by Joey W. Hill
Truth, it had helped harden her resolve about Friday. If she couldn’t go through the contents of that room, how could she possibly handle going through Alice’s inventory, figuring out what would work best with the customers? Friday would help her do it. She’d face it just like a dental appointment. It was a necessary cleaning of plaque build-up, a mental block preventing her from shining the way she could.
When she arrived at the store and let herself in through her back entrance, she saw Logan had left the connecting door between her storeroom and his wide open, a clear invitation. Focus. No sentiment. No Alice memories. Just sex, whips, and chains tonight.
Peering through the curtain to the main area of the store, she saw it was quiet and dark, only the dim security lights illuminating it. She felt a moment of uneasiness. “Hello?”
“Sorry. Here I am.” At the muffled bump, muttered curse, she relaxed, hearing Troy’s voice, his feet hurrying toward her down one of the aisles. When he turned the corner, she was confronted with a lot of firm male flesh. All he was wearing was a pair of drawstring pants. A light sheen of sweat made his muscles above them gleam.
“I’m so sorry, Madison. I was finishing up my workout in the glass cutting area and time got away from me. Master Logan told me to be at the storeroom door so you wouldn’t think you were walking into a horror movie set.”
“The one where two charismatic men lure an unsuspecting woman into their shop after hours to chop up her body with power tools and compost her?”
“You have Alice’s sense of humor. A bit more dry and edgy, but still.” Troy grinned. Taking her hand like a high school kid latching onto his girlfriend, he drew her through the storeroom, toward the annex door. She didn’t mind him holding her hand.
Why couldn’t she be like other women her age? The ones who said “who needs them?” when it came to men. The self-sufficient females who were content to have their girls’ night out with wine and lots of male bashing. She couldn’t seem to stop wanting a man. The man. The one she was always hoping she’d find, but who apparently didn’t exist for her.
Two years ago she thought she’d overcome the weakness. After seven relationships, it was clear she needed to focus on her career and stay away from temptation. She’d chosen a career that paid well but didn’t engage her passions. Staying on an even keel had seemed safer, at all levels of her life.
Alice had called it self-euthanizing. Making herself numb. Madison had hung up on her during that phone call.
Stay away from men. It was a simple enough rule. Yet here she was. She was an idiot.
“What kind of workout do you do around sharp glass?”
“Yoga. I used to be a gym freak, and then Shale, that’s my Mistress, showed me yoga is just as strenuous, but less hard on the joints. My first session made me a believer. I couldn’t walk the next day.” That quick grin again. “And the glass cutting area has pretty clear floor space, so it’s good for doing the positions. No chance of being cut, unless I don’t sweep it the way I should.”
She could imagine that was part of Logan’s incentive to make sure his assistant did his job. “So what is this training going to involve?”
Please God let it not be me putting Troy over my knee for a spanking while he sucks his thumb and calls me Mommy. She wouldn’t joke about such a thing, in case that was his deal, but she fervently hoped it wasn’t.
“Master Logan will have to tell you that.” Troy’s tone was apologetic.
Not Mr. Scott, making it clear that their relationship had a very different tone tonight. Was she expected to call him Master Logan? Did she want to do so?
Troy escorted her to woodworking area. Illumination spilled in from an open door on the left wall, one that had been closed the night Logan showed her this room. She’d assumed it was a supply closet, and that the training area Logan used was the same as his woodworking area.
The other room was definitely not a supply closet. This space was the same size as the woodworking shop, the annex building bisected to accommodate it. The whole place was a fun house, each door revealing another wonder.
The room was unfinished, setting the proper ambiance for its purpose. The open beams above showed the electrical wiring and the concrete floor was marked with a wild spatter of paints and whitewall compound. There was no sheet rock on the walls, the insulation tucked in and sealed with plastic, peg boards attached to the framing over it. The boards were occupied by an array of paddles, floggers, whips, chains, fasteners, coils of rope. Pain, pleasure, bondage.
A pair of chains with shackles hung from the main support beam. A cushioned work mat was placed on the floor beneath them, and over that a large clear plastic tarp was spread, like the kind used for painting. Catching fluids.
“Where is Ma—Logan?”
“Here.” He came out from a bathroom, drying his hands. Wearing a button-down shirt loose over his jeans and the heavy tread work shoes, he was as distracting and appealing as other men would be in a tuxedo. She saw his gaze turn to a workbench where an array of coiled ropes in different colors and thicknesses had been laid out. His critical glance suggested it had been Troy’s job to arrange what Logan desired to have at hand. She wondered what the consequences would be if Troy had missed anything. As her gaze returned to the chains, the plastic, her stomach tied itself neatly into a tight knot.
“I’m not really sure what I’m doing here.” She blurted it out, then colored. He nodded, unperturbed.
“You can leave at any time, Madison, but I’m hoping you’ll stay with us throughout the entire session. We’ll start with something simple. Troy, go to the shackles. Madison, put them on his wrists.”
Just like that. No chitchat, no time for her to get more nervous than she already was. In a way it was helpful, being treated like the assistant she expected to be, something functional and not the center of attention. Though that knot still tightened another notch at the way he told her to do it. It wasn’t a please, would you mind kind of tone. It was an order.
Troy obediently moved to the mat. Logan was studying the ropes on the workbench, but she wasn’t fooled by the inattention. She knew he was tracking her responses, because he emanated that Master of the Universe vibe she’d accused him of having, primarily because it turned her on so much.
She made her feet move, followed Troy. When she reached the mat, she closed her hand around one manacle, dangling near Troy’s shoulder. As he raised a hand so she could put the cuff around it, she noticed a new tension to his face. Not fear. Anticipation. She could feel it increase as she locked the cuff around his wrist. As she did it, her own increased as well. Needing to reassure herself of his wellbeing, she murmured a quiet “Okay?”
The young man nodded. His focus seemed to be turning inward as she completed the task, as if putting on the cuffs transported him to a different plane. She remembered the way her own feelings had shifted when she’d locked the cuffs onto herself at home, knowing the key was behind the ice, temporarily inaccessible. Because of the lack of floor or ceiling cover, the hollow room echoed every noise, including the metallic sound of the shackles being fitted into place.
Troy’s wrists had a light dusting of pale blond hairs over them. She slid a fingertip over them, petting them like a cat’s fur. When she glanced up at his face, she saw those blue eyes had shifted to hers.
“Finish the task, Madison.”
Logan’s tone was neutral, but there was a slight reproof there. If he did proscribe a punishment for her transgression, would running be an option?
She stepped back.
“Lift your arms above your head, Troy. Eyes down. She’s lovely, but you haven’t earned the right or my permission to look at her.”
The young man cast his gaze downward, though she noticed his gaze remained on her feet. Logan noticed it, too, because his lips twitched. “So it’s going to be that kind of night, is it?”
He pushed a button embedded in a wall plate. At the sound of gears engaging, she glanced up to see the chai
ns were attached to a track. The concept was similar to a garage door opener, only this motor drew up the slack in the chains until Troy’s arms were pulled taut over his head. The more the restraints tightened, the greater the stretch of his torso, the more lost Troy’s expression became in that inward focus. The abdomen muscles stretched, the chest and rib cage arching as his heels left the ground. Logan stopped him there, only the balls of his feet still touching.
As captivating a picture as Troy was, she found herself trying to watch them both. Logan’s full attention was on Troy, apparently gauging the tension he was placing on his muscles, studying the arches of his bare feet. From his position he had the enviable view of Troy’s ass, all tight and tilted. Then he caught her attention fully.
“You wanted to touch him, Madison. You can touch him now. Touch him however you wish with your body, but only above the waist with your hands. Until I say stop, he’s your possession to enjoy.”
Read on for an excerpt from another scorchingly sexy novel from Joey W. Hill
UNRESTRAINED
Available now from Heat
The first time she stepped into a BDSM club, it felt like home. Surprised wasn’t the right word for her reaction. Surprise was what one felt toward a party thrown in one’s honor, planned on the sly by someone else. When she stepped into that dim environment, inhaled the intangible layers of want and need intertwined with the surface scents of tears and sweat, perfume and leather, her unconscious revealed the secret it had kept for so long. This was where she belonged. It rose up into her chest, an unexpected comfort and validation. Ironic, given that she hadn’t been there for herself. Not essentially.
Roy had talked her into giving it a try. He wanted to take the play they did in the privacy of their home into a discreet but more populated world. It had mattered to him, so she’d prepared herself to accept it, no matter how sordid it might end up being.
Everyone knew New Orleans had a seedy side. No one bothered to call it an “underside,” since it was broadly displayed in the French Quarter at all hours of the day, and it had worsened since Katrina, when more of the city’s criminal element shifted into that section. But then she found there was an actual underworld, and the darkness there was heated, welcoming. Not seedy at all. The perspiration gleaming on marked skin, the cries of pleasure and pain, the glitter of eyes in the dim light, the energy that pulsed in Club Release like its own power source . . . it reminded her of what she’d felt in some of the old churches in the city.
That connection had come much later, when Roy got sick.
Occasionally there would be things at the company she had to handle in person, so she’d leave him with his nurse for the bare minimum time necessary. One day, on the way back home, she obeyed an impulse driven by simple weariness of spirit and allowed herself a fifteen-minute detour into a small Catholic church. It had a trio of archways beckoning the faithful, and the smell of stone and wood over a hundred years old. She’d sat in the sanctuary, stilling her mind, letting everything go for those precious few moments. She realized the ambiance that compelled hushed voices, a still soul, was like what she felt in the club. There was also euphoria, a contained joy, the best kind to feel. Things always felt more intense when restrained. She’d seen it in how Roy reacted to it, though she’d never experienced it firsthand.
Though she didn’t share why she’d stopped at the church, not wanting him to worry about her, she’d shared that comparison with Roy. He smiled at her, nodded, his eyes still bright in the gaunt face. They remained bright until the last few days, when he slipped into that pre-death, morphine coma so common to cancer patients. At the end, she’d whispered in his ear, commanded him to let go. She told him that she’d be all right, that his Mistress would always love him. He would like her putting it in those terms, she knew. So his Mistress let him go, even as his wife sat at his bedside, clutching his hand, the loneliness closing around her when his breath stopped and he obeyed her.
“Want another one?”
She returned to the present and Jimmy, who ran the bar at Club Release. He’d drawn her back out of herself. Since it was a private club run as a nonprofit membership group, they didn’t serve alcohol, but they had a good selection of drinks, everything from chili pepper cocoa to lemonade or O’Doul’s. He gave her glass a significant glance. “I can top that to two-thirds, Lady Mistress, so you can slip in a little more of that vodka you don’t think I’m seeing.”
She gave him a faint smile. “My sleight of hand’s out of practice.”
“Naw. You just know that I already know. And you’re sad tonight.” He hesitated, put his hand on the bar next to hers, no contact, but the offer of connection was there. “You know, it’s been over two years. Dillon and Seth are easygoing, gentle subs. Either one of them would help you break the dry spell. It’s no different for us than it is for a vanilla person going on that first date. It might even be a little easier, because they saw you work with Roy and know how you operate. You can tell me ‘shut up, bitch’ if I’m way off base, but I can’t help but feel you’re looking for something.”
“Maybe. I’ll think about it.” It wasn’t the first time he’d suggested it, though he hadn’t been as blunt in the past. It also wasn’t the first time she’d given that noncommittal response.
When she started coming back here, a few months ago, they’d let her lack of participation pass without comment. They’d known her and Roy in a way no one else did, which meant Club Release offered a unique type of sanctuary. However, not only was she no longer playing, she was hardly watching when she showed up. She just closed her eyes and listened, using the club’s sounds as the soundtrack to her own personal memory reel. It was bound to invite more pointed comments after a while. Sometimes it could be a pain in the ass, people knowing certain parts of you too well . . . and other parts not at all.
Yes, she’d felt at home here, with Roy. But it was as if she’d lost weight and the mirror showed a core version of herself that other layers had disguised. It made her think it was time to put down the whip and do something different. Be on the other side of the whip. Craving the lash, the pain . . . the release.
The first time that thought crystallized in her mind’s eye, refusing to be shrouded, it had startled her. She wasn’t used to analyzing and thinking about herself in a solitary way. It was always in relation to something else, someone else. Roy, first and foremost, and then a hundred others lined up after him. Family members, the community, business.
Though this was when she normally would pay her tab and go home, she didn’t want Jimmy to pry further, so she would make an effort. She rose, picking up her drink, and wandered into the Fortress of Solitude. In this section of the club, no talking was allowed. A safe gesture replaced a safe word, and submissives were gagged. Their bodies, eyes, and faces broadcast what was happening to them. A Master or Mistress ordered them through touch: a hand on their shoulder to guide them to a restraint, a tug of the leash, a pressure to put them on their hands and knees. It was a good place to avoid conversation.
With it being Tuesday night, she’d hoped no one would be in there, that the few members in attendance had gravitated toward the more social rooms, which also had more popular equipment. Her hopes were short-lived.
At least it was only one couple, a Master and his female sub. She didn’t recognize the Dom, but she hadn’t been to the club in over a month, too busy with other things. He wore a black eyemask and bandanna knotted at his nape. Together, they hid all of his features except his mouth, the line of his jaw. He wore tight black gloves.
Practitioners of BDSM came from all walks of life, many of them average Janes and Joes whose unremarkable facets became polished gems when their true natures sparkled in these rooms. She’d seen it happen with lean Goths, bikers, comfortable middle-class types, military, and then those like her. Her infallibly ladylike demeanor, the old Southern money roots she couldn’t and wouldn’t try to conceal, had earned her the nickname Jimmy had spoken tonight. Lady Mistre
ss.
Despite the diverse club population, she was fairly certain she’d never seen a Master quite like this one. Unless it was in one of the confusing, erotic dreams that had been teasing the edges of her sleep of late, dreams she didn’t feel comfortable sharing even in this venue. Perhaps especially in this venue.
She’d handled fund-raising for the USO charity ball three years running. During that time, she’d become friendly with a variety of military wives. One night she and Roy had the pleasure of hosting a dinner party for them and their spouses. Several of the husbands were Navy SEALs. She’d noted a unique stamp to the way they carried themselves, the look in their eyes. On top of that, each had an impressive physique. It was understandable since, in the SEALs, the body was pushed to the max in terms of endurance, speed and strength. One of the wives told Athena that many of the men, even those who’d never been injured, ended up requiring some disability benefits by the end of their career, due to the punishing demands on joints, muscles, skeletal system.
“They never quit. They just go until the body is completely worn out.” The wife had said it half jokingly, though her eyes had followed her husband with that combination of fierce love and quiet acceptance military wives had to possess for the marriage to last.
This Master had that unique stamp to him. If Athena was right and he was a SEAL, he definitely wasn’t at that worn-out point. The black jeans and unmarked black T-shirt defined a body that said he was capable of pretty much any physical demand. She wondered at his age, his hair color. He wore silver-tipped cowboy boots. There was no other ornamentation on him. His concentration was on the woman dependent on his mercy.
If it wasn’t a Tuesday, with such sparse attendance, she expected he would have had far more of an audience, but maybe that was why he preferred a quiet weeknight. Maybe he considered her as much of an intrusion as she’d initially considered him. But though Athena sensed his awareness of her presence, he didn’t seem distracted by it.
