by Desiree Holt
* * * *
“Don’t untie me yet, Stephen.” Maya gazed up at him, a half-smile playing on her luscious lips. He bent for a quick kiss before returning to his task. Her exertions had worn chafed red circles around her wrists. “I want you to fuck me again.”
“I’ve got to put some salve on these abrasions. I’m sure you’d do the same for any sub. I’ll fuck you later.”
“I can’t wait.” She grabbed him with the arm he’d already freed and pulled him down on top of her. He’d removed the clamps before anything else. Her firm breasts mashed against his chest and her pubic hair coated his half-hard cock with wetness. He hardened further when she rubbed her pussy back and forth over the tip. “You know you want to.”
With difficulty, he extricated himself from her one-armed embrace. “Not until I’ve got these ropes off. Haven’t you heard of aftercare?”
As soon as he’d got the bonds off her other arm, she rolled him over on to his back, straddling his hips. She had amazing strength. But, then again, he’d noticed that the first time he’d seen her. “The only aftercare I need is your cock in my cunt, Master Shark.” She leaned over to grab his wrists, pinning him to the bed. “If you won’t give it to me, I’ll have to take it.”
“Hey!” Her attack startled him. “Who’s in charge here?”
Maya gave him a superior smile that sent delicious chills down his spine. “That’s a good question, isn’t it?”
A very good question indeed. Maya was strong, but Stephen could have freed himself.
He chose not to.
About the Author
I became addicted to words at an early age. I began reading when I was four. I wrote my first story at five years old and my first poem at seven. Since then, I’ve written plays, tutorials, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred-page dissertation and, of course, erotica. I’m the author of four erotic novels and two short story collections. I also edited the groundbreaking anthology Sacred Exchange, which explores the spiritual aspects of BDSM relationships, and the massive collection Cream: The Best of the Erotic Readers and Writers Association. My short stories have appeared in more than two dozen print collections edited by erotica luminaries such as M. Christian, Maxim Jakubowski, Mitzi Szereto, Rachel Kramer Bussel and Alison Tyler.
My lifelong interests in sex and the written word became serendipitously entwined about a decade ago when I read my first Black Lace book by Portia da Costa. Her work inspired me to take my fantasies out of the closet (and the private email files) and expose them to the world. The rest, as they say, is history (although, granted, no more than a minor footnote!).
I’ve always loved travelling—my husband seduced me in a Burmese restaurant by telling me tales of his foreign adventures. Since then I have visited every continent except Australia, although I still have a long travel wish list. Currently I live with him and our two exceptional felines in Southeast Asia, where I pursue an alternative career that is completely unrelated to my creative writing.
Email: [email protected]
Lisabet loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.
Also by Lisabet Sarai
Raw Silk
Incognito
Serpent’s Kiss
Truce of Trust
Necessary Madness
Fire in the Blood
Hot Spell
Quarantine
Bound Brits: Getaway Girl
Brit Party: Monsoon Fever
Brits in Time: Shortest Night
Gaymes: Crossed Hearts
Master Me: The Understudy
Seeing Stars: Bodies of Light
Treble: Wild About That Thing
Halloween Heart-throbs: Rendezvous
Christmas Spirits: Tomorrow’s Gifts
Yule Be Mine: Almost Home
WAGERS OF SIN
Elizabeth Coldwell
Dedication
For Lord T.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Lulu Guinness: Lulu Guinness
Boden: J.P. Boden & Co. Ltd
The X Factor: Syco TV
Velcro: Velcro
Lycra: Invista
Wi-Fi: Wi-Fi Alliance
Chapter One
“But the truth is, Selina, you’ll never really become a true mistress until you learn what it means to submit.”
Marcus grinned at me over the rim of his wine glass. We’d had this conversation many times before, but never in such plush surroundings as the restaurant at Fenton Park racecourse. A black-uniformed waitress appeared discreetly at the table to take away the plates that had contained our desserts, slices of a delicious chocolate mousse cake.
“Would you like any tea or coffee?” she asked.
Marcus shook his head. “Not here. We’ll have it in our box, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, sir.” The waitress appeared slightly flushed as she took a sly look at Marcus from under her lowered eyelashes. His silver-haired good looks and deep, commanding voice had that effect on most of the women he met. It always amused me to see how they lusted after him silently, hoping he’d favour them with a smile or a compliment.
I drained the last of my chardonnay, patted my lips with the napkin and rose from my seat. The waitress’ arrival had distracted us from our earlier conversation, but now, as we walked from the restaurant—with its panoramic view out over the racecourse—to the private box Marcus had rented for the afternoon, I picked up on his comment.
“So what makes you think I’m not a true mistress?” My tone was teasing, but beneath it I bridled at the assumption. Once and for all, I was determined to get to the bottom of Marcus’ reasoning. “None of my boys have ever complained.”
“Because that’s all they ever are, Selina—boys. How old was the last one?”
“Chris?” Now it was my turn to blush. “Twenty-one.” Memories flooded back. Chris, kneeling at my feet, naked but for the wide black leather collar around his neck. I recalled the smooth young planes of his bare back and arse, the hardness of his proudly erect cock, the adoration in his eyes as he’d gazed up at me. Adoration that hadn’t been strong enough to keep us together beyond the first giddy rush of excitement and exploration.
“So, an age difference of what, twelve years? And you sometimes wonder why you can’t find a lasting relationship?”
“That’s a bit rich, coming from someone who’s been on his own for the best part of a year now.”
“Hey, not fair. You know Lydia had to go back to Greece, otherwise we’d still be together.”
Instantly, I regretted my jibe. I’d liked Lydia, Marcus’ last live-in girlfriend and lifestyle submissive. She’d been intelligent and feisty, with long, dark curls that fell halfway down her back and chocolate-brown eyes that had captivated Marcus from the moment they’d met. Whenever I’d seen them together, either at his home or out in one of the fetish clubs, the chemistry between them had been obvious. When she’d told Marcus she had to return to Athens to look after her frail, elderly mother, their break-up had hit him harder than he cared to admit, even to me. At times like this, it was easy to believe he still wasn’t entirely over her.
“I’m sorry. But I still don’t see why I need lessons in submission.”
We were passing the parade ring, where the horses that were about to take part in the two-ten race were making one last circuit before being led out to the all-weather racetrack. Marcus paused to watch his own horse, Montecristo—the reason we were here today. His chest swelled with obvious pride as the big, sleek bay trotted past, the jockey riding him wearing silks in Marcus’ trademark colours of black and gold. Even I—who knew next to nothing about horses—couldn’t help admiring the magnificent beast, fighting my urge to reach out a hand and pat Montecrist
o’s flanks as he passed us.
“You know that old saying about not judging a man till you’ve walked a mile in his shoes?” Marcus asked. “Well, I really think that applies here. How long have we known each other now, Selina?”
I thought back to my first meeting with Marcus, when I’d been a novice on the scene and he’d been one of the regulars at the bi-monthly fetish night held in a tiny, dingy club beneath an Italian restaurant in Soho. Perhaps spotting something of himself in this aspiring fellow dominant, he’d decided to become my mentor, and we’d been the closest of friends ever since. “It’ll be six years next Halloween.”
“Six years. Time’s flown, hasn’t it?” He rested his elbows on the top of the white-painted fence running round the parade ring. “I’ve never told you this before, but, when I first knew I wanted to dominate women, I decided I ought to find out what it was like to be dominated. I needed to know how it felt to take a punishment, so that, when I was spanking a girl or using a whip on her, I’d know what she was going through. I thought that if I could understand the submissive’s point of view, I’d appreciate my own all the more.”
“So what did you do?” I knew we should really be heading for the box. Marcus had invited a couple of other guests, business clients of his, and I suspected they’d be wondering where we’d got to. But his logic was beginning to make sense, and I needed to hear the end of the story.
“I went to a woman whose card I plucked out of a phone box on the Euston Road,” he admitted. “Mistress Garnet, her name was. I could have played out a scene with someone I already knew—I’d been to a couple of club nights by then, down at a place under the arches by Vauxhall Tube station, and I’m sure I could have found someone suitable there—but I felt easier going to a professional, somehow. I knew she wouldn’t judge me. To her, I’d be just another client.”
“And what happened?”
Marcus’ face took on a distant quality, as he dredged up the memory. “I had to strip down to my boots the moment I’d handed over what she called her ‘tribute’. I’ve never been so nervous getting undressed in front of someone, before or since. She just stood watching me with this completely dispassionate look on her face while I hopped around from foot to foot, trying to get my trousers off over my boots.”
I smiled to myself. In all the time I’d known Marcus, he’d never been less than totally in control. Even when he’d split from Lydia, he’d done his best to hide the true extent of his distress. So to think of him fumbling to take his clothes off, trying to obey this dominatrix’s orders, was an eye-opener to say the least. Though I didn’t want to admit it, the image was turning me on, too. I never failed to experience a thrill whenever a man stripped himself bare on my command, but that didn’t explain why I found the thought of Marcus exposing himself in this way quite so exciting.
“So what was she like, this Mistress Garnet? Young, old, attractive, ugly?”
“She was absolutely stunning. I mean, you know most of the women who advertise with tarts’ cards just take a picture of a model in thigh boots from some magazine and pass it off as themselves, but she’d used her own photo, and if anything it didn’t do her justice. She must have been about forty, and no one used the term ‘cougar’ in those days, but that’s what she was. Black hair, high cheekbones—thinking about it, Selina, she looked quite a bit like you, only with blue eyes instead of those amazing pale green ones of yours. Anyway, she wore this skin-tight black leather catsuit with a zip running all the way down it, right between her legs. I couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d look like with it unzipped, but I had the feeling that unless I was a very good boy, I wasn’t going to find out.”
Marcus describing himself as a ‘good boy’. Whatever next? I wondered.
“When I’d taken off everything but my boots, she ordered me to get down on my knees and worship her feet. She had on these Victorian-style boots that came halfway up her calves, with high, spindly heels, and she told me to lick them till she could see her face in them. I did as she asked, licking till my mouth was dry and all I could taste was shoe polish. Then she slid one of those wicked stiletto heels between my lips and made me suck it, just like I was sucking on a cock. I would never have believed it, but obeying all her instructions was making me hard…”
He broke off, glancing at his watch. As he registered the time, he linked his arm through mine and started walking me towards the stand where the private boxes were located. “Come on, we don’t want to miss the race.”
“But I want to know what happened next.” My pussy pulsed, hot and damp, at the thought of Marcus, naked and erect, worshipping this gorgeous dominatrix’s boots. No doubt he’d have been desperate to touch his cock, but Mistress Garnet would have warned him of the perils of doing so without permission. I should know. I’d given that same instruction to Chris, and to all my other pretty slave boys, on so many occasions.
“So you’re intrigued?” Marcus gave my hand a little squeeze. “I knew you would be. Very well. When she decided I’d done as good a job on her boots as I was going to, she took me over to her whipping stool. She didn’t have much in the way of equipment, just that and a metal contraption hanging from the low ceiling with cuffs dangling from it, but it was really all she needed.
“She bent me over the stool, and fastened me in place with these heavy black leather cuffs. I was so nervous at the prospect of being beaten, but my cock was still rigid. Even though I thought of myself as a hundred per cent dominant, I couldn’t pretend I didn’t want it.
“Once she’d chosen the implement she intended to use, she walked round in front of me, so I could see what she’d picked for my initiation. It turned out to be a wooden ping-pong bat—not the most vicious of her punishment tools, but certainly not the easiest to take if she wielded it correctly. I knew it was going to hurt me, and I tried to prepare myself for that.
“She was an expert at building up the tension, waiting to the point where I almost screamed at her to just get it over with, then she gave my arse the first—and last—paddling it’s ever had. She beat me with the thing till it felt like my whole backside was on fire. It’s strange. It wasn’t that painful at first, just a kind of dull ache, like you’d get if you slipped over on an icy pavement and landed smack on your tailbone, but as she beat me over and over again the deeper layers of pain developed. I tried to take it in silence, show her how strong I was, but I just couldn’t. Within five minutes she had me yelling and begging and telling her I’d do anything if only she’d stop.
“Still, when she unfastened me from that stool, I felt a strange kind of triumph, like I’d succeeded in taking everything she had to give me, and I was hoping she’d unzip that catsuit and let me look at her tits, maybe worship her pussy like I’d worshipped her boots. She didn’t. She just ordered me to wank myself off in front of her.”
“And did you?” I asked, thinking how demeaning that must have been for him. Though I couldn’t deny it made a delicious, enticing picture. Marcus, with his arse a deep, mottled red and his cock in his fist, tugging at it with fast, frantic strokes as he brought himself to a climax beneath Mistress Garnet’s gaze.
“Of course I did. I stroked my dick till I came all over her dungeon floor. It only took about a minute. I was so keyed up from everything she’d done to me. Then she made me dress and leave, because her next client was on his way. But I walked away from that flat in King’s Cross feeling I’d learned something, and that when I next gave a punishment, I’d be able to pace it better, take my sub right up to her limits, even make her sob out my name as she came, all because I knew what it was like to have the same thing done to me.”
We’d reached the door of our box. As he ushered me inside, I saw Marcus’ colleagues watching the early stages of the two-ten, drinks in hand. They were so engrossed in the action, they barely noticed our late arrival.
I lowered my voice. “And you think if I experience that same kind of treatment, it’ll make me a better mistress.”
�
��I know it, and I can prove it to you. Tell you what, let’s bet on it,” he said. He glanced out towards the track, where the horses were making the first of two circuits in this two-mile handicap chase. “If Montecristo wins the race, then you agree to submit to me for a month. Whatever I tell you to do, you do it without question. If he loses, then I’ll submit to you for a month. How does that sound?”
It was an outrageous suggestion, but still I found myself weighing the options. I’d seen the latest odds for the race on the bookies’ boards out by the track. According to them, Montecristo was third favourite, at four to one. They all had Major Branston, an impressive-looking grey we’d seen parading in front of Marcus’ horse in the ring, as the favourite, at less than generous odds of seven to two on. Montecristo had a chance, but a slim one—or so I reckoned. Sticking out a hand, I said, “You’re on.”
We sealed the bet in the traditional way, with a handshake, then gave our full attention to the latter stages of the race. The pace had picked up considerably, and a group of four horses had broken away from the rest, surging towards the finish line. Among them I recognised both Major Branston and Montecristo.
By now, the tension in the box was so thick you could have sliced it. Marcus’ colleagues had no idea of the side bet he and I had just placed. All they knew was that his horse could be in for what would be the biggest win of its short career, as it battled to force its way ahead of the powerful grey. We were all whooping and cheering, caught up in the excitement, but I couldn’t have said in that moment whether I wanted Montecristo to win or lose.
