AtHerCommand

by Marcia James

  Jesus, I’m getting hooked on Tori. It feels so good to give up control, not to have to be the tough guy for once. At the end of the session, I’m finally allowed to climax. It’s an orgasm so intense, so prolonged, it’s indescribable.

  How could the whippings and other abuse Jason had described be pleasurable? Sure, Dalton was curious about the whole scene, but no way in hell would he have sought out Mistress Tori to satisfy that curiosity. Men were meant to be dominant and no macho cop worth his salt would willingly give up control. But he’d do whatever it took to avenge Jason.

  I’ll treat this as if it’s a big joke, Dalton decided. Some campy fun with a stranger. After all, he’d been beaten-up by gang members, shot by a robber and even “interrogated” by a drug dealer. He could handle a little kinky role-playing. No matter what Mistress Bella did, he’d stay focused on the job. All that mattered was finding Jason’s killers.

  * * * * *

  “Holy cannoli.” Domino spit out her Italian grandmother’s favorite curse when she saw who awaited her. From her spot outside the employees’ entrance to S&M Room Five, she observed her first client through the two-way mirror. The guy was huge. He looked like a refugee from the World Wrestling Entertainment, not some wimp who got his jollies being dominated.

  A nervous laugh escaped her. Heck, she’d need a stepladder to “top” this man. With trepidation, Dom watched the intimidating client stalk around the room, examining the different bondage machines and discipline instruments.

  He had to be close to six-five with the impressive shoulders and chest of a linebacker. There was an arrogance and overt maleness about this man that had been lacking in the clientele she’d witnessed as Tori’s apprentice. Damn. The butterflies in Domino’s stomach were now competing with sexual appreciation.

  She could count the number of lovers she’d had on one hand—okay, three fingers—but she was a sucker for large, muscular men. Get a grip. If this man was here as an S&M client, he couldn’t be her type. Besides, she wasn’t exactly free to walk up to him and say, “I’m not really a dominatrix, you see, but your friendly, neighborhood DEA agent. Would you like to do dinner sometime?” So Dom ignored her instant attraction and took an objective look at her client.

  The man stopped in front of the cabinet holding the vibrators and other sexual paraphernalia. A daunting scowl darkened his face and made it difficult to determine if he was as attractive as Domino had first thought. The fleece-lined handcuffs in particular seemed to capture his attention.

  He appeared to want to touch the items but kept his large hands curled into fists at his sides. Hmmm, self-disciplined. In a few minutes, she’d take over that job. Right. She was supposed to dominate this hulking male? Suddenly Baby Bob didn’t seem so unappealing.

  Concentrate. You can do this. Domino forced herself to start the process she’d been taught, beginning with the clipboard the attendant had handed her. The client was a company president identified as “Dalton C.” An initial versus a last name was the club’s way of protecting the not-so-innocent. According to the paperwork, this session was the man’s first time at the club so his specific “needs” had yet to be established. Apparently Mr. C. wanted a walk on the wild side.

  She glanced through the mirror again. The man, who looked in his mid-thirties, was now studying the arm and leg restraints attached to the padded horse. Light eyes, possibly a steely blue, stared out of a granite-jawed face that needed a shave. His crooked nose had seen a few punches in its day, she’d bet, and his full lips were unsmiling. Conservative, expensive clothes—a short-sleeved shirt and khaki pants—accommodated his build but he’d skipped socks with his loafers. A dichotomy, professional and rebel, from his toes to the reddish-brown hair that seemed too shaggy for corporate America.

  As she watched, Dalton C.’s perceptive eyes swept the room before focusing for several long beats on the two-way mirror. Dom froze. He couldn’t see her but still she held her breath. A shudder of something like recognition coursed through her. It’s him. Logically, Domino knew she’d never met the man but her soul clamored to contradict her. She felt a pull that went deeper than physical attraction.

  Her mind flashed on a memory from her lonely teen years. Her grandmother had ladled out advice with her pasta sauce, reassuring a dateless Dominique that her time would come. Nonno Petracelli had sworn her granddaughter would know her sconosciuto cara—her soulmate—when she found him. Dom shook off the memory. Sentimental nonsense.

  She leaned closer to the mirror and tried to recapture her objectivity. Dalton C. was simply a client. Domino couldn’t see any jewelry on him, including on his ring finger, but that didn’t guarantee there wasn’t a Mrs. C. somewhere. And what did it matter if this man were married or not?

  So what if he looked like a poster boy for testosterone. He was just a company executive with kinky fantasies. But this guy looked more like an enforcer, someone who broke knees for a loan shark than a CEO.

  Dom’s insecurities resurfaced but she forced them down. It was time to practice a trick of the trade—the Principle of Displacement. To maintain the necessary cruel and domineering attitude, Tori had explained, simply think of every slight, every injustice, every injury you’ve ever received at the hands of a male coworker or boyfriend and displace them onto the customer. Take your displeasure out on him. That’s what he wants and what he’s paying for.

  Domino’s school years as a motherless tomboy with few friends and even fewer dates had furnished plenty of deep resentments toward the male sex—a malice reinforced by her chauvinistic fellow agents. Imagine the grief she’d get from her coworkers if she couldn’t pull off this assignment. Some already thought she was frigid, others considered her asexual, just one of the guys. If she couldn’t manage the undercover role of a sex club worker, she’d never hear the end of it.

  So for now, instead of working out her frustrations on the kick-boxing bag at home, Dom would simply channel them in a new direction, at a live and very willing target.

  Show time. Adopting the confident stance and arrogant smile she’d practiced endlessly in her bathroom mirror, Mistress Bella opened the door and strutted into S&M Room Five.

  Damn. Forgetting his submissive role, Dalton stared at the woman who’d stepped through the back door. Like a dark siren from a lewd dream, Mistress Bella was clad in a metal-studded leather getup that screamed, “Don’t fuck with me”. His body ignored the warning however, and thrummed with sexual interest.

  She was obscenely fascinating. Her outfit’s strategically placed cutouts revealed glimpses of her hips and waist, while cone-shaped cups pushed her full breasts high. The way the supple, black cowhide caressed her curves made Dalton wonder if he harbored a previously unrecognized leather fetish.

  Captivated, he let his eyes travel over her killer body. No anorexic waif, this was a woman built for nights of rough and raw sex. In those mile-high sandals, she was close to six feet tall. Her endless legs were encased in dark stockings that stopped mid-thigh and clung there in defiance of gravity. Man, he loved long legs.

  The smooth skin above the stockings led his gaze northward to the high-cut edges of her dominatrix gear…a merry widow, he remembered from his research. He couldn’t see her ass yet but he’d bet his last dollar it was round and firm…a nice handful for the right man. The leather corset cinched her waist, molding her body as it traveled upward to support and separate that mouth-watering rack.

  His visual examination was temporarily arrested by the straps of leather that criss-crossed the swells of her breasts. A connoisseur of the female anatomy, Dalton recognized a world-class set when they were staring him in the face. He ran the back of his hand across his mouth to ensure he wasn’t drooling.

  The room’s air-conditioning teased the ends of her wavy, blue-black hair as it brushed her bare shoulders. Her olive skin hinted at a Mediterranean heritage and he wondered if Bella was her real name. Then his glance landed on her blood-red lips, which had quirked into a cruel smile. God, he’d
love to kiss that smile off her face.

  Above those sinfully full lips, a black leather mask covered the upper portion of her face. Cat-eye cutouts framed her thick-lashed eyes…dark, intense eyes that stared insolently into his. A shiver of dread joined the anticipation coursing through Dalton.

  “Present yourself, slave.” Her sharp command snapped like a whip across his senses and she pointed to the floor with the riding crop in her right hand.

  Shit. On the verge of blowing his cover, Dalton racked his sex-fogged brain for the correct response. He’d spent the last two nights researching the scene. And now, to revenge his dead partner, he had to overcome his inherent revulsion of kowtowing to anyone. Dropping his eyes, rounding his shoulders and trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all, Dalton moved forward. When he was several feet from the woman, he dropped to his knees in front of her.

  “You’re either a novice or a glutton for punishment.”

  Mistress Bella’s husky voice held a hint of amusement but Dalton thought it wise to remain silent. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her raise the crop and braced for a blow. But instead, she slid the looped tip of the whip under his chin and lifted his head to meet her gaze.

  “Is this your first time?” she asked.

  Instead of following his initial impulse and ripping the crop from her hand, Dalton forced himself to think meek. “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, Mistress Bella.”

  She nodded, and with an internal smirk, Dalton congratulated himself for coming up with the right answer. His mental high-five was cut short by her next words.

  “I do love breaking in a virgin.” She chuckled low at the startled look on his face. “There are rules to this game, slave, and unpleasant consequences—as you will learn—for breaking them.”

  She raised her gloved hands and suggestively stroked the rigid, whip-like instrument. Despite his attempt at control, Dalton felt his body react as though she’d traced those fingers over the length and breadth of him.

  “There can also be great pleasure and a freedom unlike anything you’ve ever experienced,” Mistress Bella continued as she bent the crop into a half circle. “But first there will be a painful learning curve.”

  She walked around Dalton, examining him with an unnerving thoroughness. Damn the woman. He fought the urge to shoot her his cop glare, known to make hardened criminals sweat. This was just a game but one he had to win.

  Halting in front of him, she demanded, “Why are you here?”

  Toning down his aggressive baritone, Dalton launched into his cover story. “I run a company with over a hundred employees…people whose jobs I’m responsible for. Twenty-four hours a day, I make all the decisions and everyone expects me to be a rock. Even the women I date defer to me. I don’t have time for long vacations but I need some time away from the stress. I…I want to give up control to someone else occasionally.”

  He stopped, unsure what else to say.

  “I see.” Mistress Bella leaned closer. “I can guarantee while you’re in this room, I’ll be the one in control. If I give you an order and you even hesitate, you’ll be punished. If you refuse an order, the session will end and you’ll be banned from the club from that day forward. Do you understand?”

  Dalton nodded, not knowing if she was serious but determined to play along to ensure access to the club. When she didn’t continue to speak, he realized his mistake.

  “Yes, Mistress Bella,” he said.

  She smiled, looking anything but friendly. “See, you’re learning. Now, tell me some of your darkest desires.”

  Stumped for submissive fantasies, Dalton thought about the S&M literature he’d read. “I dream about being dominated…by a strong, beautiful woman. To be helpless to resist.” Dalton ground his teeth. Man, it was hard to say these things. “I want to worship my mistress in any way she demands.”

  The cocky grin that split her face had Dalton fisting his hands by his sides.

  She noticed and smiled broader. “Then your sessions with me will be the little bit of heaven—and hell—you’re seeking.”

  A stern look replaced her amused expression as she ran the tip of the crop down the front of his silk shirt. “Take off your shirt. Let’s see what I have to work with.”

  Caught by surprise, Dalton hesitated and received a slash across his shoulders from the crop. He flinched and–-remaining on his knees—quickly unbuttoned his shirt. Cool air brushed the hair on his chest as he drew off the garment and dropped it on the concrete floor.

  “Hands behind your back. Chest out. Head down.” She barked the instructions like a drill sergeant and he followed them without comment. “When I snap my fingers, you’ll assume this position. Understand?”

  “Yes, Mistress Bella.”

  She stepped closer and he held completely still while she ran her left hand over his pecs. Her leather glove felt smooth and very erotic against his skin. When she reached his right nipple, she brushed the flat nub and then twisted it cruelly between her forefinger and thumb. His breath hissed out but he refused to pull back from the pain.

  “So, you’re sensitive and have a high tolerance for pain.” Her tone was amused. “A fun combination—for me.”

  Mistress Bella ran the crop across the fly of his khakis. “Before I see the rest of the merchandise, I’ll explain the basic rules.”

  She stepped back several feet and he kept his head lowered. “In this room, your body is mine. I will sensitize it and train it to delay sexual gratification. I will punish it…sometimes solely for my own pleasure. And, if you perform adequately, I will allow you to reach a sexual climax so incredible it’ll be addicting.”

  Her words were outrageous and threatening, yet Dalton found his cock hardening in response. Was this what Jason had felt?

  “If things become too intense, say the word ‘yellow’, and I’ll slow down.” Arrogant and seductive, Mistress Bella continued. “Say the safe word ‘red’ and I’ll stop. But understand this, if you ever say the safe word, our sessions will end and you’ll be banned from the club.”

  She chuckled when he looked up at her, stunned. Could she really get him banned from the club?

  “Don’t worry. If we regularly sent clients to the hospital, the Xecutive Branch would go bankrupt. But testing your limits is part of the fun. Right, slave?”

  “Yes, Mistress Bella.”

  “Now, since you’re a beginner, I’ll allow you to tell me three things you absolutely won’t do.” Her right eyebrow rose above the mask. “Be sure to choose carefully.”

  Shit. He couldn’t think. Dalton glanced down at his tented pants and blamed his confusion on his johnson, which was hogging all the blood normally used by his brain. What were three things he couldn’t stomach?

  “Sex or sexual sandwiches with other men…” he began.

  “Something tells me you and two women would be acceptable however.” Her words sounded amused.

  Since it seemed more like a statement than a question, Dalton continued. “No body piercings or tattoos…”

  “Okay, no permanent marks.”

  The ominous tone of her comment filled him with apprehension but he finished his list. “And no water sports.” He’d read about the fetishes of some submissives who confused bathroom functions with sex and he wanted no part of that.

  She nodded her agreement. “I’ll note your preferences in your file. Now, stand and strip.”

  Dalton stood slowly, delaying the inevitable. He was about to be naked in front of this woman. It wasn’t as if he had anything to be ashamed of. Hell, the women he’d slept with had showered him with compliments about his body. But Mistress Bella wasn’t a sex partner and her clothes were staying on unfortunately. Maybe if he pretended she was a doctor and this was just his annual exam. Yeah, right.

  Kicking aside his abandoned shirt, he toed off his loafers and pushed them to the side as well. Then he began to unbuckle his belt. Damn. Not buying into the doctor story, his cock was
hard enough to drive nails. As he slowly unzipped his pants and slid them to the floor, Dalton tried to think about “coyote ugly” hookers, baseball scores, even dead kittens but nothing worked to deflate his obvious interest.

  He might not be hung like a horse but Dalton Junior was nothing to be ashamed of. So he took a deep breath and pushed down his white briefs. After nudging the briefs and pants aside with his foot, Dalton stood with his hands behind his back and watched her reaction.

  Bellissimo. Behind Mistress Bella’s cool, expressionless exterior, Dom was knocked for a loop by his masculine beauty. The hard planes of the man’s chest and abdomen were a banquet for the eyes with the swirls of reddish-brown hair just the icing on the dessert.

  Following the line of hair that arrowed southward, she felt the air leave her lungs. His penis was awesome, curving aggressively upward as if flaunting its size and readiness. To cover her reaction, Dom once again walked slowly around Dalton and instantly realized her mistake. What a butt. She wasn’t a season ticket holder to the Chippendales male strip show, but Domino definitely appreciated a muscular male ass. If she kept her wits about her, this session could be fun.

  Assuming her Mistress Bella persona again, Dom completed the circuit around her client and stood silently before him. Dalton was definitely too proud of himself, something any self-respecting dominatrix would correct. It was a dirty job but she’d have to do it. Dom smiled at her thoughts and watched some of the confidence fade from his face.

  “You’ll do,” she said with a forced disinterest.

  Domino raised the crop and saw Dalton tense. Keeping him mentally off balance, she ran the tip of the implement up the vein that pulsed in his penis.

  “I’m sorry to see however, that you lack sexual control.” That pricked his ego—pun intended. She fought a laugh. “I’m used to a standing ovation from my clients so I’ll just ignore it…for now.”

  She snapped her fingers. After the briefest hesitation, Dalton dropped to his knees in the position she’d taught him earlier. Leaving him to worry about her next move, she strolled over to the cabinet of toys. Hmmmm, handcuffs? Yes. Nipple clamps? Probably. And then she noticed a cruelly clever device called The Gates of Hell.