Replay Set 1: Viking Raid, Triple Play, Honour Bound

by Nia Farrell

  “Indebted, huh?” Elly looked at him over her shoulder. “Does that mean I can ask for something in turn?” He eyed her skeptically. “Nothing big, I promise.”

  Still nothing. For pity’s sake! If she had to save his Dom Darcy ass from a bevy of Janeite subs, she deserved a reward of her choosing.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I won’t ask for anything you can’t give, I swear.”

  “Princess,” he hedged.

  She turned to face him. Placing a hand on his chest, she relished the feel of his sweater-clad muscles. Holy moly, the man was ripped. “I’m not going to beg. Sir,” she quickly added.

  “Not. Yet.”

  She shivered at the dark promise in his voice. He’d proven tonight that he had the power to reduce her to begging any time he wanted. For whatever reason, he turned her on like no other man she’d ever met. But then, none of them were Dominants, and this man was a Master.

  And, for whatever reason, he was attracted to her. He wanted her. He would top her vanilla in ways she’d never imagined, in ways that she’d not only enjoy, but could see herself coming to crave. Piers St. Leger was like an instant addiction. She already yearned for more.

  She started to slide her hand south. He caught her wrist and held it. “This isn’t what you need from me. Not tonight.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked, tempted to try and prove him wrong. She needed to get laid, and it sure as hell felt like he could deliver the goods.

  “Yes.”

  That was it. His final answer. And her answer would be a vibrator, in the category of self-help aids: what was invented in 1880 as a cure for female hysteria?

  Elly sighed. “Okay. I’ll dine with you. Dance with you. Beat women off with a stick…or not, if they seem to like it. I’ll see how the evening progresses. If we mesh as well as we did tonight, going home with you won’t be a problem. I’ll come prepared to stay but I reserve the right to safe word out if it’s too much, agreed?”

  “Agreed.” He drew a deep breath and exhaled softly, his breath fanning her face and ruffling her hair. “In the meantime, I want you to take the SD card from my camera. Look at the photographs. To save them or delete them will be your choice, but I’m hoping you’ll keep them. If so, perhaps sometime in the future, you’ll be willing to share them with me, hmm?”

  “Perhaps.” Crap. She was blushing again. She hadn’t been this sensitive since high school, when she was just becoming interested in boys. But she knew that she wanted to go to college, and a classmate’s unplanned pregnancy served as a lesson for every other girl about what could happen if things went too far. She’d made sure they didn’t, until the choice was stripped from her one nightmarishly horrible night.

  Elly shuddered, feeling like she’d just stepped on the grave where she’d buried her past. It had taken a hospitalization and years of therapy to work through the guilt and the pain, to come to terms with what had happened. She was still working on forgiveness, God help her. They didn’t deserve it. None of them did. But she deserved peace, and she’d never fully know it until she managed to move past the anger and resentment.

  “Where did you go, princess?”

  She shook herself. “A dark place, Sir. Nowhere that you’d want to follow,” she told him. “Suffice to say, I’ve come a long way. When you wanted to tie me up, then when you added the blindfold, I didn’t know if my triggers would kick in, but you were gentle. And you didn’t rush. You took things slowly enough, I processed rather than panicked. Thank you, Sir Piers. It’s been…a memorable evening, and I look forward to our next one.”

  A BDSM ball at Netherfield. Dancing with a Dom Darcy, followed by a sleepover at Pemberley.

  Not that they’d do much sleeping.

  Not when he wanted to tie her up and take her three ways into Sunday.

  Chapter Seven

  The next time Piers saw Eleanor Benoit, she looked as if she had stepped off the cover of a Regency romance novel. Her glorious copper tresses were swept up and back, curled and arranged in a Grecian style. She wore ropes of pearls in her hair, pearl earrings, and, in the tempting hollow of her throat, an exquisite single pearl surrounded by diamonds. Seeing how perfectly lovely Eleanor looked in his late mother’s necklace made him glad that he’d insisted when Jewell Fraser had shared her ideas and he had proposed his own.

  Not one to disappoint, his wardrobe mistress had designed a dress to complement the jewelry and the wearer. Eleanor’s scoop-necked gown had a high waist and short puffed sleeves. The sage green silk organza was the perfect foil for her vibrant hair.

  She turned towards him, like a flower toward the sun. “Sir Piers.”

  How he had missed her voice. It had only been a week, but it had taken every bit of willpower he possessed to not pick up the phone and call her, to ask about her days, her nights.

  To see if she dreamed of him, too.

  “Ms. Benoit. You look…lovely, my dear.” She was stunning, actually. Perfect in every way. “Are you ready to go down to dinner?”

  She pressed a hand to her stomach, a nervous gesture. “Yes, Sir. I’ve been looking forward to it. Rowena says your banquets are legendary.”

  “As are the scenes which follow,” he said, bending his arm for her to take. He shortened his stride to match hers so that she walked at a comfortable pace. “Tonight, you shall experience both. Tell me, have you had a chance to look at your photographs?”

  If not for the slight hitch in her step, he might never have known she was as affected by seeing them as he had been while taking them. She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever beheld. Not her face or her figure but her. Compassionate, caring, curious, daring. So incredibly resilient to have experienced something so traumatic, so devastating, then to rise like a phoenix from the ashes, reshaping herself into the strong yet tender woman that she was.

  “Um…yes,” she breathed. “I did. I, um, have.”

  “And what did you think?”

  She blushed becomingly. “Your photography is brilliant. Even the raw photos, without the crops and edits that people do, are stunning. I could hardly believe it was me. I looked so…so….”

  “Beautiful,” he murmured. “You are beautiful, my dear. Draped in silk or bound in jute. I’d love to do our next session with nothing to hide that incredible porcelain skin of yours.”

  “Nude?” she whispered, sounding as if she were turning it over in her mind, giving it serious consideration.

  “Gloriously.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh,” he repeated. “Oh, the things I could do to you then. Tie you up. Suspend you. Arrange your limbs and adjust your height to meet my needs, which have grown even greater in the time that we have been apart. If you do not want a foretaste, I suggest a less salient dinner topic, lest I yield to the temptation to spread you out like a banquet on the table and dine on your tenderest flesh.”

  “Oh, God.” This, on a telltale moan.

  “Breathe, Eleanor.”

  She inhaled on command and exhaled, shivering despite the warmth.

  He smiled. So responsive. So ripe. He’d been wise to make her wait.

  “Good girl. We have the entire night, hmm? Dining, dancing, and debauchery. I warn you now, I intend to corrupt you completely. Ah. Here we are.”

  The visiting Janeites hovered near the doors like a flock of gulls, adorned in garments that they had brought with them, making this one of the easier scenes he’d had to coordinate. The challenge was in finding enough men to look and play the part of a Regency Era male. He’d come up shorter in numbers than he liked, but several of the men were capable of handling multiple women. As for himself, he was dedicated to the pleasure of one.

  Eleanor had watched the social etiquette video while she was having her hair styled and acted accordingly at dinner, a model of elegance and grace. She stayed by his side as they mingled with Replay’s staff and guests, allowing him to claim her with his nearly constant touch. She seemed to react most when he placed his hand
on the exposed nape of her neck, or on her low back. It made him wonder if she was remembering how he’d guided her to the third floor’s Room Nine, his personal space, furnished to his specifications but rarely used.

  He had been waiting for someone like her to share it with him.

  No.

  He’d been waiting for her. Origami…

  They led the opening dance sequence, a promenade that was a staple of balls, public and private. A contredanse followed, with couples divided into lines of male and female, alternately pairing off with each other and with their neighbor’s partner as the music progressed. Third was the waltz, and she was a dream in his arms, floating across the floor like a vision, the feel of her even better than he remembered. This time when he wrapped her in his arms and held her, the move signaled a change in play, and dancing quickly shifted into the realms of daring and downright dirty. Breasts popped out. Buttocks were revealed and erotic spankings delivered across laps, against walls, even atop the pianoforte.

  Eleanor bit her lip, pressed her thighs together, and observed. Her cheeks crimsoned when one Janeite grew bold enough to shed her gown and kneel at the feet of the Dom he’d chosen to portray Mr. Darcy. Wickham joined them, and the two men took her mouth and pussy, then pussy and arse in a double penetration that had nearly everyone’s attention. Soon enough, most of the Janeites would strip down to experience the impact play, wax play, and sensory play common on this side of the resort.

  “What do you think, princess?” He bent to murmur in her ear. “Darcy and Wickham play well enough together, but Bingley is about to add himself to the mix. See how she reaches for him? See how she smiles, to have three men worship her body? What do you think is going through her mind?”

  When Eleanor did not answer, he looked and saw that her face was white as chalk.

  Piers scooped her up and carried her to a relatively quiet corner, away from the action. One look from him and the settee occupied by two of the shyer doves was immediately vacated for their use. He backed into it and sat, keeping her against his chest, sitting on his lap. “Breathe, Eleanor. Speak to me. Dear heart, I cannot help you if you do not tell me what is going on, what has affected you.”

  She broke free from her daze and looked at him. Her fine eyes, as troubled as his, glistened with the sheen of unshed tears. “I don’t know,” she whispered, shuddering. “I don’t know. I was watching the two of them. Then the three. Just as Bingley was joining them, someone walked by us, and suddenly…there was a scent. His cologne? I don’t know. I don’t know. I just…I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  She hung her head, looking very much like a little girl lost. “I hate them,” she confessed, balling her hands into fists. “I hated myself for a long time, too. For being there. For staying and somehow letting it happen. I had zero self esteem. At one point, I became suicidal. It took a bottle of aspirin, a trip to the ER, and a stay in the psych ward to break the cycle and get the help I needed. My biggest challenge after that was fighting the urge to punish myself for not going to the police.”

  Christ. She wouldn’t be the first person to not report a rape, but still….

  “They don’t know,” he said slowly, struggling to keep his anger in check.

  “No,” she said. “I was ashamed. I blamed myself. If I hadn’t gone. If I hadn’t taken a drink. If I’d paid more attention. If I’d fought harder. I’m pretty sure I was drugged. I don’t think I’d have lost consciousness after a beer and a shot, but I came to, bound on a bed, blindfolded and gagged, being ripped apart. If I’d gone to the police…I couldn’t even say who was at the party. The only one I knew by name was Mark, and I don’t know if he was even there at that point, or if he was, if he was one of them who—who touched me that night. I heard a story, after, though. Someone in the campus coffee shop, talking about how these guys had raised five thousand dollars in one night, selling ‘tickets to ride.’ They laughed about it, like it was the funniest thing.”

  “I’m taking you home,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I’ll have Samael fetch your things from wardrobe, then we are leaving. No arguments, princess. We are done here.”

  Samael was stunning in his livery, exotic creature that he was, a blend of Caucasian, Native American, and Filipino, beautifully submissive to Dominants of both genders. Summoned with a wave, he hastened away, headed for wardrobe and to arrange for their ride. Piers wasn’t letting go of Eleanor any time soon, not even for the five minutes it took to drive home.

  Piers carried her to the limousine and bundled her into the back, warding off the chill night air by opening his jacket, tucking her bare arms inside, and wrapping his arms around her. Classical music played softly through the stereo system, and he spoke of dancing, how much he enjoyed partnering her, how right she felt in his arms, how perfectly delightful she was.

  She fidgeted, as if signaling her disagreement with her body.

  “You are perfectly delightful when you dance, princess,” he reiterated. “That is not to say that you are perfect. Indeed, you are far removed from it at times. If you suffered once from poor self-esteem, you must understand that pride is now your downfall. You refuse to ask for help. You refuse to speak when I’ve given specific instructions to tell me immediately if anything is wrong. You say that you’ve punished yourself enough. Well, I say that more punishment is merited. Perhaps you’ll be obedient once you’ve been properly humbled, hmm?”

  She went still in his arms. Drawing a shaky breath, she let it out slowly, a thin thread that wafted between them, joining his inhalation and tethering them together.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You’ll be my good girl? Submit to your punishment and receive your reward?” He had planned to fuck her, during and after a bondage session. But the scenario was already changing, and he would have to play it by ear, see what she needed and what he could give.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  She wriggled this time, and he took heart. There would be punishment, followed by play. They had all night. There was no need to rush. Slow and steady, rough and ready. Such delightful differences to be explored.

  “Good girl.”

  The exterior of his home was a Tudor revival style house, built in the style of George Mason, the 19th century architect who designed, among other things, the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island. The downstairs was in keeping with the architecture, but the guest bedrooms and a handful of other rooms were decorated in unexpected ways. Open one door, and he would step into a French chateau, with furnishings worthy of Versailles. Another door, and guests would think they were in a castle, from the stone walls to the massive fireplace, one of twelve that had to be maintained in his home. Descending to the basement level, to the right was a game room and bar, a safe room, and, further down, areas for storage, utilities, and electricals. To the left was a wine cellar, a playroom nearly identical to his Room Nine at Replay, and the bamboo-beamed dojo where he did Aikido sword and kinbaku, traditional Japanese rope bondage.

  He could have taken Eleanor to his bedroom or the dojo, but she was slowly emerging from the shock she’d received, thrown back into the horrific past by a mere fragrance. The playroom, at least, would feel familiar, hopefully engendering more pleasant memories of last week when they had used it.

  He’d brought her to a climax then and denied himself the pleasure of her body. Tonight, he intended to see that both their needs were met.

  “Here we are,” Piers murmured as he set her on her feet. “I need you naked for this, princess.”

  Chapter Eight

  Elly agreed to everything he asked of her.

  Everything.

  The ropes. The discipline. The suspension. The sex.

  Sweet baby Jesus. The sex.

  They weren’t there yet. Maybe not even close. Rowena had warned her that he took his time, that he drove subs wild. But he didn’t really have a sub. He used them as models, demonstrated with them. Maybe, occasionally, had sex with them, but he seemed to have focuse
d his interest on her like a laser. She was caught in its blinding brilliance with nowhere to hide, nowhere to go, bound as she was, suspended from a bamboo beam.

  This time, she was naked.

  The ropes weren’t tight enough to cut circulation, but he changed her position often enough to minimize the pressure where her weight rested on them. He’d ordered her to warm up and stretch before they started. Now he was folding her body like a sheet of rice paper, into shapes that pleased him and tormented her. He’d crafted a girdle, and every shift of the ropes pressed against her clit and coaxed more moisture from her. When he said he’d punish her, she’d been thinking a spanking or flogging, not shibari, rope bondage traditionally done to torment captives. Her breasts were bound and ultra sensitive; he’d attached nipple clamps as well. The chain between them dangled free of her rope bindings, and he’d give it an occasional tug, sending a searing jolt to her core that made her even wetter.

  The ropes shifted and she found herself partly inverted, with her legs higher than her head. He adjusted the height and placed himself in front of her, his groin mere inches from her mouth. He’d discarded his Regency clothes for a pair of loose black martial arts pant. His feet were bare, and his chest. God, his chest. With sculpted pecs, tight abs, and chest hair trimmed to reveal every plane and curve, it was worthy of a cinema sex god.

  This one was determined to bend her to his will.

  “Please,” she whispered, desperate for him to get on with it. She wanted his cock, and he was taking his sweet time giving it to her.