"Come on," he said, handing her a glass of water from the drink station.
"I'm fine," she said again, just as flatly as before, and Alan almost lost his calm. Had there been just one empty space near him, he'd have dropped his plate to grab her by the scruff of her collar and yank her in close, force her to fix and focus on him, and maybe break through that damned wall of hers before she hardened against him completely.
"I didn't ask," he said, and started walking. He looked back once to make sure she was still behind him. His calm was unravelling, and he didn't like the feeling. A good Dom was nothing without calm.
When he reached the Masters' private dining room, Alan entered the key code in the electronic panel discreetly located inside the ornamental sconce of a Mistress queening her submissive. The lock clicked and he opened the door, holding it for Tavy.
"In," he said, when she was slow to respond.
She went, but the room wasn't empty, and the minute she noticed the Masters already seated within, she froze.
Jackson was laughing, cutting pieces of chicken into bite sized pieces for his very pregnant wife, Sara, despite her vocal protests.
"I'm not five!" she was half-arguing, half-laughing. "I can't reach my feet, so fine, I understand why you put my shoes on, but seriously? You have to cut my food?"
To their left, Master Marshall crowned his usual place at the head of the table with Kaylee seated upon his knee. Both she and Sara were dressed in the short, skimpy dungeon slave girl outfits customarily reserved for the Ladies of the Castle whenever they were caught misbehaving. Because of her belly, Sara's barely covered her, but Kaylee wore the mini dress well. Her hands were also bound in wide leather cuffs behind her back. She didn't look happy. She looked even less so when she spotted Tavy. Her face flushed a soft pink, and she quickly looked away. Tavy didn't seem to notice. The minute she saw Master Marshall, she stopped where she was.
The Master of the Castle covered his surprise at seeing her a little better. His gaze flicked from her to Alan. "Master Alan," he greeted, a formality spoken entirely for Tavy's benefit. Without a guest present, it would simply have been, 'Alan, what's up?'
The only other Masters at the table were the two new guys, ex-military buddies Eric and Reeve. They swiveled around, and Reeve arched both eyebrows in surprise. "Oh hey," he said. "We were just about to go looking for y—"
Marshall cleared his throat, effectively stopping them mid-sentence. "Master Alan has his obligations."
Everyone looked at Tavy.
His hand settling on the small of her back, Alan ushered her to the nearest chair. "And what would they be asking if I didn't have obligations?"
Jackson looked up from his plate, a knowing smirk tugging at one side of his mouth. "First assignment," he mouthed, then said aloud, "Nervous Nellies."
The newest staff members shifted identical glares to him now, frowns only half serious and eyes narrowed.
Ignoring them, Jackson continued. "The twins were going to supervise their scene, but then they bought a girl off the auction block and no one's seen them since."
"Leading one to think they might actually be doing their job," Marshall said, pointedly. He fed Kaylee a bite of roasted chicken off his fork.
Knowing that dig wasn't directed at him, Alan wasn't offended. He spread his napkin on his lap, glancing over at Tavy, who hadn't unrolled her silverware and was only staring at her plate. "Tavy."
"I'm fine," she said.
The urge to shake her was starting to get the best of him. Unrolling her cutlery, he spread her napkin out in her lap instead. "Eat your food."
"I'm not hungry."
Now was entirely the wrong time to try arguing with him, but at least it was something other than 'I'm fine.'
"Eat," he told her again, putting the fork in her hand. "You will have one bite of your carrots. No more, no less." He turned back to his own plate, though not before he felt her startle beside him. He also felt the boring stare she sank into the back of his skull when he turned back to Eric and Reeve. "What exactly requires supervising?"
"Breath play," they said in unison, and in that moment so strongly reminded him of Travis and Trevor that it was uncanny. "Everyone says you're the authority."
Dominick was the authority. Alan simply found the sight of his fingers on a woman's throat incredibly arousing.
"You took the class," he said. It wasn't a question, since he knew for a fact Marshall would never have assigned them a submissive with that particular fetish if they hadn't.
"Plus nine practice sessions," Eric agreed.
"One short of the requirement," Reeve pointed out. "We need one more before our girl gets here tomorrow, or we can't touch her."
"Rules are rules for a reason," Marshall told the table. He aimed a slightly less than sympathetic smile to the newly discharged soldiers. "Perhaps next time you'll think twice about skipping your training hour for an impromptu gangbang in the hedge maze."
"Yes, I'll supervise you," Alan said, only just managing not to roll his eyes. That's what they got for employing sailors fresh out of the navy. "Who's the lucky victim?"
Marshall looked at Kaylee, and kept looking until her shoulders drooped. She sighed, "Damn it." After a moment, she raised her cuffed hands. "Me."
That got looks from everyone but Tavy who, having finished her single bite, set her silverware down on her plate with an exceptionally loud and distinctly sullen clatter.
"Do that again," Alan told her, "and I'll not whip you again for the rest of the day."
For the first time since they'd left the Bordello, he glimpsed a touch of real anger in the way she tried not to look at him. Her breasts rose and fell a little too fast, and her lips were pressed tight together, keeping back whatever caustic reply burned at the tip of her tongue. He wasn't in under her wall, but he had just found a major weakness in the foundation of it. How many times had she told him she wasn't a real submissive?
He studied her, and then her plate. "Have another bite. Carrots only."
"Needs salt," she said, just one thin note away from refusing.
"Too bad," he replied, letting his tone tell her she was one thin note away from being punished for it too, right here, right now.
Her lips flattened even tighter. Picking up her fork, she stabbed a carrot and ate it.
"Are you sure you want to allow this?" Alan asked, turning his attention back to Marshall, who was watching the entire exchange, his sharp eyes missing nothing.
"My wife has discovered a certain measure of enjoyment in the activity," the Master of the Masters replied. "She's also being punished for having had a rather vocal and completely avoidable argument with a paying guest earlier this morning. She'll be spending the afternoon with her nose in the corner, but I thought something extra this evening might be equally appropriate."
"How is it a punishment to give her what she wants?" Eric asked slowly. "Admittedly, she's not mine, but that's not what I would do."
Of the five Masters at the table, three of them gave him knowing looks.
"It's a punishment because she enjoys it," Jackson said, with meaningful emphasis.
"And because I intend to remove all restrictions from Master Alan on where and how he touches her throughout the demonstration," Master Marshall added.
"And he's not going to let her come," Alan finished, and nobody missed how Sara and Kaylee both squirmed, as if an involuntary shudder had just writhed its way up their spines.
Sitting beside him, Tavy had no such response.
"You may have a bite of roast beef," Alan directed.
She gave him a scathing glare, then picked up her fork, cut the largest wedge of beef she could, and stuffed the whole thing into her mouth. She could barely close her lips and chew at the same time. Shielding her mouth with her hand, she cast her glare straight across the table, and doggedly worked to get what was in her mouth small enough to swallow.
No one at the table said a word, not even Alan. There was a lot he
wanted to say, starting with 'What's going on in that head of yours, Tavy?' and ending with 'You want something huge in your mouth? Here. Open up.'
Turning sideways in his chair to face her, he didn't say any of that. He leaned one arm along the back of her chair and the other on the edge of the table, waiting as if he had all the patience in the world until her mouth was finally empty again. Her fingers shook just a bit when she quietly placed her fork back on her plate. Just as stubbornly as she had chewed, she refused to meet his eyes.
Picking up her fork, Alan dipped the tines into the dollop of white horseradish cream that nestled between the remnants of her roast beef and the mashed potatoes. He tested it, feeling the stinging side effect work its way up the back of his throat and into his sinuses. The sauce was more sour cream than horseradish, but it still had bite.
Replacing the fork on her plate, he looked at her again. "Take a bite of horseradish," he ordered, his softly spoken command the only audible sound in the sudden quiet of the dining room.
Tavy didn't move.
Alan didn't repeat himself. He waited until that flicker of defiance in the back of her brown eyes blinked first into uncertainty, and then supreme reluctance. She took her fork and dipped it into the horseradish sauce.
"I'm going to let you decide how much to take before the punishment fits the crime," he told her.
Her hand trembled then. She glared at him, lines of muscle leaping wildly along her jaw as she grit her teeth to keep from telling him exactly what he could do with his sauce. He fully expected her to throw the fork, the sauce—hell, her entire plate—but she didn't. Scooping the entire glob onto her fork, she shoveled all the horseradish she could into her mouth.
Throwing down her fork, she slapped her hands over her nose, screwing her eyes shut. She didn't swallow. Instead, flapping her hands and grabbing her nose again, she held the stuff in her mouth, maximizing the punishment without being told.
Grabbing her napkin, Alan caught her jaw and covered her mouth. "Spit," he ordered, but she yanked away, twisting out of his reach and away from the table. Before he could catch her arm, she fled the dining room.
Jackson jumped up from the table, but Alan had already given chase. She didn't get far. He found her out in the main dining hall, bent over the first service bin, which was half-filled with dirty dishes that had been cleared off the tables. One of Cook Connie's kitchen bitches stood a little to one side, his eyebrows arched all the way up to his hairline as he watched her spit frantically to clear her mouth. Her shoulders shaking, she covered her eyes.
Coming up behind her, Alan laid a reassuring hand on her back, between her small shoulders, but she jerked away.
"Don't!" She batted at him and sobbed even harder, scrubbing at her mouth to clear it of both drool and the overpowering taste still lingering in her nose and on her tongue.
More than anything, he wanted to fold her in his arms. Grabbing her by the collar, Alan hardened his touch instead. "That's enough."
Tavy turned on him like a wildcat, practically silencing the overcrowded dining hall when she shouted, "Get your hands off me!"
That wasn't the safeword.
Tightening his grip, Alan yanked her away from the bin and, as gently as he could, shoved her belly-up against the nearest wall. His hand on her jaw protected her face. She bit him anyway, sinking her teeth into the side of his finger and snarling like a pit bull.
Stifling his own pain, he wrenched his hand away.
"What do you need?" a quiet voice asked from just over his shoulder. Master Marshall stood in the doorway between the main hall and the Masters' private dining room, his freakishly blue eyes watching the entire situation unfold.
Pressed flat against the wall, pinned by her hair and Alan's freshly bitten hand on the back of her collar, Tavy screamed out her frustration and rage. Her hands were tightly balled fists, beating against the unyielding stones until Alan let go of her neck to catch them. Marshall stepped in to help and together, they wrestled her to the floor.
Now the dining hall really was quiet. People were standing up from their tables to get a better view of the submissive who was totally losing it and the three Masters—Jackson stepping in to grab her thrashing legs—that it took to hold her down until exhaustion and grief finally subdued her.
With his knee in the small of her back and holding her arms pinned tightly behind her, Alan struggled to keep his calm. He felt blindsided. He hadn't seen this reaction coming, and he sure as hell hadn't expected it. Tavy was breaking, emotionally and spiritually, right here in his hands, and he didn't know why. He knew the kind of treatment she was used to. He hadn't done anything nearly as bad as the things she routinely suffered at the hands of others.
He met Marshall's gaze over her back. The Master of the Masters knelt at her head, one hand pinning her head down while the other protected her face and forehead from the stone floor.
"What am I missing?" Alan asked, starting to feel the first thin tendrils of anger slithering in around his confusion. "What are you two hiding from me?"
A pulse of tightening muscle jumped along Marshall's jaw. "Getting butt-hurt over something I have no business telling you to begin with isn't going to help this situation. Build a bridge, get over it, and do whatever you have to right now to take care of your submissive. What do you need to make that happen?"
Alan stared down at her. The rage had fled her, leaving only limp despair etched into every line of her body and face. He looked to Jackson, who sat straddling her legs at the knees. One of his hands was rubbing small circles in the small of Tavy's back. Staring back at Alan, he waited for direction.
What Alan needed were answers. In lieu of those, however, he turned his glare back on Marshall, and did the next best thing he could think of. "Kindly inform Reeve and Eric that I will not be available to help them get their final training point."
"I would not allow that now even if you wanted to," Marshall replied. "What else?"
"Get me a kitty cage."
Chapter Ten
Tavy lay in the bottom of the kitty cage—little more than a long wooden box, barred on all sides, with a padded top that doubled as a massage table—nestled on a small mound of pillows. Wrapped as she was in the tight embrace of a straitjacket, and covered by the soft fleece of a Hello Kitty blanket, she lay on her side pretty much exactly as Alan and Jackson had placed her. Not moving, not speaking. Simply thinking.
She couldn't believe she'd thrown a fit like that. She was embarrassed, disgusted by her own behavior. It was only a matter of time before Alan decided she wasn't the fun-time girl he'd been hoping for and dumped her on the stoop of Master Marshall's office. Which was, honestly, probably the best of all possible outcomes for either of them. She didn't deserve to be happy with him, and he couldn't possibly be happy with her. So why did she suddenly feel like crying all over again?
She sniffled, and that soft sound sparked another.
A whisper of footsteps came out of the unseen recesses of the room behind her, circling to the head of the cage. A moment later, Alan squatted down far enough to look in at her. "How are you feeling, sweetheart?"
Even now, there was no censure in the way he looked at her. She couldn't bear it.
Tavy looked away. "Tired," she whispered, her voice warbling and hoarse from screaming.
"Take a nap, then."
"I don't want a nap."
"Oh, sweetheart," he said, his face softening with a smile. "Whine at me like that again. See what happens."
Tavy was disgruntled, not stupid. Unable to do anything else, she bucked and wiggled, hugging herself in that hospital-regulation straitjacket, until she managed to roll onto her other side. She couldn't see him now, but that didn't make her feel better. She stared listlessly out through a whole new set of bars, across a dark and empty room strewn with squeaky toys. Empty kennels, each one large enough to house a single human being, lined one wall. Food and water dishes lined another. He'd taken her to a puppy mosh pit of all plac
es. She sighed.
After a moment, so did Alan. Heaving out of his squat, he moved down to the foot of her cage. She barely twitched when he opened the door, but every inch of her prickled with an unsettling combination of dread and awareness so sensually motivated as to make it painful to bear. She didn't want her nipples to tighten or her breasts to swell, but they did, just as soon as he crawled into the cage with her. She didn't want to feel that molten rush of liquid need filling up her shivering womb and her achingly empty sex, tickling through the lips of her waking labia until all the right parts of her were pulsing in time with the beating of her increasingly heavy heart. But the first time he touched her that was exactly what happened.
There wasn't room enough in the cage for her to escape it. There was no direction in which she could roll, nowhere near enough pillow for her to avert her face and hide; nothing that she could do except just lie there while he coaxed the stiff lines of her to conform against him. Traitor that her body had become, that stiffness didn't last long. It ebbed from her, leaving behind only the pulsing need and welling tears.
She couldn't breathe. Tavy struggled to keep quiet, but she lost that fight, too.
"Shh," Alan soothed, stroking her hair.
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, but the tears refused to be caged. They filled her chest first, weighting her lungs and multiplying wildly until they had no place else to go but up. Up into the back of her throat. Her bottom lip quivered and her eyes burned.
"Let it out." His arms held her tighter. "It's okay to cry."
As if she needed his permission. As if she could stop it.
Her will splintered, cracking like a dam on the cusp of cataclysmic failure. The sharp jerk of her shoulders was the last sliver of weakening she could bear. She broke, and all attempt to keep it quiet broke with her.
Alan folded around her, cradling her despite the force of every spastic jerk. She gasped and bawled, not pretty, movie star-quality weeping, but ugly, red-faced, nose-running, voice warbling wails that refused to be smothered or contained. Frustration had her beating her head against the pillow—but only because he caught her forehead and wouldn't let her beat it against the bars. His body became her pillow then, holding and protecting her until the worst of the storm had passed and all Tavy had left was a wet face, the dull thud of a slight headache, and exhaustion like a blanket that covered every inch of her.
When The Gavel Falls (Masters of the Castle) Page 71
