by Maren Smith
"I'm a kinky girl," she said bitterly.
"I doubt it. Is that what this is, though? Are you trying to prove yourself?"
Raising her head, she looked up at him. "I'm not here to prove anything."
"You're not here to submit, either. Or you wouldn't be so angry because I am denying you the ability to usurp control from the bottom."
"All submissives top from the bottom," she countered. "How else are we to get what we need?"
"By letting go. By letting me help you let go."
"I don't need your help, and I don't want to let go."
"No?" Alan bent over her, bracing his forearms upon his knees. Stroking an errant lock of hair back from her cheek so he could see her better, he tucked it behind her ear. Tavy closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to see him. "Why do you keep coming back then?"
She would have thought that obvious. What reason did anyone have to come to this place? "To suffer."
"Why?"
"My reasons are my own."
"No, sweetheart. For the next four days and three nights, nothing is your own. Not your wants, wishes or desires. For the sum of eight thousand dollars, all of those parts of you now belong to me, and I find myself inclined toward extreme stinginess in allowing anyone—even you yourself—to keep any part of you from me. You want to be punished? Fine, I can do that for you, but since that seems to be all you want, you're going to have to earn it. Every cut of my cane, every stroke of my disciplinary hand will be given only if you are obedient. If you want to suffer, you're going to have to be my very, very good girl." The corners of his mouth curled up. "When you are not, I'll have to find other ways in which to make my… displeasure felt."
Tavy rose to her knees, glaring at him. In that moment, she forgot everything—the auction, her vow of obedience, her reasons for coming here in the first place. "So long as it hurts, I really don't care what you do to me."
His dark eyes were looking into her so deeply. She refused to let hers show anything back, though the anger might have been too strong to hide. "Do you mean that?" he said.
She hated herself. "Yes."
He looked down at her file folder, thumbed through all three or four pages of it, and then shut it.
Another submissive was led down into the waiting area, a sweet-looking babygirl who was so excited she was bouncing, hopping rather than walking, in her huge, fluffy bunny slippers, and hugging her teddy bear with both arms. Excitement brightened every inch of her; Tavy just couldn't understand.
"All right, then." Dropping her file on the floor and hooking his fingers in her collar, Master Alan pulled her to feet when he stood. "Let's just see how serious you are."
She didn't care what he did to her, so long as it hurt? That sucked some of the sexiness right out of the evening for Alan. All those unsmiling photographs around his bedroom mirror… that they might be less about one submissive's personal journey down the rabbit hole, and more about simply torture, bothered him. Surely she had to enjoy at least some of what she endured. Why come to a place like the Castle, the number one BDSM resort in the world, every inch of which was geared toward helping guests enjoy all aspects of their stay, if she didn't? Some part of her on some level had to find enjoyment in at least some of what she did. She wouldn't be the first submissive to hate the pain she put herself through just to reach the heavenly high of subspace or the afterglow that followed. Or was it more than that? Could it be that the submissive everyone assumed was such an advanced player was, in fact, a novice when it came to getting what she needed? After three years, that was a little difficult for him to believe. Especially since he knew he wasn't the only Castle Master to have taken a turn at the infamous O.
Dominick the Dungeon Master, well known for bringing even the most hardened of players to a floating place of physical and mental pleasure—through the kind of pain that routinely sent greener guests fleeing from the dungeon in a panic—had been the first to put his temporary collar on her.
"Epic fail," he'd said, the one time Alan had asked him about it. Epic fail, nothing more. Not even on whose part that failure had occurred.
Master Kade had been assigned to her once as well, although that had been before he'd fallen so completely and unexpectedly for the tall, red-headed amazon, Chelsea. That encounter, too, had been years ago; back when Alan was still trying to prove himself 'Master' material, and showing his mettle by working as a dungeon monitor. He didn't know anything more about that exchange than he knew about Dominick's, but even now, years later, every time O's name showed up on the register, or was mentioned in the weekly Monday morning meetings, an odd look came over Kade. Alan had always assumed Kade regretted, like he did, his inability to get Tavy once more under his control. At this particular moment though, the reason for those odd looks was beginning to take on a completely different meaning.
Even Master Marshall had once taken her for a weekend, something the Master of the Masters rarely did anymore. Not since he'd met Kaylee, and especially not when, under any other circumstance, his time and energy were poured into guaranteeing that each of his other thousand-some guests were getting their money's worth in this vacation of a lifetime.
Alan's fingers on O's throat were a strikingly dark contrast to the paleness of her skin. He hooked them into her collar, crushing the flimsy velvet right before he tore it from her neck. The specially built tear-away clasps on either side of the fastening ribbon kept her from feeling much more than a sting of pressure at the force of the yank. Unlike other submissives he had done similar with, if Tavy was turned on by such Neanderthal shows of strength, she hid it well.
Taking the collar he'd had specially made for her, he buckled it around her neck. It was heavier than the velvet, with the heart-shaped locket nestling just perfectly in the hollow of her throat. 'Owned' it said, for everyone to see. The defiance in Tavy's brown eyes negated the certainty of that sentiment, and the meaning for him was one he hadn't yet earned.
But he would. Somehow.
He had four days in which to do it.
Hooking his fingers under the stiff leather, Alan dragged her around his chair and back to the payout table, where Parker was waiting to take back her file.
"I need to keep this," Alan said, tucking the folder under his arm.
"Return it by ten on Friday," Parker said simply. "Want a leash?"
"No." To be dragged through the Castle on one might have fed into Tavy's apparent need for humiliation and punishment. Alan preferred the closeness and physical contact of his fingers grazing her throat as he gripped her collar.
"Room twenty-seven," Parker told him, handing him a key card.
"Thank you." Alan clicked his teeth to Tavy, as if she were a reluctant horse, giving a tug at her throat to let her know it was time to start walking, and didn't say another word. He didn't need to. Though he could feel the bitter anger rolling off her in waves, she fell into silent step beside him and pretended to obey.
There were a lot of beautiful women at the Castle—many even more so than Tavy—but it was hard not to notice the envious looks he got as he led her through the halls.
He'd put a lot of thought into what room he wanted to spend his time with her in. The temptation to take her to his own was incredible, but in all his years, he'd never brought a submissive back to the sanctuary of his apartment. He wanted Tavy to see him as a strong, infallible Dominant. He wanted her to see him as the fantasy Master the Castle tried so hard to put forth in inexhaustible supply. That was a hard thing to do when one got to peek behind the veil, so to speak, and see that most of his clothes were sweaters and t-shirts, not leathers; or that he had a sock and underwear drawer like everyone else, a toy bag that consisted of maybe three items, and a propensity for collecting Clint Eastwood movies and Louis L'Amour books. The reality of who he was probably wouldn't live up to the fantasy. If he was going to gain a toehold of hope that she might come back to scene with him again, forsaking her rule about never playing with the same Dom twice, Alan needed her
to believe the fantasy.
So, his personal apartment above the St. Castle library, where giggling schoolboys and girls could be faintly heard through the air vents at virtually every hour of the day and night, was out. He'd opted instead for one of the private fantasy rooms. Considering her preference for corsets, garters and stockings, he'd chosen the Old West Bordello.
Even though it was usually booked for months in advance, when Alan mentioned his preference, Marshall had handed out two vacation upgrades in order to guarantee that Alan got the room. Decorated all in red, with sweeping velvet curtains that dripped down the walls, a heart-shaped bed of silk, big enough to accommodate an orgy of eight or more, sunk into the stone floor, and the fancy carved opulence in every inch of the ceiling, molding and pillars prevalent in old turn of the century homes, the Bordello was breathtaking. And Tavy took very little notice of any of it. What she did pause to glance at didn't hold her attention for longer than the time it took Alan to release her collar and close the apartment door.
Still, he invited her to look around. "Welcome, Tavy, to our home away from home."
"My name is O," she said, without enthusiasm. "I'd appreciate it if you'd use my alias instead of my real name. Anonymity is supposed to be key here."
"It is," Alan assured her. "We go to great lengths to protect our guests' identities, but I'm not another guest. I work here."
"I know. Please use O anyway."
"Fair enough." It grated him to be denied even that small hint of intimacy, but Alan tried to be accommodating. "Tell me, is it O as in Octavia, a name as regal and as beautiful as your Roman namesake, or is it O as in The Story of?"
She turned all the way away from him when he walked around her, his mild prying already seeming to make her uncomfortable. Which was too bad, really, since he intended to do a hell of a lot of prying over the next few days.
"It's just O," she muttered.
"Obedience," he reminded her.
She locked her lips, stopping where she was, her arms folded across her chest while she waited for him to circle enough to catch up. She glared at him then. "No personal information. It's in my hard limits."
"No it's not." Opening up her file, Alan folded it over and showed her the line where her hard limits were listed. He let her look at it for a whole minute, her eyebrows quirking together, her mouth flattening in a thin line. "Dislikes kissing didn't even make it on that line," he told her, then turned the page around and read out loud. "Once played with, secondary partners cannot be repeated. No fisting or asphyxiation." He looked up at her. "Talking is under your dislikes, not your hard limits. That makes it fair game."
"It's supposed to be there," she said, her mouth tight and hard.
"But it's not. I paid eight thousand dollars for you. I'm not grandfathering it in so you can feel better about controlling my scene. If it meant that much to you, you should have double-checked your form to make sure it was correct." Taking the file back, he tossed it onto a nearby table. "What we have right now, is a choice. You can fulfill the terms of servitude you agreed to when you volunteered, or I can take you back and get a refund. The auction is likely over by now, so I doubt you'll be re-sold. What happens to you after that is between you and Master Marshall."
Ducking her head, Tavy looked everywhere but at him. He could feel the frustration swelling and rolling inside her. It was like looking at all those photos of her tucked into the frame of his mirror. What he could see on the surface wasn't what she was hiding underneath, and there was something there, his gut was telling him, that he really ought to know. The punishment she craved was one part of the puzzle; the undisguised anger with which she looked at him next, was the other. It was so deep-seated it bordered on hatred.
"I don't want to go back," she said, her voice trembling only slightly. If one hadn't seen her eyes, one might have mistaken it for submissive acquiescence when she got down on her knees there at his feet, bending all the way until her lips touched the tip of his boot. "Whatever you ask, I'll obey."
She almost choked on the word.
This was, Alan realized, going to be anything but the night he'd envisioned.
Chapter 4
Burying her anger, Tavy held her lips to Master Alan's boot while she waited for him to make up his mind whether to keep her or get his money back. She couldn't go back. That was the last thing she wanted. She needed this; as much as she hated coming here every month, she needed the absolution the pain and degradation brought her. She needed to feel human and whole again, even if only for a little while.
Alan bent and tapped the top of her head. "I accept your compliance. In fact, I think this show of obedience deserves a good-faith reward. Come with me."
Leaving her file on the table by the door, he headed into the elaborately decorated Bordello. Having effectively robbed herself of options, Tavy followed him.
The room was as spacious as it was elaborate. Red velvet drapes spilled down the walls, twining the four Grecian pillars that surrounded the giant heart-shaped bed of pillows sunk into the floor in the center of the room. It was a bed big enough for eight people. The space and grandeur all seemed a bit wasted on just the two of them. Usually, the Doms she played with took her straight to the dungeon or back to their rooms.
If he thought he had to impress her to get lucky, he must be one of the newer Masters. Maybe she ought to tell him she was a sure thing. Tavy's snort was little more than a breath, but he heard it anyway.
"What does that mean?" Alan asked, skirting the steps that led down to the sunken bed and making his way to the table on the far side. He pulled out a chair, turned it around with a thunk, and then sat down and unbuckled the studded wrist cuff on his right arm.
"What?" she countered. She hadn't realized she'd been that loud.
"You laughed." He set the discarded cuff on the table behind him, then beckoned her to keep coming while he removed the other. "What did you find funny?"
Her mouth went dry at the picture he presented: all stern, straight lines, ready lap, and capable right arm. She hadn't been hand-spanked in months, at least not when it wasn't meant as a fumbling prelude to other things. Since the Castle first opened its doors to visitors, Tavy had been matched to forty-two different Doms. These days, her reputation almost always preceded her. All her Dominants reached for something—a paddle, a hairbrush, sometimes a belt or nursery cane. Whips were becoming highly preferable. Nobody volunteered hand-spankings anymore.
None of them had looked at her, either. Not the way Alan was looking at her.
"You," she said honestly, willing her chest to stop tightening and the renewed energy of the bees in her gut to stop their relentless buzzing.
He arched an eyebrow. "You find me funny?"
"You're not like the others," she specified.
"Is that a good thing or a bad one?"
"I don't know." The subtle differences that she could see, however, bothered her. He was too quiet. Too calm. With very few exceptions, the others had all been excited to find themselves paired with someone who never said no. Alan, on the other hand, seemed perfectly serene. Where they had been thrilled, excited, eager… he was controlled and steady.
She shuddered. She was here for the pain, and the pain alone. All those past men, they had given it to her, and Alan would, too. End of story.
"Why are you shaking?" he asked, beckoning her closer. "Are you cold, or scared?"
"Neither."
"Don't lie to me, Tavy. There is no faster way to take this from reward to punishment than by lying."
What did he want her to say? That after all her years of playing the willing submissive to forty-two dominant and/or sadistic bastards, a hand-spanking was so mild a punishment that in her mind it didn't even qualify? Nobody just spanked her anymore. Except perhaps for the time she'd been paired with the Dom who spent the entire weekend practicing his Shibari, tying her into intricate positions in which to have sex. He'd spanked her once or twice, but only until he'd given her bottom that p
erfect all over pinkness that so visually appealed to him. By the time she was ready to go home, all her joints had been on the verge of dislocation, and her pussy was swollen and bruised. She could barely walk for days.
Her involuntary trembling intensified, but she still crept in to stand a few feet shy of his left knee.
"Don't be afraid," he soothed.
"I told you, I'm not."
"Then why such reluctance?"
"I don't know what you want me to say."
"I want you to tell me the truth. Every question, every time. Whether you want to or not. That's what I've paid for."
She glared down at his lap, pulling her defensiveness in around her. The only shield she had. "This isn't a real punishment."
"No?" There went his eyebrow again, that dark line arching upward in a mix of surprise and thinly veiled amusement. "Do you think I can't make it hurt? I promise you, Tavy, you're in no danger of falling asleep halfway through."
She hated the way he said her name, softening the consonants, letting the syllables roll off his tongue as if he were a lover. "O," she snapped.
He held up one finger, and her eyes followed it as he pointed unerringly down at his waiting knee. "Over, O. Present your bottom for its first reward."
She wanted to leave. Why, when Master Marshall put the offer before her, had she agreed to participate in his auction?
Even before she'd fully formed the question, the answer was right there, niggling at her along with all those other tangling knots inside her. Because the allure of not being able to choose—either the Dom or the punishments—had been a balm on the part of her soul that needed to suffer. And that's what this was right here. She stared at the dark-eyed devil and his waiting lap. Spankings were easy… childish punishments filled more with humiliation than any real pain, especially when delivered by hand. So why was her heart racing, and her palms sweating?
Alan sat on that straight-backed chair like a king upon his throne, behind him a backwash of red-velvet drapes and gold-tasseled fringes teasing in and out of shadow and flickering lamplight. Paddles, hairbrushes, any kind of implement really, could take a simple spanking and turn it into something hellish to endure, but there were absolutely no implements anywhere within reach. Only Alan's belt, and he wasn't making any effort to take that off.
