dungeon. He had every right to. But locking the door meant only one thing.
Play time.
She didn’t speak. She shut the book and tossed it onto the nightstand. From the small table she pulled an elegant black mask that covered only the top half of the face. Like the good and well-trained submissive he was playing that day, he kept his eyes on the floor as she approached him. In all the world, she’d only ever met one man she found more attractive than the one standing before her. Night and day, he and the other man were. The submissive masochist in front of her had olive skin, dark eyes, dark as a sin-stained soul, and black hair with a slight roguish wave that fell to right above his shoulders. And at the moment, he had on far too much clothing.
“Lose the shoes. Shirt off, too,” she ordered as she stood in front of him and slipped the masquerade mask over his eyes. It had eyeholes since she didn’t want to blindfold him, only put him in a mental place where he could become another person...someone other than the one who’d walked in her door and the one who would crawl out of it. Plus, no denying, the man looked fucking hot in the mask. With this particular client, she allowed herself to enjoy her attraction to him.
He shucked off his jacket and she took it from him, throwing it on the floor. The embroidered vest came off next. It, too, landed on the floor. Then the shirt. Raising her hands to his chest, she caressed his strong broad shoulders, his collarbone, the hollow of his throat. She loved to tease him with pleasure before torturing him with pain. With another client who shared his sort of desires and fetishes, she would have put a collar on him. But no, never with him. He had one hard limit, only one. No collars. He might surrender to a world of pain but he would never submit to such an obvious sign of ownership.
“Stay,” she said as she went back to the bedside table. She pulled a thin black rope lead from the drawer and returned to him. God, how he hated the lead. Loathed it. He wasn’t a dog, after all, and the man had pride. But not on her time, he didn’t.
She put the lead around his neck and slipped the end of the rope through the hole at the other. A choke rope, it would tighten around his neck if he resisted her. Holding the end of the lead she took four steps back to stand three feet from him. She tugged once on the lead and he didn’t move. Good. She loved it when he gave her an excuse to punish him more. Raising her hand, she wrapped the rope one time...two times...three times around her palm. With every turn of her hand, she pulled him closer to her.
“I know you hate this.”
“You know me well, Maîtresse .”
She yanked him to her so they met eye-to-eye. She wore eight-inch platform stiletto boots that day otherwise she would have been staring down the center of his chest. Not a bad place to stare. He had a beautiful body, no denying that. Lean and muscular although riddled with old scars. She wouldn’t add any scars to his vast collection today. Only cuts, welts and bruises—all injuries that would heal quickly. If he wanted scars, he’d have to pay extra and make an appointment.
“I do know you...but not well enough. I think I want to get to know you better today. Let’s go into my office. Come along.”
She gave the rope another yank and led him into the second room of her suite. The front room was the bedroom, which she rarely used with clients. Sexual favors were granted for female clients and lovers only—not male clients. But the second room, the dungeon, housed all her toys including her most favorite toy of all.
“Do you know anything about the story of St. Andrew?” she asked as she dragged him by the lead to the ten-foot-tall, X-shaped St. Andrew’s Cross at the back of the room.
“I’m vaguely familiar with him.”
She removed the lead and tossed it aside.
“Up,” she ordered and he stepped in front of the cross. “Arms.”
He knew the drill well
Play time.
She didn’t speak. She shut the book and tossed it onto the nightstand. From the small table she pulled an elegant black mask that covered only the top half of the face. Like the good and well-trained submissive he was playing that day, he kept his eyes on the floor as she approached him. In all the world, she’d only ever met one man she found more attractive than the one standing before her. Night and day, he and the other man were. The submissive masochist in front of her had olive skin, dark eyes, dark as a sin-stained soul, and black hair with a slight roguish wave that fell to right above his shoulders. And at the moment, he had on far too much clothing.
“Lose the shoes. Shirt off, too,” she ordered as she stood in front of him and slipped the masquerade mask over his eyes. It had eyeholes since she didn’t want to blindfold him, only put him in a mental place where he could become another person...someone other than the one who’d walked in her door and the one who would crawl out of it. Plus, no denying, the man looked fucking hot in the mask. With this particular client, she allowed herself to enjoy her attraction to him.
He shucked off his jacket and she took it from him, throwing it on the floor. The embroidered vest came off next. It, too, landed on the floor. Then the shirt. Raising her hands to his chest, she caressed his strong broad shoulders, his collarbone, the hollow of his throat. She loved to tease him with pleasure before torturing him with pain. With another client who shared his sort of desires and fetishes, she would have put a collar on him. But no, never with him. He had one hard limit, only one. No collars. He might surrender to a world of pain but he would never submit to such an obvious sign of ownership.
“Stay,” she said as she went back to the bedside table. She pulled a thin black rope lead from the drawer and returned to him. God, how he hated the lead. Loathed it. He wasn’t a dog, after all, and the man had pride. But not on her time, he didn’t.
She put the lead around his neck and slipped the end of the rope through the hole at the other. A choke rope, it would tighten around his neck if he resisted her. Holding the end of the lead she took four steps back to stand three feet from him. She tugged once on the lead and he didn’t move. Good. She loved it when he gave her an excuse to punish him more. Raising her hand, she wrapped the rope one time...two times...three times around her palm. With every turn of her hand, she pulled him closer to her.
“I know you hate this.”
“You know me well, Maîtresse .”
She yanked him to her so they met eye-to-eye. She wore eight-inch platform stiletto boots that day otherwise she would have been staring down the center of his chest. Not a bad place to stare. He had a beautiful body, no denying that. Lean and muscular although riddled with old scars. She wouldn’t add any scars to his vast collection today. Only cuts, welts and bruises—all injuries that would heal quickly. If he wanted scars, he’d have to pay extra and make an appointment.
“I do know you...but not well enough. I think I want to get to know you better today. Let’s go into my office. Come along.”
She gave the rope another yank and led him into the second room of her suite. The front room was the bedroom, which she rarely used with clients. Sexual favors were granted for female clients and lovers only—not male clients. But the second room, the dungeon, housed all her toys including her most favorite toy of all.
“Do you know anything about the story of St. Andrew?” she asked as she dragged him by the lead to the ten-foot-tall, X-shaped St. Andrew’s Cross at the back of the room.
“I’m vaguely familiar with him.”
She removed the lead and tossed it aside.
“Up,” she ordered and he stepped in front of the cross. “Arms.”
He knew the drill well
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