by Nia Farrell
Length 19,946 words/97 pages
Long Branch Books
Shattuc, Illinois
Dedication
This is for soulmates everywhere. Love operates beyond the control of calendars and clocks. Whether two years, two days , or two minutes, if it’s right, it’s right.
~ Nia
Chapter One
“Sir Piers? Sir Josef and Ms. Eleanor Benoit are here to see you.”
“Thank you, Kitten. Send them in.”
Piers St. Leger rose from the high backed leather office chair, moved to the side of his massive wooden desk, and watched the opening door with interest. The young woman who stepped through it wore a white silk blouse, a black pencil skirt, and sheer stockings that he envisioned as thigh highs. She moved with an elegant grace in four inch heels that he could certainly fantasize about later. She was about five feet seven, slim but toned, with lovely sculpted calves and a long, elegant neck that was made to wear a collar. A wealth of copper hair was twisted in a loose bun. Her nails were manicured but colorless. Her guarded pewter eyes missed nothing, from her surreptitious survey of his office to her quiet assessment of him.
He knew that he could be intimidating. Most Dominants were, to those not in the lifestyle. At six feet five inches, he cut a commanding figure in his Regency garb, worn for the Janeite subs who were coming this afternoon to finalize plans for a BDSM version of the ball at Netherfield. Ms. Benoit’s gaze swept over him, from his black hair, clubbed back above his navy blue waistcoat and buff breeches, to his polished black boots before settling on the cravat around his neck. Her expressive lips curved with unspoken, curious amusement, as if she wondered, had he ever tied up anyone with it?
“Yes,” he said, crooking a smile when her startled gaze flew upward to meet his. “Ms. Benoit, Sir Josef. Please, sit.”
He motioned to the pair of wingback leather chairs facing his desk. His private space exuded Old World elegance, with dark wood and high molded ceilings. Lush red velvet drapes warmed the windows, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the walls. The room smelled of well-worn volumes, leather, and lemon oil furniture polish, with a faint hint of patchouli masking the occasional fine cigar.
Ms. Benoit was initially inclined to perch on the edge of her seat. Breathing deeply, she forced herself to relax, sitting back, crossing her legs, and demurely arranging her skirt. Dr. Josef Brandt, the Austrian-born staff psychiatrist at Replay, set a stack of documents on the desk before seating himself.
Piers flipped through the pages. Her criminal background check was clear. Her physical and mental examinations were completed and passed. Her pregnancy test was negative. She was free of STDs. There was nothing to bar her from full participation, once the rest of the paperwork was completed.
“Excellent.” Piers straightened the stack, keeping the psychological evaluation and setting the rest of the papers to one side. “Now that Sir Josef has approved you for participation, the only items left are the contracts that bind you to confidentiality and allow you to set your soft and hard limits.”
Mild confusion flickered in her gray eyes. She caught herself when she started to bite her lower lip. “Limits? Is that necessary for someone coming as an observer?”
“Limits, Sir,” he said, somewhat surprised that Rowena—Regina—had thrown her friend into the fray without the most basic instruction. “Any Dominant on staff here who is not your Master is to be addressed as Sir. Sire or Milord—even Dominus are acceptable titles, depending on the time period portrayed. Patrons come here to play in the past. We seek to provide the most authentic experience available.”
Her pewter gaze edged toward steel. “I stand corrected. Sir.”
He angled his head and narrowed his eyes, challenging her to give careful consideration to her responses. “Your lips say one thing, but your eyes, Ms. Benoit, convey so much more. Consider this your only warning. Disrespect and improper attitudes will not be tolerated.” He spoke softly, trusting that his British accent lent the proper air of menace. American media of late seemed to love the English as villains.
She dropped her gaze. “Yes, Sir. I understand, Sir.”
She did everything she should have. Everything, except apologize.
“Eleanor…?”
“Elly, Sir.”
“Elly? Really? You would shorten the name of first ladies and queens? No, princess, Elly does not suit.”
Piers set down Josef’s signed release for play and captured her gaze, refusing to let it go. “Princess,” he said, “I don’t know how much or how little Regina has told you. Per agreement with the man who’s renting my resort, Regina is bringing guests to all three nights of play. You shall be portraying the White Queen to Regina Wright’s Alice in Wonderland. An erotic blogger and her friend, role playing at a BDSM resort? Surely you are not naïve enough to think that no man here will try to tempt you to join in.” He swept her with a critical eye. “You are young. Attractive. Fit. How flexible?” he asked.
She shifted uncomfortably and modulated her voice to mask what she was feeling. “Fairly flexible, Sir. I call it a healthy curiosity. That—and my work—make me more open to new experiences.”
“Your work?” he asked, already knowing the answer, but he wished to hear it from those perfect lips of hers.
“I’m a psychologist, Sir.” The satisfaction that she seemed to take from it was like the sun breaking through clouds to bathe the land in light. “A counselor at the community resource center. I help people who are looking for ways to cope, or to heal, or to move on.”
“Ah,” he said. “Confidentiality will not be a problem. But we digress. Let us return to my original question. How flexible are you?” he asked again, sweeping his gaze upwards, from her sexy heels to hair that begged to be freed. “You have the body of a dancer. Or a swimmer, perhaps?”
She colored under his scrutiny and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Dancer, Sir. But mostly yoga. And yes, I’m flexible. Very much so. I assume that you have internet. If you look up ‘Padangustha Dhanurasana—Intensified Bow Pose’ and ‘Sleeping Yogi Pose,’ you’ll get the idea.”
Piers searched internet images and found the two she’d named. The first was a body with back bent, until the yogini was folded nearly in half. The second woman was a portrait of perfect peace. Face relaxed. Eyes closed. Hands gently pressed together in a mudra that whispered Namaste. Her legs—her legs bracketed her torso and her feet were behind her head.
“I’m flexible enough, you could fold me like origami.”
Origami?
Some months ago, in this very office, he’d been told to listen for that word. The message had come from a psychic submissive, here with her two husbands who’d given her the capture fantasy of her dreams for their honeymoon. He’d dismissed it at the time, but hearing it from the luscious mouth of a woman who already intrigued him seemed beyond coincidence.
Origami. The Japanese art of paper folding was an apt metaphor to apply when someone was so flexible, he could easily bend and shape her to his will. He had a fondness for Asian culture in general, and Japanese rope bondage in particular.
Origami, Grace White Santiago had told him. You’ll understand when you hear it.
And he did. God help him, he did. He’d spent the last few years planning, building, and growing Replay, creating a place where patrons’ fantasies were fulfilled, but he’d done so at his own expense, financially and personally. He trained. He orchestrated. He demonstrated. But he hadn’t had a permanent sub since Sarah. She’d been a rare treasure. Simply exquisite. A lady in public and anything but in private, after he’d overcome her resistance, broken through her defenses, ultimately collaring her and making her his.
Until she wasn’t.
Frankly, he hadn’t found anyone since Sarah who was worth the risk or the effort…until now.
Looking at Ms. Benoit with new awareness, he envisioned her bound in knotted jute ropes, suspended from a bamboo beam, a silk kimono opened to bare her breasts, her
hungry mouth opened and filled with his length.
He tapped his chin, considering, imagining the feel of her parted lips wrapped around his erection.
“Tell me, how do you know Regina?” He knew, of course. It was his responsibility to know such things, but again, he wished to hear it from her.
“The Veteran’s Center,” she said, her expression softening. “We both do volunteer work there.”
“And there is your Wednesday night group.” Sex Addicts Anonymous. She led. Regina attended.
She acknowledged it with a simple nod but refused to elaborate. Her perfect response pleased him greatly. She was, indeed, discreet.
“Sir,” she said, “I understand that it’s a great deal of bother to approve me for Replay when I’m only coming as an observer.”
“So say you.” Piers sat back in his chair and pressed his fingertips together. “Princess, it is rare to stay subjective, once the play starts. People who intend to watch are usually in the thick of things by the end of the evening. The contract we require, whether or not you join the play, represents an opportunity to expand your horizons, in the avenues of your choice. Dominants may yield the whips, but submissives call the shots.”
“So Rowena—Regina—tells me.”
His only reaction was the flare of his nostrils.
“Sir,” she hastened to add.
Good girl. She learns quickly.
She grew thoughtful for a moment. Shaking herself, she drew a deep breath and met his gaze once more. Her gray eyes serious, her voice mellifluous, she said, “Look, I know something of what goes on here. Bondage. Spankings. Floggings. Threesomes and foursomes and moresomes. What if I say that my professional curiosity makes me want to better understand the roles of Dominants and submissives, and the best way to understand the appeal of the lifestyle is to…observe? Observe and evaluate. Purely clinical.”
She was serious. “Purely clinical,” he repeated, relishing the challenge she posed, already imagining how to work this in his favor.
“Yes, Sir. I could…converse. Talk to people. Learn why they’re here, what they like, how it makes them feel. I’m certain it’s different for everyone. I have a client who uses BDSM as a way to deal with issues, and there are others who are drawn to it but who are afraid to explore. If I knew more, I could better help them.”
The light of sincerity shone in her eyes. Recognizing opportunity, he offered an alternative that he hoped would benefit them both.
“Watching is certainly allowed,” he said. “It is not uncommon for a scene to have more observers than participants. Who knows? You may find that voyeurism is your kink. However, any…questions…you have shall be discreetly and privately directed to either Regina or to myself. Micheil MacDonald is paying a small fortune for his brother’s birthday celebration. I cannot and will not allow disruption. I am certain that you understand, hmm?”
Those fine eyes of hers did not disguise her disappointment.
“Come now,” he cajoled. “I’m not so bad, really. If you would just give us a chance, there are so many things that I could show you…teach you…when you are ready.”
She didn’t say no. She didn’t say yes, either. Rather she bit that luscious lip and chewed on it while he went over the standard contract with her, explaining hard and soft limits and the types of play allowed on this side of the resort. Safe, sane, and consensual, he told her.
It was premature to discuss the more extreme forms of BDSM, the RACK—Risk Aware Consensual Kink—played on the other side of the property, with suites and rooms situated between for overnight guests and staff who lived onsite. His home was on an adjacent property, mere minutes away from the resort yet secluded enough to ensure his privacy.
Piers handed the contract to her with a pen to mark her limits. When she was done, she gave it back and waited while he read.
He wondered if she was trying to impress him. “The things you marked as allowed? Be honest. Do you have prior experience?”
“With a few,” she admitted. Very few, he guessed. “I don’t intend to join the Wonderland scene, but, theoretically, if I did and I needed to stop, wouldn’t I just use my safe word?”
“That would seem the simple answer,” he said, “but play becomes more complex when a submissive achieves an altered state. In subspace, you can be unaware of the need to slow down or end a scene. It is the Dominant’s responsibility to keep you safe. He must constantly evaluate. Know when to continue, when to change pace, when to finish playing and begin aftercare.”
“Aftercare?”
Oh, she was going to be so much fun to train. A blank canvas, waiting to be transformed. By the time they finished, she could be his masterpiece.
“Giving the submissive what he or she needs when a scene is done,” he explained. “Warmth. Touch. Massage. Applying aloe gel or arnica cream on skin marked from receiving discipline, to soothe the sting and promote healing. Equally important are words of comfort. Words of praise. A Dominant lets his submissive know when she has pleased him.”
***
For a moment, Elly imagined lying naked in Piers St. Leger’s arms, still in a state of bliss after a session of kinky play.
The Dom Heathcliff angled his dark head, his blue steel gaze assessing. With his dimpled chin, he looked like Timothy Dalton’s love child. “You stated that you do yoga,” he said, the deep rumbling baritone resonating in her core, traveling down to converge upon a single, needy point. “I have seen devotees who practice advanced meditation achieve subspace very quickly, even though they are new to BDSM.”
The timbre of his voice birthed a flash of kinky fantasy. She envisioned Sir Piers with a soft, suede flogger, administering lashes that raised her to the point of ecstasy and rendered her nearly unconscious, releasing her bonds and holding her against him, ear pressed against the carved width of his chest, soothed by his heartbeat, safe in the circle of his arms.
The thought made her mouth dry and her panties even wetter.
The Dom behind the desk inhaled slowly, deeply, as if he could smell her arousal.
She crossed her legs and told what was between them to behave. She was here to watch, to take notes, she reminded herself. Purely clinical. When she saw those chiseled lips start to slide into a knowing smile, she knew it was time to make things perfectly clear.
She squared her shoulders and leveled her gaze at him. “Mr. St. Leger,” she said crisply, noting his displeasure when she failed to address him as Sir. “I confess, my past partners—with the exception of one—were about as vanilla as they get. But I am also a psychologist. I’m not coming to Replay to—”
Thankfully, she caught the get corrupted before it tumbled off her tongue.
“To immerse myself in the lifestyle and personally experience whatever it is that you do here. I am coming, at a friend’s request, to support her. But while I am here, I plan to observe. The better I understand the benefits and pitfalls of BDSM, the more I can help clients who are interested in the lifestyle. Believe me when I say that, despite the White Queen costume, I’ll be studying the scene as intently as if I were wearing a lab coat.”
The look that he gave her made goose flesh cascade down her arms and alarm bells sound in her head.
“Vanilla.” He tasted the word but refused to swallow it. Why would he, when there were so many other flavors that he could choose from?
Elly felt as if she’d been judged and found wanting. Oddly enough, that stung more deeply than it should.
“Should you ever wish to expand your horizons…” He tapped the contract. “We have several Dominants here who train submissives—collared, claimed, and unclaimed. Compatibility, trust, mutual goals…there are any number of factors used to determine the best pairing, one that will protect and nurture a submissive’s growth. As a bottom, you may view this document as…ephemeral, but I can assure you, I shall view it no differently than if you had come to me for training. What we do here, I take very seriously. Very seriously, indeed.”
&nbs
p; “As am I, Sir,” she insisted. “It’s just…it’s one night.”
“Yes. One night. And how many research projects have you completed in that time, hmm?” His lips angled in a knowing half smile, like the great and powerful man behind the curtain enlightening the girl who’d landed in a strange and foreign land. “If you wish to observe and ask questions, to learn and begin to understand…well, it will very likely take more than an evening in Wonderland. In fact, I can almost guarantee that you shall be left wanting.”
In more ways than one, she suspected. If Piers St. Leger seated at a desk was enough to make her wet, how the hell was she going to survive an evening by his side, watching God knows what and depending on him to dissect it all in a play-by-play that might have her praying for overtime?
It wasn’t often that Elly was wrong, but she’d misjudged Piers St. Leger. He might not like the idea of vanilla her, but there was no mistaking that he wanted a taste of it. She knew it the minute that she signed the contract, leaning on his desk, close enough to smell him. Clean male and subtle musk, with a nuance of patchouli on his clothes and wintergreen mint on his breath. She’d initialed all the pages, adding her signature to the last. Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, she’d risked a glance up at him and was stunned by the sudden heat that flared in his eyes—eyes that seemed alive with possibilities.
“Sir Josef will take you to your wardrobe appointment,” he said, keeping his gaze on her, a dark promise in his eyes, in his voice, that made her shiver. “I shall see you soon, princess.”
Chapter Two
Elly didn’t know whether to curse Rowena or bless her. The twenty-two-year old had worked for Replay almost a year. Hired soon after it opened, she and her nearly identical twin sister performed as musicians. Both were pretty blondes with waist-length hair, but it was their artistry and knowledge of period music that added ambience to the scenes at the resort.
