me, until I can’t any longer.”

  “No. We’re not going to do that.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not going to push you to the point that you’re safe wording out of the scene. Is that normally how you play?”

  “No. Sometimes.”

  He snorted. “Topping from the bottom.”

  “That isn’t topping from the bottom.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No. I like to be pushed, but I don’t always know my own limits.”

  “Your Dom should know your limits.”

  “How are you going to know my limits when we’ve never played before?”

  Alexandre started to walk, wanting to see what she’d do if he circled her. As he expected, she turned with him, retreating further into the room when he passed by the door. She was keeping him in her line of vision, and keeping space between them. Perhaps she needed to be more than just touched in order to submit. There were some subs—not the sort he preferred as partners, but he knew of them
—who needed to be manhandled into physical submission before they could lower their mental defenses.

  He wondered if Chastity ever really lowered her defenses. He had a funny feeling she didn’t.

  “Tell me about your first Dom?”

  “The first one ever, or the first one who mattered?”

  An interesting way of phrasing it. “The first one who mattered.”

  “Master Leo,” she said quietly. “He was the one who taught me what I really wanted.”

  “The club overseer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting.”

  “He brought me to Las Palmas.”

  “I want details, Chastity.”

  “Living vicariously?”

  He chuckled. “Hardly. Learning you.”

  “You’re making me dizzy walking in circles like that.”

  “Then stay still.”

  “While you keep walking around?”

  “Yes. Don’t trust me at your back?”

  “That would be stupid, since I’m sure that any minute now I’m going to be naked and tied up.”

  “That’s not an answer to my question. Either of them.”

  She stopped, planted her bare feet, and stared at the back wall. There was a St. Andrew’s Cross there, but not just any cross. It sat on a motorized mount that allowed it to be tilted once the sub was strapped in place.

  He would be making use of that, but not as the first thing.

  “Tell me about what Master Leo did that made it matter.”

  “Tied me up. In one of the stalls out in the conclave.”

  “Pony play?”

  “No, just simple stuff. Against a wall. Arms up. But he worked me over for what felt like hours. He changed between a paddle on my ass, flogger on my shoulders, then his hand. A whip. He paused, but never stopped. It was…so real.”

  “Real?”

  “I wish I had a better way to explain it, but it was like everything that I’d done before that was pretend, and what he did was real.”

  He stopped and faced her. “It was about the physicality of it.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s why you said you’re into impact play.”