by Lila Dubois
Betrayed by Love
Lila Dubois
Five years ago, a terrible betrayal tore Roman and Savannah apart. Roman’s burgeoning interest in the world of BDSM and his desire to master Savannah led them deep into the heart of sexual fetish. A weekend at the house of a high-powered Dom was supposed to be the next step in the exploration of their Dominant/submissive relationship, but when their host convinces Roman to turn Savannah over to him for training, their love is stretched beyond the breaking point.
Savannah—believing Roman has given her away forever—flees, but not before suffering at the hands of the sadistic Dom. Roman knows nothing of what she’s endured, believing Savannah left him because of his desires.
When they meet again five years later, they must decide whether lies will continue to keep them apart, or if what they had is enough to rekindle a once-in-a-lifetime love.
Inside Scoop: This story contains descriptions of nonconsensual sexual acts, hard-core BDSM play and graphic violence.
A Romantica® BDSM erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave
Betrayed by Love
Lila Dubois
Prologue
Savannah threw off the blankets. She couldn’t sleep. It had been days since she slept and though her body dragged with exhaustion, she lay awake night after night. Stumbling out of bed, she started pacing. When that wasn’t enough she hummed to herself, hoping to drown out the memories.
Old pain, fear and anger—no less potent after all these years—churned and bubbled inside her. Giving in, she went to her computer, signing in to the email she used only when she needed it, only when the darkness was so thick she felt as if she were drowning.
Within ten minutes the plans were made.
Hating herself for wanting this, Savannah started packing her special case. Maybe this time would be the last, maybe this would be enough to let her forget the past. Forget him.
* * * * *
The room held its breath as she lifted the cane. When it landed with a crisp crack, reactions were as varied and wide-ranging as the observers. The watchers tried to be silent but each strike elicited a small flurry of sound—a sharp gasp from an elegant blonde curled on the floor; a high-pitched moan of pleasure and longing from a brunet strapped to the wall, his torso crisscrossed with chain; guttural sounds of fear from a mousy dishwater blonde who had curled herself around and between the legs of her Master, who sat stiff and watchful in the chair above her. For the most part the Dominants in the room were silent, the few sounds that were made coming from the submissive men and women who were with them.
There were varying degrees of understanding among the Dominants in the room as to what exactly was happening on the central raised platform. For the beginners, it seemed to be a harsh game, more severe than most. Dominance and submission, the sexual passion that united all those in the large room, meant different things to different people. What the Domme in the center of the room was doing was something only those with experience could understand.
The sub on the central platform was a laughing, gentle, forty-something man in his life outside the chains. He had a mature, open face and a body still thick with muscle but beginning to show some middle-aged padding. A likeable guy with deep-seated submissive sexual tendencies, he was familiar to most in the small community.
The woman however… She was an unknown.
His body was spread in the classic X, chains to the ceiling and floor holding the leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles so every inch of his flesh was accessible to her.
She was standing to the side and slightly behind the sub. When she moved she was a predator, her actions sharp but controlled. Most Dominants moved slowly, surely, as if showing the world how in control they were with their measured strides. Not her. She stalked around him, her body wrapped in the classic black bodysuit, but instead of shiny cheap vinyl hers had the muted sheen of leather. There was elaborate stitching, black on black. A vaguely Celtic pattern started on each shoulder, moved down over her breasts and then parted to continue down her hips and the outsides of her thighs.
A leather-and-lace mask covered the upper part of her face. Starting from her hairline, it covered her brow, nose and upper cheeks, the leather then giving way to lace that lay close to her skin. Unlike the catsuit that molded her curves, the mask sparkled, jet and crystal beads worked into the lace where it was darted into the leather. It drew the eye, causing the viewer to crave the answers the mask hid.
Some, those who had had the privilege to see her up close, would know there was a teardrop crafted in crystal beads under one eye. The contradiction, the complication, was compelling and frightening.
“Slave.” Her voice was low, smooth, but thrumming with power, tension—her concentration, her being, clearly centered on the sub before her.
“Yes, Mistress.”
The blow she landed with the cane was sudden, unexpected. The rattan cane, stained dark brown, was a blur as it arched up from below, striking the inside of the sub’s left thigh. His cry was sharp, desperate, his back arching before he hunched in on himself.
“Oh God, oh God, please, do not stop.”
His words echoed in the room. He was gone, lost in sub-space, so far into the world of darkness there was no light. And she had taken him there simply, easily.
Her voice was low now, just for him. “I will touch you once more, and only once. Your body and mind are fractured now, but you will survive. I will let you down and your mistress, your wife, will take you home and care for you, and you will love her all the more for having danced on the edge.
“Know what good fortune you have that there is someone to care for you now. When I release you and walk away I will forget you.”
Her voice was hard, cruel, cutting him in ways and places a knife could not reach. His body and mind warred between his insane and desperate need for more of her dark attention and the haven of the arms of someone who loved him.
As he shook in his bonds, his mind at war, his body foolishly straining toward her, she turned, sweeping the room with her gaze.
Let them feel true fear, true pain, and appreciate what they have all the more. Let them see what it is to truly need to punish, to need to inflict pain rather than simply using it to express desire.
When all had felt the soulless weight of her gaze, she turned back to her broken partner. In this dark moment her heart died a little—as it always did. Horror began to seep into her consciousness, easing the fog of rage and sadness that motivated her.
It was this damnable weakening, this traitorous softness in her—when she knew the world had no softness to give her in return—that made this last blow the most horrible, the darkest. She did not temper the blow. Pulling back the cane, she brought it forward with stunning force, cutting a line along the top of his ass. For a moment a white line blossomed there, straight and sure across his body. In the next breath, white morphed to red, horrible red, pain red.
And in a room that echoed with the sound of the crack there was silence, until he threw his head back, his scream at once hopeless and beautiful. Blood began to seep from the mark of the cane.
Stepping close once more, she pressed her fingers against the raw flesh and, leaning in, whispered, “Forgive me.”
She strode from the room, scooping up the pack as she went, and was gone.
Chapter One
Savannah dipped her sponge into the cloudy water and carefully lowered her arm into the well of the vase she was throwing.
In her mind’s eye, she could see it, a thin-walled straight-sided pot, awash in bold colors. She drew her fingers up, using slight inward pressure to counteract the outward force the wheel.
She took her foot off the pedal and the wheel slowed to a stop.
R
eaching around, she used a wire to slice cleanly through the base where it was attached to the wheel and then rose. The piece was still too wet to be moved.
Her arms were wet to the elbows with clay. Moving to the large industrial sink, she turned on the faucet before plunging her arms into the cool water. The shorts she wore—purchased in the boys section because they were the only kind equipped with enough handy pockets, buckles and flaps—hung low on her hips, emphasizing rather than disguising the femininity of her body.
Casually wiping her arms against her clothing to dry them, Savannah left the concrete-floored pottery room with its high industrial ventilation ducts and entered the airier painter’s studio.
“’Chelle! Where are you?”
A dark-brown head peeked up from behind an easel in the corner of the room. “Hi. You done already?”
“Yep,” Savannah said, wandering over. “I have a good feeling about this one.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Michelle said, her attention on her canvas. Unlike Savannah, who needed silence to work, Michelle was able to talk at the same time. “Since you came back your stuff has been amazing, like totally amazing. I mean wherever you go there must be something in the water. You could probably bottle it and sell it and make, like, a million dollars. Not that you need to because you already make that as an artist, which is amazing anyway. Um, where was I going with this?”
“I have no idea,” Savannah said with a smile. Michelle was a sort of apprentice, as well as a friend. Though they were only five years apart in age, Savannah felt twenty years older than the younger woman.
Bright and cheerful, Michelle’s personality was only a thin veneer for her raw passion. She had the makings of a truly important artist. As scattered as her speeches could sometimes be, Michelle had hit on one very important truth.
Savannah’s work had been much better since she returned. Her demons exorcised, for now, her heart was able to follow the light to brighter side of life and express that in her work.
Amazing what a three-day sadism binge with a twenty-hour session as a Dominatrix could do for a girl’s mental health. Though she tried to stop it, a memory of her time with the sub flashed before her eyes.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Do you want to know why I did that, slave? Do you wish to know what you did to deserve such harsh treatment?”
“Yes, Mistress… Please… Tell me so that I might not do it—”
His plea was cut short when Savannah lashed him, creating a matching welt on the inside of his thighs.
“I will not tell you.”
She’d never been told why she was hurt, what she’d done to deserve the treatment she received.
The tip of the cane traced his chest, following the pattern of the stripes she had already laid. She took a step closer to him, taking his left nipple between her finger and thumb.
“Offer me something, slave, try to please me.”
“Mistress, whatever you want is yours to take.”
She twisted the nipple, his breath hissing through his teeth.
“But I want you to offer something to me. What do you think will please me?”
Those who had a view of the front could see the poor man blinking furiously, his breathing fast and uneven.
“Mistress, if it pleases you, you have not touched my cock.”
Savannah twisted the nipple harder, wringing another cry. “Are you, slave, asking me to suck your cock? You think so highly of yourself and so little of me?”
“No! No! No! I offer it for your pleasure, whatever it may be.”
Without another word, she stepped back, moving to a small rolling case resting on the floor near the platform. There were gasps as those closest saw what she brought out. The rest of the room waited, breathless.
“Open your mouth, slave.” Instantly his lips and teeth parted. She placed the cane between his teeth, whispering, “Bite.”
Gloved fingers took the man’s genitals in hand, gathering his semi-erect cock and balls together, squeezing and manipulating the flesh until she was able to wrap her fingers around the base, pulling both cock and balls away from his body. His small sounds were muffled against the cane. With her other hand, she carefully wrapped a cock strap studded with inward-facing spikes around his genitals.
Ten spikes, tips blunted like a fencer’s blade but each over an inch long, were forced against his soft skin as she fastened the strap. When she stepped back, everyone could clearly see the silver spikes pressed into his flesh, held in place by the wide leather circle. A terrible cry echoed through the room as she released her hold on his cock and balls, allowing them to take the full impact of the device.
The savagery of the item was beautiful and terrible. The sub’s eyes were on the horizon, the cane still in his teeth. His breath whistled around the piece of rattan.
She took the cane. “Look down, slave. See what I have done for you.”
The man dropped his head to his chest, a sob coming from between his teeth at the sight of his tortured cock.
“Where does it hurt, slave? Tell me.”
“My… My cock. I can feel the spikes, digging in, they’re sharp. And my balls, oh God—my balls. It… It…hurts.”
“I want it to hurt. I want you to hurt.”
God help her, she wanted to make him suffer, as if his pain could erase her own.
“Yes, Mistress.” The words were a plea.
“We are near the end now, slave.” A welt to the outside of his thigh, right ass cheek, left shoulder.
“Do you think you have pleased me? Do you? Have you considered the possibility that you haven’t? What if none of this will ever be enough? What if all the lashings, the debasement, will not bring you low enough for me?” More welts, now to the other ass cheek, thigh and the soft flesh covering his left triceps.
The words poured from her soul, reflecting back the blackness within her.
“God, please…”
“God cannot help you. I’m afraid he never comes here.” Her right hand cruelly twisted one nipple. “But you have a secret, don’t you, slave? A deep secret. It is not God who could rescue you, but someone else. Someone in this room.”
His eyes moved over her shoulder to someone behind her.
She wanted to hurt him, but she also wanted to save him, to see him find comfort and love after the pain of what she was doing to him. There had been no one to save her, but this sub would be rescued.
Savannah looked over her shoulder. A tense-looking woman sat in the chair closest to the stage, her eyes roving over every inch of the sub.
“That’s right. She loves you still, and so you are safe, forever safe.” Stepping close, Savannah whispered into his ear, “And I hate you for that.”
Reaching down, she grabbed the leather strap and lifted, the spikes digging into his balls. He screamed, not merely a cry but a true scream. Around the room people jumped, some of the Doms moving as if they would interfere, but no one did.
“Beg me for more!”
The words were ragged, raw, his vocal cords strained. “Please—please—please Mistress, use me…more…more…more, ah God, it hurts.”
She pinched a fold in the leather, drawing the spikes on the sides in. Another scream followed.
“Beg.”
“Please, Mistress, more, I beg you, more, more, more. Use me, use me, use me.”
“Offer yourself up.”
“My…my body…is yours.”
“And what of your soul, your mind, your heart? Can you feel me there too, pressing, hurting, squeezing?”
“Yes… I will never, never, never forget…forget.”
“And you will never be the same.”
With a vicious twist, she released the leather so the strap fell away, the spikes pulling from the groves they had dug in his flesh. The returning blood caused pain so deep he threw his body back, his mouth open but no sound emerging.
He was brought back as she viciously caned his ass, then spanked and squeezed his cock wi
th her gloved hand. He swelled at her touch, rising hard and fast so that his dick nearly touched his belly.
Despite the pain he was wildly aroused, to the point he would have let Savannah do anything to him. It was time to pull back.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Little mental health breaks are good,” she told Michelle.
Michelle looked up from her painting but, uncharacteristically, didn’t comment. She knew from past experience that Savannah wouldn’t talk about where she’d gone or what she’d done while away.
“So you’re finished with all the pieces?” Michelle asked instead.
“I think that’s the last one,” Savannah said. She went to her sketch area, a bright corner of the painting studio, and picked up the sketch she’d done for the series. The pot she’d just thrown was commissioned. An office building in DC was redecorating the lobby and the space she’d been commissioned to fill was an odd one—a long, narrow ledge twenty feet above the reception desk in the three-story open lobby.
Savannah had designed a series of thrown vases. The shapes and heights varied, so that when the pots were placed in a line the profiles would flow smoothly from one to the other, the colors moving from cream to turquoise, dark blue in the center, and fading to kelly and pastel green.
The drawing she held showed a sketch of the completed idea. When the piece was complete, this signed drawing, which she’d hand-carried to the interior designer’s office in DC, would be framed and hung in the lobby.
Though she’d thrown the last pot, she was far from truly done. She had to fire that pot, finish glazing and second-firing several others, and box them up and drive them the almost six hundred miles from Savannah, Georgia, to DC.
“Are you sad it’s done?” Michelle asked. She’d risen from her easel and was cleaning her hands with a cloth.
“A little,” she said, setting down the drawing. “But there’s always another project.”
“When are you going to Chicago?”
