by E J Frost
“He says we refused to give him the tattoo he wanted, forced him to accept something else, and today it’s infected.”
“That’s bullshit.” I grab his phone and read the review, which says exactly what Nicky’s reported. No one this month has asked for a design I wouldn’t do, other than the skinhead. He didn’t even show up for his appointment, so we didn’t end up inking the little shit. I scroll down past a five-star review from a lady I did a sleeve for last week, complete with a picture of the luminous koi and waterlilies and find three more one-star reviews. Phil T. Sir Tatsalot. Regina Leona. I don’t recognize any of their names. All complain that they had bad service, that their tattoo looks terrible, and they got infections afterward. There are no pictures. Their reviews are almost word-for-word identical. I can’t think of a client in years who has complained about infection. I’m so fucking careful to go through aftercare and give them the instruction card.
“Nick, have you seen these?” I show him the reviews. “Do you remember any of these?”
“Naw. Haven’t done anyone by those names. Maybe Reena has.”
I pull out the tablet we keep our appointment calendar on and thumb through it. “Not in the last couple of months. That Phil T. review is from last week. That’s absolute bullshit. How do I get rid of these?”
“I don’t think you can, Bren.” Nicky takes the phone back and thumbs for a minute. “No, you can’t delete them. Only the person who posted them can.”
“Great.” I slap my hand on the counter. “More crap on this craptastic day. I’ve got to go.”
“Yeah, no problem. I’ll lock up. Have a good time with Old Blue Eyes.”
I roll my own eyes at him and tuck the tablet back under the counter before I grab my bag and head out.
I steam the whole six blocks to Logan’s. So anyone and their lying, skinhead friend can put up a bullshit review on the business I’ve spent five years building and there’s nothing I can do about it? What fuckery is that?
When Emily answers the door, she takes one look at my face and drags me inside. “What happened?”
A glance at her and I realize I shouldn’t have bothered with the hourglass shirt because we’re clearly having a naked dinner. I blow my breath out, trying to calm down, as I start shedding my clothes.
“It’s nothing,” I tell her.
“Uh-huh. Is your belly-button piercing still infected?”
“You know it’s not,” I say, as I pause to unscrew the barbell I have in. Mac told me to take out all my piercings except the tongue stud before our scene. “You cleaned it out for me six times over the weekend.”
“Right, then you have no excuse for not telling me what’s bothering you.”
“How does your daddy deal with you? You’re like one of those horseflies that just keeps buzzing and buzzing around while you try to swat it until it finally finds an opening and bites your ass.”
Emily grins. “Consider yourself bitten. Now tell me what’s wrong. If you go through with that face on.” She nods at the closed door into the great room. “Daddy and Master Mac are both going to know something’s wrong and they’ll make you tell them, so you might as well get it off your chest.”
“Fuck.” I tuck my phone and a piece of paper with my three fantasies on it under my arm before I hand her my clothes and wait while she puts them on the coat rack by the front door. “A bunch of people who never even got tattoos at my place have put up one-star reviews on Google. Evidently, there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s just pissing me off, that’s all.”
Emily slips her soft hand into mine and squeezes. “There’s definitely stuff you can do about it. Let’s talk to Daddy. I’m pretty sure he’ll have Max fix it, but if not, I know how to report it to Google. If it’s a fake review, they should remove it. It’ll be okay, Bren.”
I lean in and kiss the top of her head. “I’m a cranky bitch, but I actually do like you, you know.”
“I know.” She opens the door and leads me into the great room.
Logan and Mac are standing at the far end of the long, open space, at the dining table set in front of the French doors that lead out into the back yard. They’re looking at a pile of papers spread on the table. Mac’s wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show his strong forearms. He’s paired the shirt with pin-striped, black dress slacks that showcase his tight ass. I have to swallow hard to avoid drooling. Whew, Master Mac can dress. Both men lift their heads; Mac’s eyes sweep over me from dreads to toes. His nostrils flare like he’s smelling something good and his eyes blaze .
It’s a fight to hold that incendiary gaze. My instinct is to lower my eyes. Submit. But I fight it. I want to see the appreciation in my Dom’s eyes. It makes my heart race, my core muscles tighten deliciously. His obvious desire puts an extra sway in my hips. I swing the hand I still have linked with Emily’s so my breasts bob. Mac’s eyes follow the motion.
“Stop,” he says. Both Emily and I freeze. “Crawl the rest of the way.”
“You, too, Emmy,” Logan says.
“Yes, Daddy,” she chirps. She gives my fingers a squeeze before she releases them and folds down to her hands and knees. I feel a pinch of jealousy at how graceful she is. I’ve always gone for strength. I want my movements to have focus and power. But maybe I need to swap out a kickboxing class for yoga once a week, because there’s no way I can copy Emily’s motion, and damn if she didn’t look good doing it.
With a suppressed sigh, I take my phone and the paper between my teeth and go down onto my own hands and knees. Thankfully, Logan and Emily have big area rugs throughout the house, probably because Logan makes Emily crawl often, so I’m not bruising my knees on the hardwood. When I feel my breasts sway as I crawl towards him, I realize what Mac wanted to see. My tits aren’t that big, but in this position, size doesn’t matter. I smile to myself. Get an eye-full, Blue Eyes.
He does, and fuck if the heat in those summer-sky eyes doesn’t make me wet.
I crawl to his feet, holding his eyes the whole way. Feeling those delicious thrills running through me to tighten my nipples, my belly, my pussy. I’ve missed this. I’ve missed it so much. Wanting and being wanted. How long since I’ve felt this burning anticipation? By the time I reach Mac, tears are standing in my eyes, but I refuse to blink and let them fall.
Mac flicks two fingers when I reach him, which I take as a signal to come up on my knees. He takes my phone and the folded list out of my teeth and sets them on the table, then runs his thumbs under my eyes to wipe the tears away. “Up on the table. On your back. Feet on the edge of the table. Spread your legs. Hold your pussy open for me.”
I stare at him for a moment. Then scramble to follow his instructions.
Emily climbs up on the table as Logan issues similar commands. The table’s big enough to seat eight comfortably, twelve if they’re friendly, and there’s plenty of room for the two of us on our backs without lying on the place settings.
I keep my eyes on Mac’s as I settle on the table, feeling the cool, polished wood against my spine. His burning blues follow each motion as I position my feet, spread my knees, catch my pussy lips with the tips of my fingers, and peel them apart for him. This should feel horribly like a visit to the OB/GYN. Cold and clinical. I’m naked on my friend’s dinner table, spreading open my lady bits for inspection by a man I’ve spent less than three hours with.
But there is nothing clinical about this. It’s so fucking hot. I’m shaking, sweating, as I squirm on the hard wood. My ass is squeezing around the plug and he hasn’t even touched me. Emily wails suddenly and I almost look over to see what her evil Dom is doing to her, but I can’t tear my eyes away from Mac’s.
He pulls what looks like a condom packet out of his pants pocket, rips it open, and unfolds a square of polyurethane. I stare at him in shock. I think I might have seen a dental dam before, maybe, but I’ve never had one used on me. That hot prickle rises to my eyes again. Mac brushes my hands out of the way, smooths the dam
between my legs, lifts my leg, and presses a kiss inside my knee before diving in.
Oh. My. God.
Guys complain about condoms cutting down on sensitivity, but I’m not feeling any loss from the thin pane between me and Mac’s very aggressive tongue. I’m even grateful for the dam, because he does not start slow. He’s straight in on my clit with his tongue and his teeth and it’s not even a minute before my legs are shaking. The dam keeps the worst of his beard off my pussy, but he rasps it over my inner thighs, until I’m whimpering from the abrasion and sure that he’s scraped off several layers of skin. Just as I’m really beginning to strain towards that shimmering peak, Mac reaches up and clamps his hard, hot hand over my throat.
I scream as I go over the edge. I’ve been trained to hold my position when I’m coming but I lose it and close my thighs around his head like a vise as I buck off the table with the force of my orgasm.
As soon as the bliss washes out of me, I slam my knees wide in embarrassment. Mac chuckles against my clit and massages my throat aggressively, his grip just this side of pain, which sends spikes hotter than aftershocks through me. He long-strokes his tongue from my plugged ass to my clit several times while I shudder from too much stimulation. Mac plants a kiss on my mons before lifting his head.
“Now that’s what I call an appetizer. I want you to relax for five minutes—” He pauses while Emily wails out her orgasm and resumes with a grin, “Then kneel on the pillow on the floor. I’m going to hand-feed you. Is your leg okay for that?”
Do I have legs? I don’t think I have legs. Certainly not at the moment when I’m still floating bodilessly somewhere among the stars. “Mrrsur,” I mumble.
Mac chuckles. He caresses my throat with his thumb again before he releases me and peels off the dam. With a gentle clasp on my ankles, he moves my legs so they’re hanging off the table’s edge. He pats my thigh before he strolls away, looking extremely pleased with himself.
A sparkly-pink manicured hand flutters in the corner of my vision. I reach up and manage to grab it on the third try. Emily squeezes my fingers weakly.
“My brains melted,” she whispers.
“At least you still have legs,” I mutter back.
I hear her unstick herself from the table and shuffle around. She grunts and slaps my hand. “You still have legs. Don’t say that kind of stuff around sadists. It gives them ideas.”
“Boxing Helena ,” I say.
“That movie disturbed me.”
“The thing that was disturbing was how few orgasms she got out of the whole thing. You wanna cut off my arms and legs to feed your fetish? Fine, but you better be putting a vibrator in that box and getting me off hourly.”
She swats me again. “Bren!”
I chuckle.
Mac reappears by my knees, accompanied by the scent of cinnamon and browned beef, a combination that shouldn’t make me drool as much as it does. His hands, as they settle on my thighs, are hot enough to make me mewl. Grinning, he rubs his big palms up and down. “Can you manage to get your ass off the table on your own, legless?”
“Dunnow until I try, sir.”
“Ask me nicely and I’ll help you up.”
I mean, red flag, bull, here.
“Sir, would you help me haul my ass off the table?” I ask, in the most sickly-sweet tone I can manage.
He slaps my pussy. Not hard enough to really hurt, but damn, he has a hard hand. “Fuck, sir!”
He leans down and kisses what must be a nice red mark. Then he slides one arm under my shoulders and another under my knees and lifts me right off the table. I’m used to Doms moving me around during scenes, but not picking me up. I’m not a featherweight like Emily. Mac doesn’t look like a weightlifter. He’s leaner than Logan. But he must be packing some serious muscle under his tailored clothes because he lifts me without any obvious strain. He carries me to the other end of the table and helps me sink down onto one of the big cushions that Emily has all over the house. Held close to him, I catch a whiff of his scent: bergamot, like the tea Emily tries to force on me. Tobacco, although I’m pretty sure he doesn’t smoke. And leather. Fuck me, he smells good.
Despite my jelly legs, I settle into a basic kneeling position, with my ass on my heels and my knees comfortably spread. This position must be the first thing every sub learns. It’s certainly the first thing that was drilled into me when I started at Blunts. Some of the Doms who have played with me for more than a scene have given me variations they prefer. Ten always wants my hands behind my back, wrists crossed. Since Mac hasn’t given me any specific commands, I rest my palms on my thighs and keep my head up but my eyes down.
A crop’s wide, black tongue appears in my peripheral vision before sliding under my chin. I shiver as Mac lifts my head with gentle pressure from the crop. He doesn’t say anything, just walks around me and adjusts my position with soft taps of the crop. Shoulders back, so my breasts stick out. Stomach in. Knees wider. Hands on my thighs but palms up. Once I’m in the position he wants, he runs the crop between my breasts in a slow caress.
“This is how I like it, girl. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” I say. There’s no mockery in my tone now. My voice has dropped as subspace fuzzes my rough edges. And all Mac’s done is put me on my knees and corrected my position.
“If you get uncomfortable, tell me. We’re not observing any kind of protocol for this dinner. But I’d like you to stay in this position until I give you permission to move. Can you do that for me?”
Fuck, he slays me with just a few words. I don’t know if Logan’s told him how to best manage me, or if he intuits it, or if this is just his brand of dominance, but his soft-sell control is irresistible. My friend Austin calls this style “toasted marshmallow sadism.” Crusty and hard on the outside; squidgy in the middle. Austin’s Domme is a toasted marshmallow sadist, and I can totally see the appeal.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good girl. I’d like you to close your eyes while I feed you, so you can focus on the flavors. If I make a mess, it’s for me to clean up. You don’t need to worry about it. Anything you’d like to drink?”
He’s going to fix my drink? I twitch in discomfort. I should be doing this for him. It feels strange to have the roles reversed, but it also feels right to wait for him on my knees. This is where he wants me, so this is where I’ll be.
“Just water, sir.”
He strokes my throat with the tongue of the crop. “I’m not going to drink anything before our scene, either. I like to keep a clear head. We’ll have a drink together afterwards if that suits you, bold girl.”
“That would be great, sir.”
“Alright.” He strokes the crop over my throat, following it with his eyes. My skin heats under that blue, blue gaze. “Hold position for me now.”
I harden my muscles, and keep my eyes on his, flinching when the crop snaps against my right nipple and then my left. Shivering, I continue to hold his eyes, watching as his pupils expand as he drinks in my tiny movements. He circles the crop around each nipple in a slow caress.
“Good girl,” he says finally, before he moves away. He strolls into the kitchen, pours two glasses of water, and brings them back to the table. He sets the crop and the glasses on the table next to a couple of plates that are gently steaming.
Logan walks around the table carrying Emily. He took her out of the room while Mac was positioning me and I don’t know what he did to her, but she looks utterly glazed. There’s a pillow on the floor next to the chair he sits on, but Logan settles her on his lap instead, straddling him. Mac sits across from him, with me on the floor to his left.
“Em okay?” Mac asks.
“Uh-huh,” Logan says. “Just not quite with us. Too many orgasms, too little oxygen. She’ll have time to come back to us while we eat.”
Too many orgasms and too little oxygen? That’s a problem any masochist would want to have.
Mac grins at the pair of them before he tears up something on one of the plat
es and turns to me. “Eyes closed now.”
I obey, lifting my chin and opening my mouth. He holds that wonderful smell under my nose before something slides between my lips.
I chew. It’s not a food I’ve eaten before, but I like it immediately. A soft, unleavened bread stuffed with meat and spices. It’s sweet with cinnamon and sugar but also savory with beef and pepper. Surprisingly good. I eat mouthful after mouthful as Mac feeds me. When he takes a break to offer me water, I ask, “What is this, sir?”
“A Turkish stuffed flatbread,” Logan answers me. “Emmy’s been playing around with recipes for a couple of weeks.”
“It’s excellent.”
“My baby girl can cook.”
I nod. I don’t open my eyes, but I can hear Logan murmuring to Emily, and then chewing, so I assume she’s getting fed, too.
Mac stops feeding me while he eats, and I drift pleasantly, my stomach warm, my blood humming. There’s a second course, a pumpkin stew that has a kick of curry, smoothed by paneer cheese. Mac lets warm drops fall on my breasts while he feeds me. He licks them off, squeezing and tugging at my nipples, before he eats his own entree.
After some more water, Mac tells me, “There’s dessert, but I think we should save that until after the scene. You okay with that?”
Although I’d normally kill for Emily’s desserts, my stomach’s at a good point for a scene. Warm and comfortable but not full. “Yes, sir.”
“Let’s move onto the couch. We’re going to talk about your fantasies while we digest and then we’re going down into the playroom. I want you to crawl to the couch, but you need to keep your head elevated. Can you do that for me, bold girl?”
Right now, I’d do just about anything for him. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Open your eyes and look at me.”
I do, blinking in the room’s warm light.
Mac smiles at me before he slaps the crop against my nipples. Right and left again. I squeak in surprise and keep my hands on my thighs only by an act of supreme will. Mac’s eyes darken as he drinks in my pain.
