Holding Hannah (Masters of The Castle)

by Maren Smith

  “You’re not sick,” he murmured, caressing her hair, her clit, her pussy all at once.

  “What am I then?” She begged.

  “I’ll show you.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  What the hell was he doing?

  Sam gathered her clothes, fished her car keys out of her jeans pocket and into his, and then stuffed the rest of her things into his bag. He’d unclipped her cuffs long enough to put his shirt on her, then he’d clipped them again, in front of her now, rather than behind. She looked good in his shirt. She was small, practically swimming in it.

  Yeah, she looked good.

  And he was an idiot, because he was about to break the number one self-imposed Dom rule that he had, up until tonight, never broken for anyone. Ever.

  “What are you doing?” Marshall asked from the stall doorway.

  He had no idea. He just hoped it wasn’t the biggest mistake of his life. “Think Don’s home yet?”

  Marshall checked his watch. “Probably. Unless he’s gearing up to come here tonight. Nice deflection, but it’s not going to work. What are you doing?”

  “She’ll be gone before you guys get home.”

  “Uh huh,” Marshall grunted, unconvinced.

  Fuck him. Finished packing, Sam shouldered his bag and turned from his friend, his business partner—technically his boss, depending on who was asked (Marshall almost always claimed the boss role; he could be a real ass that way). Hannah was standing as silent as a shadow, her eyes huge and uncertain, but when he held out his hand, she came to him.

  “Can’t I get dressed?” she asked.

  “No.” He took her by the elbow and led her from the stall, past Marshall, who threw up his hands.

  “Lay down a tarp,” was all he said. “I think there’s still an extra in the back of my truck.”

  Hannah’s eyes got even bigger. She looked at him again, warily now. “Why do we need a tarp?”

  “We don’t.” Someone really needed to tell her not to look at Doms that way. A vanilla man might fall all over himself to reassure and comfort her; to Sam, those were bedroom fuck-me eyes if ever he’d seen one.

  “Does he think I’m going to cut myself in your house?” And just like that, she was back on the verge of tears all over again. He sincerely hoped he never got his hands on whatever thoughtless idiot had so badly shaken her sense of worth and security. He was a man well known for his self-control, but he doubted he could ever have enough to keep from leaving them bleeding on the floor.

  “No.” Sam headed for the old barn door, his hand on her elbow guiding her along beside him. “He thinks I am.”

  “You cut yourself?”

  He snorted. “No.” The humidity outside felt clammy, but somewhat cooler than the temperature inside the barn. He couldn’t wait until the Castle (with its fully piped air conditioning) was in operation.

  “B-but—” Hannah stopped both walking and talking when he did. “I don’t under—Oh!”

  Dropping his bag in the doorway, Sam turned on her and bent down. She yelped when he hooked the back of her legs, tipping her right down over his shoulder and heaving her right up off her bare feet. “Behave yourself,” he said, jostling her until she was securely in place and then picking up his bag again.

  “What are you—”

  “There’s sharp sticks and thistles in the grass.” He headed out into the night toward where she’d parked her car.

  He did not stop by Marshall’s truck first. He did not get the tarp.

  “First thing on Monday, you’re going to schedule an appointment with your doctor.” He searched through the grass parking lot for a vehicle he couldn’t automatically match to any other members. He found one, a dark little four door that looked to be at least fifteen years past its warranty. “This yours?” he asked, fishing her keys out of his pocket.

  She rose up, trying to see first over his shoulder and then under his arm. “Yes, but why?”

  “You’re going to get a full physical and blood work-up done. I want the results in my hand as soon as you get them.”

  “What—”

  “Hold still.” He unlocked the passenger door, swept his foot back and forth across the ground a few times, and then bent to set her down. He kept hold of her elbow. “Watch your head.”

  “Hey—”

  Planting a hand on top of her head, he guided her down into the passenger seat and leaned in to fasten her seat belt. “Watch the door.”

  He shut it before she could do more than open her mouth to protest. He walked around to the driver’s side.

  “Can I please finish a sentence?” she snipped peevishly the instant he settled behind the wheel.

  “Sure.” He stuck the key in the ignition and started the car. “Have you ever had anal sex?”

  Her mouth dropped open, then promptly closed again. “No.”

  “I’m partial to it, both for pleasure and for punishment. If you’re going to be with me, you may as well get used to the idea now. But since I plan to introduce you to a lot of new things tonight, unless you decide to be uncooperative, we’ll save that particular first time for another night.”

  There she went again, staring across the car at him with those sexy/wary bedroom eyes and her mouth gaping open. “Um…”

  “Do you know what figging is?” Hooking his arm across the backs of her seat, he backed the car out of its space.

  “Why do we need a tarp, why do you want my medical records, and there is no way you’ll ever convince me to combine sex with fruit. Ever.”

  Switching gears, Sam laughed and shook his head. “First, figging involves a ginger root, not an actual fig. And second, we’re going to pass right by a Walmart Supercenter on the way home. Take that tone with me again and I’ll not only stop for the biggest, thickest, ripest piece of ginger root I can find, but a banana too and we’ll just see where you, fruit and sex still stand by the time I’m done with you.”

  She fidgeted, but managed not to say another word as they bumped and jostled their way out of the field. She eyed him once or twice, but didn’t manage to find her tongue again until the car was once more on paved blacktop. “Why do we need a tarp, sir?”

  Sam smiled. “Tenacious. I like that. The tarp was offered on the off chance that I’d want to cut you tonight. But that’s not going to happen,” he said gently, leading her along with a teasing, “because…?”

  She thought a moment. “Because you want to make sure I’m healthy and don’t have AIDs?”

  “Close enough.”

  “It’s really hard to get comfortable with my hands bound like this.”

  “It’s only a few miles more.”

  She fidgeted again, now and then glancing at him when she thought he couldn’t see it. “I shouldn’t have gone home with you,” she finally said.

  Sam didn’t take offense. “No, you shouldn’t have. And if you ever do something this risky with anyone other than me, I’ll bust a paddle across your ass.”

  “I don’t know a thing about you.”

  “You know the important things.”

  “I know you like to pull hair and have a fruit fetish.” There was that peevishness again.

  Sam had to work at hiding his smile. He glanced in the rearview to make sure there were no cars behind him. The road was dark as far as he could see in either direction. He hit the blinker and pulled over onto the gravel side of the road.

  “Is this where you live?” Hannah asked, peering out the surrounding cattle pasture. “I don’t see any houses.”

  “That’s because there aren’t any.” He put the car in park and got out. Strolling around to her side, he opened up the back and dug her jeans out of his bag. Folding them twice, he dropped them on the gravel right outside her door.

  “What are you doing?” she asked nervously when he opened her car door as wide as it would go and leaned in to unbuckle her.

  “Watch your feet.” He took her arm and placed his hand on top of her head to protect her from accidenta
lly bumping it as he helped her out. “Stand on your pants.”

  “Why?” She locked her legs, resisting when he turned her, but it wasn’t enough to stop him from tucking her up under his arm or pinning her bent across his hip. “No, wait! Sir, please!”

  His shirt offered nothing in the way of padding, but he tucked it up under her squirming hands, leaving her pale bottom completely exposed and softly illuminated in the yellow of the car’s courtesy light. He didn’t leave her waiting; that glimpse of peevish temper had already melted away, leaving her both looking and sounding scared. Sam didn’t want her scared of him. He wanted her respectful, comfortable, maybe now and then even a little bit wary, particularly when—like now—he was in a playful mood. Playful, however, did not mean he was willing to put up with attitude. So, he gave her a little taste of what she—knowingly or not—had been asking for; he spanked her.

  Ask any other sub at the Sanctuary, and they would cheerfully pronounce that what he gave Hannah right then and there was little more than love taps. He barely put a rosy hue on her pretty little bottom cheeks; to listen to Hannah, one would think he’d skinned her alive. He half expected her to come up off his hip fighting mad, either because she really was outraged or (in the case of some submissives) because she wanted him to finish the job and do it right. Hannah came up like a smacked puppy, bouncing a cute little dance meant to waggle out some of the sting and only folding herself into his arms and burrowing against his chest because he was bigger and stronger and that’s where he pulled her.

  “You’re okay,” he mused, holding her for as long as she seemed to need and letting go only when she sniffled and finally pulled away. He tucked her back into the car, buckled her in again and the rest of the ride was made in near total silence. It wasn’t until he was pulling into the driveway of the rental house he shared with five other Doms (each of whom had poured every penny he owned into the Castle project) that she sniffled and said, “He’s not going to give you the permits.”

  Sam didn’t need to ask who she meant. “I know.”

  He took the keys out of the ignition and was about to get out when, very softly, she said, “Master Sam, can I ask you something?”

  One hand on the handle, he turned back to look at her and waited.

  “Was that a hard spanking? The one you gave me?”

  As if there could any doubt as to what she’d meant.

  He tried not to smile, wanting to take her question with all the seriousness she seemed to think it required. “Not even close.”

  He started to get out, but she stopped him again. “Sir?”

  Again, he paused.

  She squirmed in her seat, grinding her bottom against the cushion, no doubt feeling the faint sting and heat he’d put there and trying to nerve herself up to ask the question he could already sense lurking between them.

  “W-would you spank me very hard if…if I needed it?”

  “Every single time,” he said promptly. “Even if you didn’t think you needed it. And, like tonight, even when you need it and I disagree on the reason why. That was just a taste, Hannah. We’re going to go inside now and don’t worry, when it’s done, you won’t have to ask again if that was hard.”

  He nodded to show he meant it and, leaving her to think that over, got out of the car. He came around to her side, opened the door and reached in to unbuckle her.

  “Sam?” She whispered it so softly, he almost didn’t hear her. He pulled back far enough to meet her uncertain eyes. She bit her bottom lip. “Do you still want to have sex with me?”

  Pulling the seatbelt out from between them, he braced himself against the back of her chair and caught her chin in his hand. He smiled. “With or without the fruit.”

  * * * * *

  The next day, Hannah spent most of the morning looking for reason not to have to sit at her desk. She couldn’t. Her bottom was so sore. Even more unbelievably, Sam had only used his hand—only his very broad, very thick, very hard hand, and that only after he’d shown her his rather formidable collection of spanking paraphernalia. He seemed to like paddles. A lot. He had all kinds. Rubber, leather, wood. He had ones with studs in them. Others had holes, and still others had stenciled designs, including one with the words ‘Bad Girl’ cut in such a way as to leave said impression on whomever, he assured her, required such labeling. He’d offered to show her; she had very politely declined.

  A short time later, with him seated on a straight-backed chair in the middle of the kitchen and her completely naked, with the cuffs on her ankles clipped to the cuffs on her wrists, one strong-armed strike at a time, Sam showed her with exquisite and agonizing thoroughness that he didn’t need any of those things to take her through every imaginable level of absolute hell.

  Hannah hadn’t known she had a sit spot, but she knew it now. He’d introduced her to that aspect of her anatomy over the course of three separate lessons that spanned the longest forty minutes of her life. The first had been for her little mistakes and misbehaviors at the Sanctuary. Those had been the easiest to endure with the ten minutes of corner time that followed, frankly, being the worst part. Then had come her hard spanking request and real hell, and then comfort wrapped so tightly in the arms of the man who’d administered it, followed by an even longer stint in the corner with her hands on her head and her bottom throbbing and blazing so blisteringly hot that it felt as if she were standing backed up against a roaring fire.

  The last lesson had been for rubbing when she thought he couldn’t see her and for averting her eyes when he told her to look at him, and it was amplified and made so much worse because when he pulled her back across his knees, she’d fought him—his hold and his authority—forcing him to wrestle her down over his knees and clip her wrists and ankles all over again. Because her bottom was already showing signs of bruising, he’d spanked the backs of her thighs and kept right on spanking until she was crying so hard she could barely breathe.

  But afterwards, curled up in his lap with her head on his shoulder, her tears still drying on her face, and his spanking hand softly stroking her hair and back, all Hannah could remember feeling—beyond, of course, the bonfire blaze of a bottom so sore she couldn’t even stand to move—was better. A kind of better like she hadn’t felt in ten very long days.

  “Hey! Are you asleep over there?”

  Hannah jumped and nearly dropped the short stack of papers she’d been in the process of photocopying. She looked back at Goodson, standing impatiently in the open doorway.

  “I’m sorry?” she said, hoping like hell none of what she had been thinking showed on her face. Or worse, that he might somehow, magically, know what had happened last night. She tried to stand normally, as if every movement that affected her bottom and thigh muscles didn’t hurt like hell.

  “I said, coffee. Two creams, one sugar.”

  Fetching his coffee was not in her job description and it sprang right to the tip of her tongue to remind him of that. But she didn’t. She put the papers down instead and he walked away, down the hall and into his office.

  Big, dumb, misogynistic jerk.

  She went to the breakroom and, obediently—look how obedient, Sam would be so proud—

  His spanking hand, playing in her hair.

  Last night’s seductive murmur, “Get up, little sub, let’s go upstairs…”

  —and mixed up his coffee. The cream got it a little too full. She had to carry it carefully down the hall to his office, but every step hurt so she wasn’t moving too swift anyway. Goodson was on the phone when she arrived. When she set the coffee on his desk, he glanced up long enough to hand her another stack of papers.

  “Fax,” he mouthed.

  She nodded and was almost to the door before she glanced down and realized what she was carrying. The final rejection of the licenses and permits the Castle required to operate legally in this county. Sam’s dream…his hard work…his money…

  Stopping, Hannah stared helplessly down at them. Under the thin surface of her
skirt, her bottom throbbed.

  Finishing his call, Goodson hung up the phone. “Something wrong?”

  “No.” She started out the door again, feeling sick just for having to carry these papers. She made it halfway to the fax machine before her feet disconnected from her brain, turned and marched her right back into his office. “Yes, actually,” she said, dropping the forms back on his desk. “Something is wrong. This is wrong.”

  He blinked twice, his expression melting into something both sly and amused. “What do you mean? You don’t think what they’re doing, these peddlers of the flesh—degrading women, poisoning the minds and bodies of the people they trick into visiting that castle—you don’t think any of that is wrong?”

  “What they do is none of anybody’s business but theirs!” Her voice began to rise. “There wasn’t one single violation—”

  “Don’t you bark at me, Ms. Alder,” he snapped. “I run this—”

  “Fiefdom?” she snapped right back, the anger inside her growing almost as hot as her bottom was. She could feel herself beginning to shake.

  Goodson came up out of his chair, planted his hands on his desk and leaned toward her. “That’s right. And don’t you forget it. My office, my jurisdiction, my rules—let’s put things back into proper prospective, shall we? I am your boss, and you are the charity case I agreed to take in because your uncle couldn’t think of any place else to put you after your little stunt back home.”

  Hannah flinched as if he’d just taken a swing at her, and a look of supreme satisfaction moved over him.

  “Yes, I know about that. Three days in the psych-ward must not have been enough if all it takes is one hour in the company of those devils to turn you—”

  “You don’t have the right to reject them just because you don’t agree with what they do!”

  “The hell I don’t!” He barked hard laugher. “I am God, Ms. Alder, remember?” He picked up the stack of papers and slapped them down hard directly in front of her. “You have a choice: you can either fax these forms over to Abigail and see them filed before the end of the day, or you can take your scrawny little ass the hell out of my—”