Wolf on a Leash by Virginia Nelson Page B

is true, you know.”
    Ogre finally gave up, flipped his chair down, and stomped over to retrieve his beer. “No, asshole, I read it in a book or something. At least I think I did.” Popping the top off the glass bottle, he flicked it at Kennedy before returning to his worn chair and reclined. “So, unless you decided you were into that sort of thing while you were over there playing in the sandbox, Alaska might not be the place for you.”
    Kennedy snorted and took another swig of his own drink, enjoying the way the cold fluid refreshed and rekindled a hundred memories of sharing beers with Ogre all in one gulp. “Nope, not my thing. I still prefer women.”
    However, some of the things he imagined doing to women scared him. He’d always been a sadist, he’d owned to it long before. However, he didn’t want to accidentally hurt a woman, not in a way which didn’t ultimately bring pleasure. Didn’t stop the dreams, though…and he wondered if the war had twisted him in a way so he shouldn’t be around anyone anymore, including women. Maybe especially women. “Not that I’ve touched one in longer than I care to admit.”
    “Come to the club tonight. Even if you just watch, it will be a good time. Remind you why you don’t want to go get lost in the frozen north, maybe.” Ogre’s red brow arched over his steady blue eyes. “Remind you that you’re in a place where we accept you for who you are, since who you are is a smelly asshole. Remind you you’re not over there anymore, now that you’re home.”
    Blinking fast, Kennedy cleared his throat and looked away. The smell of the pines, the wet cold of the mountains before snow, all of it reminded him of another man—the one he’d been before he served. Before he’d seen shit he’d never forget, and before he warped inside into someone he wasn’t sure he aspired to become.
    “I’ll go, but I’m not promising I’ll stay.” Or to touch a single subbie, no matter how willing the girl might be. Until he trusted himself….
    He might never trust himself again, assuming some strange woman might find it in her heart to try someday.
    “We’ll have a good time. You’ll see.”
    Leaning against the wall and closing his eyes, Kennedy wondered whether he still believed in a good time—or if it meant more than finding a way to forget, even for a little while.

 
     
     
Chapter Two
     
     
    He’d heard people describe the Black Hills as an island of trees in a sea of grass. If it were apt, the dungeon would have to be described as little more than a shack of a house buried amongst the ponderosa pine, sort of the flea on the back of a dog on a log in the middle of the sea of prairie. Rock underfoot was softened by the crunch of dry needles, and he braced for a hit of familiarity at the sight of the building through the trees. The glow of it beckoned, a mix of temptation and trepidation in one hit to his gut.
    He and Ogre had started the dungeon years ago as a place for them to explore various kinks that tripped their triggers. Introduced to the lifestyle on a visit to the rolling hills of San Francisco, they’d attempted to bring a bit of it home to share with others who also had an interest and desired a safe place to play. Ogre was a machinist by day, therefore the perfect person to craft various instruments from their own imagination or replicas of things they’d seen. Kennedy had an eye for design, crafting ideas for play which Ogre brought into reality with his metal-working skills. Together, they’d started with an idea and invented a place for themselves and others of a similar mindset and taste.
    While he’d been in the service, Ogre kept up with the dungeon, alongside his longtime slave and wife, Tish. They’d booted more than a few from their membership—people who didn’t understand or refused to adhere to the rules—but for the most part, they’d built up a decent community which extended well beyond the walls of the small and unassuming