eyes, or an order given in his low smooth as silk baritone made her panties practically evaporate shouldn’t factor. But how could it not?
Her rational mind screamed that she was insane that this was unsafe. It was the reason she had never played anywhere except in the main dungeon. Then again, it wasn’t lost on her that the rational, non-emotional, intelligent side of her brain was no longer in charge, but rather her raging, long neglected libido. It was the ruling part of her that took one look at Arturo Durand and craved him beyond all sense of safety and self-preservation. She wanted him, the whole gorgeous, captivating, sadistic package.
So here she stood, barefoot in a short slinky dress, sans panties—he hadn’t ordered it, however, there was no way to wear even the skimpiest thong in that dress—her heart racing, her body still heated and aroused from the phenomenal dancing, watching him move around the room from where he had deposited her, just inside the door. Dragging her gaze from the man who was driving her mad with lust, she glanced around the room, taking it all in while he made preparations, pulling wide heavy drapes to allow moonlight to stream in through the high, arched windows, and adjusting dimmer switches to lower the lights in the wrought iron wall sconces so they flickered, mimicking candle light. The brightly lit room was now cast in long shadows except for one spot, the focal point of the room, an ornately carved, heavy wood, four-post, canopied bed, which glowed invitingly as if under a spotlight. It was massive, and draped as it was in velvet and satin, quite magnificent.
Everything was, for that matter, appearing authentic to the era, which to Mari seemed Middle Ages, or thereabouts. No detail was overlooked, right down to the heavy brocade stitching on the bedspread or in the drapes that were tied back in welcome. As with all the private theme rooms on the second floor, or so she’d heard, the owners had spared no expense to set the scene for the perfect fantasy role-play. She’d never been upstairs before, but it was hard to block out the gushing subs in the women’s locker room who repeated every decadent detail of their scene, recounting the many delights that could be found in the likes of the Victorian sitting room equipped with tufted couches and satin chaises, perfect for naughty maids to be bent over for a sound birching, or the schoolroom with its rack of canes ranging in size and intensity from light and snappy, to heavy and thuddy, or the shibari room where the ceiling was equipped with suspension rigging, and the doctor’s office complete with exam table and stirrups, the thought of which made her shiver, and not with anticipation.
Then there was the most popular theme room, the Sultan’s chamber, described by so many and in such detail that she had a clear image of it in her head: low couches, abundant pillows, scantily clad women prostrating themselves at the grand master’s feet—this description had come from one of the group enthusiasts—and the free standing Turkish bath big enough for the master and at least four of his concubines.
She’d also heard many things about this room, the medieval bedchamber, but she didn’t see any of the special features the subs had whispered about, certain the decadent amenities they were referring to didn’t include the luxuriant linens, frosted windows, or the richly textured wallpaper, though the padded prayer bench in the corner was more along the lines of what she’d expected.
Most of the action, no doubt, took place on the huge bed. Still, she looked around the room for more: stocks, a pillory, or at the very least, a bondage chair. Her face must have shown her surprise at not finding what she thought she would.
“Looking for a torture rack or an iron maiden, perhaps?”
She had the grace to flush. “Um, would you be offended if I said yes?”
Arturo chuckled. “Exactly what one would anticipate from a sadist, so
Her rational mind screamed that she was insane that this was unsafe. It was the reason she had never played anywhere except in the main dungeon. Then again, it wasn’t lost on her that the rational, non-emotional, intelligent side of her brain was no longer in charge, but rather her raging, long neglected libido. It was the ruling part of her that took one look at Arturo Durand and craved him beyond all sense of safety and self-preservation. She wanted him, the whole gorgeous, captivating, sadistic package.
So here she stood, barefoot in a short slinky dress, sans panties—he hadn’t ordered it, however, there was no way to wear even the skimpiest thong in that dress—her heart racing, her body still heated and aroused from the phenomenal dancing, watching him move around the room from where he had deposited her, just inside the door. Dragging her gaze from the man who was driving her mad with lust, she glanced around the room, taking it all in while he made preparations, pulling wide heavy drapes to allow moonlight to stream in through the high, arched windows, and adjusting dimmer switches to lower the lights in the wrought iron wall sconces so they flickered, mimicking candle light. The brightly lit room was now cast in long shadows except for one spot, the focal point of the room, an ornately carved, heavy wood, four-post, canopied bed, which glowed invitingly as if under a spotlight. It was massive, and draped as it was in velvet and satin, quite magnificent.
Everything was, for that matter, appearing authentic to the era, which to Mari seemed Middle Ages, or thereabouts. No detail was overlooked, right down to the heavy brocade stitching on the bedspread or in the drapes that were tied back in welcome. As with all the private theme rooms on the second floor, or so she’d heard, the owners had spared no expense to set the scene for the perfect fantasy role-play. She’d never been upstairs before, but it was hard to block out the gushing subs in the women’s locker room who repeated every decadent detail of their scene, recounting the many delights that could be found in the likes of the Victorian sitting room equipped with tufted couches and satin chaises, perfect for naughty maids to be bent over for a sound birching, or the schoolroom with its rack of canes ranging in size and intensity from light and snappy, to heavy and thuddy, or the shibari room where the ceiling was equipped with suspension rigging, and the doctor’s office complete with exam table and stirrups, the thought of which made her shiver, and not with anticipation.
Then there was the most popular theme room, the Sultan’s chamber, described by so many and in such detail that she had a clear image of it in her head: low couches, abundant pillows, scantily clad women prostrating themselves at the grand master’s feet—this description had come from one of the group enthusiasts—and the free standing Turkish bath big enough for the master and at least four of his concubines.
She’d also heard many things about this room, the medieval bedchamber, but she didn’t see any of the special features the subs had whispered about, certain the decadent amenities they were referring to didn’t include the luxuriant linens, frosted windows, or the richly textured wallpaper, though the padded prayer bench in the corner was more along the lines of what she’d expected.
Most of the action, no doubt, took place on the huge bed. Still, she looked around the room for more: stocks, a pillory, or at the very least, a bondage chair. Her face must have shown her surprise at not finding what she thought she would.
“Looking for a torture rack or an iron maiden, perhaps?”
She had the grace to flush. “Um, would you be offended if I said yes?”
Arturo chuckled. “Exactly what one would anticipate from a sadist, so
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