Naughty Wishes Part IV

by Joey W. Hill

  After she'd punished Roy over a spanking bench with a paddle or flogger until he climaxed, Athena would make him stretch out fully on the bench. She'd bring him back down to earth with a slow massage of his broad shoulders and back, his firm buttocks.

  Setting her drink on a shelf, she bent to pick up the glove. She told herself she did it so it wouldn't be in the way, so that the Master wouldn't step on it, but as she held it, she couldn't resist slipping it over her hand. The glove had retained the heat of his body. She imagined how it had emanated through the thin outer layer, adding to the burn as he slapped Willow's ass.

  The man straightened and looked over his shoulder at her. The SEALs at her dinner party had registered the slightest shift of the other guests in the same way, particularly at the entry and exit points, or if a guest made an unexpected movement, as she'd just done. Now his gaze fell on her hand, covered in his glove.

  Her cheeks flushed, but rather than prompting her to pull it off, his look made her fingers curl over it. Vaguely, she thought she should apologize, because she might be disrupting his session, but speaking wasn't allowed. Plus, she wasn't sure if she'd offended him. His body language gave nothing away. The dim light obscured his gaze, but she wondered if she was right, if his eyes were dark blue. Or maybe hazel, that intriguing gray-gold-green color.

  At some point, she wasn't simply meeting his gaze; she was caught in it. Wishes, inarticulate needs, things so contained she wasn't sure she could move for fear of eruption, seemed to rise up to a perilous level inside her. She wanted to tell him something, tell him everything, but she had no idea what. Or even how to start.

  Some shocking part of her wanted to sink to her knees, wait until his other gloved hand touched her face, lifted her chin. He'd command her to take Willow's place on the frame and send her soaring as well.

  Jimmy's jaw would drop at that, for sure.

  Retrieving her drink, she turned away, leaving the room. Aftercare was personal, intimate. It had been her favorite part of the sessions with Roy. Even though this Master and Willow were in a public club environment, Athena didn't have a desire to intrude on that. It made too many things hurt.

  It wasn't until she'd left the room that she realized she was still wearing the glove. She took it off, left it on a drink table next to the archway leading into the Fortress, where he'd be sure to find it. She had to suppress a strong urge to keep it. She wanted to sleep with it on her pillow, her cheek against it. She wanted to put it back on her hand, rub it between her legs the way he'd massaged Willow, and imagine him whispering in her ear. Come for me.

  When she put her cup on the bar, Jimmy gave her a knowing look. "The new guy's something, isn't he? He's been really popular with the lowercase ladies."

  Athena offered a faint smile at his reference to female submissives. When submissives wrote their names on the guest logs, most of them, even those who used their actual first names, wrote them in lowercase. Willow would be willow. Only Masters and Mistresses had capitalized names.

  "He won't play with men?"

  "No. To the eternal disappointment of those of us with bi or queer tendencies." Jimmy winked. He was bisexual and a switch on top of that, though she knew his preference was submissive. "But I'm not sure I'd call what he does play. He goes at it with a singular intensity, like he's performing a religious rite. You hear about that happening, but rarely see it in action. Not to the level he does it. You should come in one night, see him do it from beginning to end. The way he prepares himself, lays out what he'll use. That's why we've taken to calling him Master Craftsman--MC. He said he thought we were comparing him to a Sears department store. Solid quality but something most folks sadly consider outdated. That part didn't seem to bother him. In fact, I think he took it as a compliment."

  Jimmy flashed a grin. "Oh, and on the straight versus gay thing, he told me he doesn't mind watching some Mistress-girl action."

  Athena made a wry face. "That's every straight man's fantasy, Jimmy. You know that."

  "Yeah. Isn't it peculiar how many religions get worked up over two guys going at it, but they don't say diddly about two women?"

  "Just proves men wrote religious texts."

  "No argument there." Jimmy chuckled. "I bet MC would have enjoyed the heck out of that thing you orchestrated for Roy's last birthday."

  She'd put Roy on that same frame that Willow was on now. She'd wrapped his arms, legs and torso with multiple bindings so that he could barely move. Then she lay down on a divan several feet in front of him. Marsha, a submissive who liked being commanded to do oral on men or women, had lent Athena her services that night. She'd put her soft lips between Athena's legs, curled her pretty hands around her thighs and brought Athena to climax while Roy watched. When she was done, Athena ordered Marsha on her knees in front of Roy to service him the same way while Athena watched, standing behind her. After she'd given him permission to come, Roy had gushed into the cherry-chocolate flavored condom Marsha was sucking.

  Marsha had been thanked and dismissed, and then Athena had shifted behind him, laid her cheek on Roy's back. Listening to his breath go in and out, absorbing the shudder of his body through her own, she'd been captivated by what she'd done to him. He'd been hers, but she'd been his, too. Had he realized that? She missed having a man look at her with pure ownership in his eyes. Very much.

  "I'm calling it a night, Jimmy. Thanks for the drink."

  "Sure thing. Don't stay away so long next time. And hey . . . I mean, if Dillon and Seth don't interest you, I'm another option. Just give me a heads-up and I'll make sure I'm not on shift here."

  "Thanks, I appreciate that. You're a good friend." The sudden flash of male interest made her uncomfortable, however. Perhaps sensing it, he waved his hand dismissively. "I'm a guy, Lady Mistress. You know it's a selfish offer. A lot of us would love to experience what Roy did. You're an amazing Domme."

  How would he react if he knew she wanted to go to her knees for a Dom she'd just seen for the first time? Jimmy's innocuous and honest proposal made her want to flee. Not wishing to hurt his feelings, she gave him a distant smile, shaking her head to deflect the compliment, then took her leave.

  The club was on the second level of a warehouse in an industrial area, so she took a set of stairs down to the first level. They had a volunteer at a table just inside the entrance door. He served as an informal security guard, keeping an eye on the cars in the parking lot. She nodded to him, pushing open the door.

  Her dark blue BMW was close to the entrance, and she unlocked it, slipped in behind the wheel, closed the door. Embracing that personal cocoon, a haven from questions and the outside world, she tried to shrug off her confusing emotions. Jimmy's suggestion had stabbed something down deep inside her. Something that rose up with astonishing firmness and proclaimed never again. She'd been a Mistress to Roy alone.

  Yet she wasn't done with this, was she? The sense that she belonged in this world kept drawing her back. She just didn't know how to change her role in it, or if she really wanted to change, or if she was just confused. Sometimes the simplest thing was best. Perhaps it was time to cut it out of her life. Bury it as she had her husband. Metaphorically, since he was cremated.

  When she keyed the ignition, she saw she had less than a quarter tank of gas left. Enough to get home, but tomorrow she'd be heading to the Garden Club meeting, so it would be more convenient to get gas tonight. She should have thought about it earlier, but lately she'd been more forgetful about those kinds of things. Suppressing a sigh, she glanced across the street. There was a twenty-four-hour, credit-card-only station there. Despite the late hour, since she was across from the club entrance, it should be safe enough to put in a few gallons.

  She cut across the quiet street. After she processed her credit card and inserted the pump into the BMW to start fueling, an old Cadillac pulled into the aisle across from hers. The two men driving didn't look particularly reputable, but in New Orleans, that didn't necessarily signify danger.

>   She was merely annoyed, not alarmed, when the driver approached her. He was probably going to try and bum a few dollars off of her. As she unhooked the gas pump from her tank, put it back in its slot, the other man emerged from the Caddy, circled around to the other side of her car.

  In hindsight, she knew she should have jumped in the car at the first sight of them, locked the doors and laid down on the horn. The club volunteer was at the proper angle to view the parking lot, but he wouldn't be looking toward the gas station unless something drew his attention there, like a blaring horn. It might have been an overreaction if they meant her no harm, but it would be better than what she was facing now.

  Hindsight never really did anyone much good, did it? She should have filled up earlier. She needed to give herself a firm scolding for that. Unbidden, she imagined "MC" giving her that scolding, and received a shiver up her spine at the mere thought.

  What was the matter with her? Two men had her hemmed in at her car, and yet she seemed caught in a fog, her natural adrenaline reaction clogged. Her response to their threat was perilously slow. Almost apathetic.

  "Give me your credit card and whatever cash you're carrying. As well as that sparkly ring you're wearing." The driver seemed laid-back, almost conversational about it. Not even particularly aggressive, but then, he didn't need to be. The look in his eyes told her he'd done violence before, and wouldn't hesitate to do it again. "C'mon, bitch. Just give 'em to me and you can go back to your fancy life, order a couple hundred more credit cards."

  Of course. Because like all rich people, I simply pull money out of my ass by magic, not hard work. She was smart enough not to say it, but she met his gaze squarely. "No."

  The punch in the face was unexpected, jarring. As the world reeled, she thought of the masked man smacking Willow's ass. It had been intended to provoke pleasure as much as pain. This was simple violence, the companion to hate and resentment and all the things that made a person not care what they were doing to another. As a result, a matching response boiled up inside her.

  She might have screamed in rage, she wasn't sure. All she knew was she flew at the young man with nails and teeth. She was a small woman in her forties with no fighting skills, so it would be nothing for him to beat her into the ground, but she didn't stop pummeling at him, no matter how ineffectually. His second blow caught her on the temple and she staggered. She was vaguely aware of the other one opening her car door to yank out her purse. She lunged at him and the driver shoved her against the gas pump, the handles jamming into her lower back.

  "Stop fighting," he snapped impatiently.

  He'd caught her hand, was wrenching at her rings. The engagement ring Roy had given her at a soiree with her family and friends. The twenty-year anniversary band. The plain gold wedding band. His mistake was he was trying to work all three off together, and her knuckles were not the same as they'd been at twenty-one, when Roy had placed two of them there. She screamed in rage, for help, to be noticed, to stop him. She also kicked at him, dropping to the ground so he had to follow her, practically roll with her as she curled around the rings like she was protecting a child.

  He grabbed hold of her hair. Again she was struck with the contrast, the way the Master had seized Willow's hair to drag her head back. This man was going to smash her face against the raised concrete dais. She'd be another NOLA crime statistic.

  Instead, he was yanked off her and slung back over her car. He hit the hood with a resounding thump, fell off. The BMW might need body work. A flurry of violent activity ensued, punctuated by male swearing. A cry followed a sound like breadsticks being snapped. Then there was a scramble, the two men running back to their car, one limping and the other holding his arm against himself. The Caddy sped away, the driver shouting obscenities out the window, his eyes wild, spooked.

  She was trying to get up, but a large hand closed over her shoulder, keeping her down. "Easy, let's take this slow. See what's what." When he tried to uncurl her hands from her chest, she was too disoriented. She made a noise between angry protest and pleading.

  "It's all right. I'm not going to hurt you or take anything from you, I promise."

  It was his rumbling tone that brought things into focus. The man in the Caddy had tried to take her rings, not this man. This man was trying to help her.

  He gently manacled her wrist, using his hold on it and the arm he slid behind her shoulders to help her sit up on the concrete island. He unfolded her legs so they were stretched out in front of her. She blinked, bemused when he guided her calf so one ankle was crossed over the other. A ladylike pose, rather than sprawled ignominy. It helped.

  "You okay?"

  She focused. "Your eyes aren't dark blue."

  Maybe it was because she was still fuzzy, but she had an impression of several colors. Green at the bottom of the iris, melding into blue at the top. A center ring of gold around the pupil. She knew it was him, not just because of the black T-shirt and jeans and his build, but because of that unique stamp to him. He barely seemed winded after dispatching the two men.

  Her gaze shifted to his hair. It was charcoal colored, with a handsome peppering of gray. She suspected he was a little older than her, maybe late forties. She really had wanted to see his face, and now that she'd been granted her wish, she was having trouble focusing on it. She locked her attention on that granite jaw. That, and his touch, made good anchor points to help her steady. The heat of his palms on her arms was so much better than what she'd felt when she'd slipped her fingers into his glove. She wanted him to keep them there.

  "Answer my question, Athena. Are you okay?"

  "Yes. Just bumps and bruises." Her vision had only blurred when she was hit, so she didn't think she had a concussion. Her cheek had hit the cement, not her skull. She'd have quite a story to tell at the Garden Club luncheon. She'd make them laugh by telling them it was due to an unfortunate run-in with her rebellious rosebushes. She didn't think they'd laugh if she told them it was because of an attempted mugging outside her favorite BDSM club. "It was just a shock to be hit that way."

  "Yeah. That's usually the first hurdle in combat training. Understanding you're going to get hit in hand-to-hand, and you can't flinch from it. You didn't flinch at all."

  "I'd like to say it was bravery, but I simply didn't expect it."

  "Most people don't expect someone to do that to them. Not if it's never happened before. If you had some training, I think you'd have kicked that bastard's ass."

  "Thank you. A nice way of saying I fight like a girl. Would you mind helping me up?"

  He rested his hand on her knee, drawing her attention to the fact that one was knocking against the other. Until he touched it, and then it stilled, with an uncertain quiver. "Let's sit here for another minute or two."

  He was sitting next to her, which would ordinarily be pleasant, but the location wasn't.

  "I'd like to at least move to my car," she said. "This isn't a very comfortable or aromatic position. The gas smell's a little overpowering."

  "Aromatic?" His lips quirked, and they were handsome and firm. "No wonder they call you Lady Mistress. All right, then. Point taken. You're going to lean on me, though. No arguments."

  It wasn't the only reason they called her that. She was Athena Francesca Summers, born of old Southern money, married to Roy "Rocket" Summers. She'd been at his side for over twenty years as the two of them expanded and increased the success of the company he started, Summers Industries, which was now a multinational corporation that also employed thousands domestically. On top of that, she was practically a professional volunteer fund-raiser for various high-profile New Orleans charities.

  Though most at Club Release hadn't known her true identity in the beginning, it wasn't hard to figure out as time went on, since photographs of her and Roy regularly showed up in the business and social columns. Club Release was known for its exclusive membership and small size, which was one of the reasons Roy had chosen it, despite more upscale fetish club choices in
the New Orleans area, like the nearby Club Progeny.

  There was no shame in a Southern lady leaning on a handsome male rescuer, but even if there had been, she would have had little choice. Despite the odd calmness of her mind, her legs couldn't support her weight. However, he did more than let her lean. When she expected him to open her driver's side door, instead he bent, slid his arms beneath her and lifted her off her feet. He walked around to the passenger side, letting her down there before he opened the door.

  Roy hadn't been a weakling, but she could count on one hand the times he'd carried her. Worried he might throw out his back, she'd insist he put her down, even though she'd hold on to his neck as she fussed. When he did put her down, she'd compliment his show of manly strength, laughing at the mischief in his brown eyes. Lord, she missed that man's sense of humor.

  She leaned against the frame of the door, swamped by the feeling. A near mugging could do that, remind a woman of the practicalities she faced when her husband was dead and no close family lived in the area. No one was directly involved in her day-to-day well-being. Had she even updated her emergency contact numbers in her purse or at the house? If she'd been seriously hurt, would the emergency room have tried to find Roy?

  Oh, for heaven's sake. She wasn't going to fall into this self-pitying drivel. She'd update it tomorrow, choose one of her many friends to be primary contact. None of those friends knew about this part of her life, though. They'd have no clue why she was pumping gas in the middle of the night in a part of town none of them frequented. It didn't really matter, did it? If she needed an emergency contact, she expected discretion wouldn't be high on her list of priorities.

  She noticed her purse was on the edge of the seat, straps dangling to the floorboards, her lipstick a glittering tube of silver on the carpet. It suggested the other man had gotten no further than that in pulling her bag from the car. The one responsible for thwarting him stood at her back, close enough for her to feel his heat. His hand was just above hers on the frame as he waited her out.

  She had a sudden desire to slide her hand up over his, hold on tight, feel that human contact. If he turned his hand to clasp hers, she'd experience firsthand the restrained strength he'd used when he brought that cane down on Willow's flanks, and then again when he'd slid his hand down her bare body, fingers decisively capturing her clit, pushing her over the edge. One more small step, and he'd be as close to Athena as he'd been to his bound submissive.