Cardinal's Rule (3 page)

The slave lowered his head, hoping he wasn’t seen or recognized. He felt badly enough.

Landry sensed his thoughts. “You brought this on yourself, slave. Had you told me the full truth in the beginning, we wouldn’t be here now.”

The slave remained silent and felt grateful for his long hair. It fell to his shoulders, and when he kept his head tilted down, it hung along his cheeks, hiding his face. He kept his eyes on Ross and Loren, praying they didn’t walk over.

Ten minutes later, a couple entered the dungeon play space. With their backs to the slave, they were far enough away, and the lighting dim enough, that he couldn’t tell if he knew them or not. The woman held a leather leash clipped to a collar around the man’s neck. The man carried a gear bag. With her trim, borderline gaunt but lithely muscled body, he guessed her to be a long-distance runner. Her short, spiked hair had been dyed the color of a bright copper penny.

When she made a hand gesture, the man obediently dropped to his knees next to her. She stood and talked with Ross and Loren for a few minutes as she twined her fingers in the man’s hair. He leaned in and rested his head against her thigh, his body relaxing in a content way he himself knew all too well.

Landry watched too. “Do you know her?”

There was something familiar about her, but the slave couldn’t get a good look at her face. Her purple corset accentuated shifting highlights in the fabric of her knee-length green skirt. “I’m not sure.”

“The man?”

“No.”

Satisfied, Landry sat back and watched.

The woman, her back still to them, tugged on the leash and urged the man to his feet. She led him across the room to a St. Andrew’s Cross. There, she had him strip, affixed leather cuffs to his wrists and ankles, then hooked him to the structure. After a few minutes of warming him up by spanking his ass with her bare hands, she started in on him with a stingy flogger. She was vicious, a true sadist with very little in the way of sensual play in her style. She paused after a few minutes, checked in with the man, then switched to a riding crop. Red welts appeared on the man’s backside and thighs.

“She has good form,” Landry observed. “I wonder who she learned from.”

By the time she finished nearly thirty minutes later, the man was crying, sobbing, his entire back, shoulders, ass, and thighs marked from the crop, cane, and singletail whip she’d used on him, yet he never uttered a safeword. She helped him over to a nearby corner and wrapped him with a blanket, sitting there with him for several long minutes and giving him aftercare, the first time she’d expressed 

even the slightest tenderness with the man. Eventually, she left him sitting there while she cleaned up the cross and their equipment. Then she rejoined him and offered him a bottle of water.

She sat with her arm around him and let the man rest his head against her shoulder. For the first time, the slave was able to get a good, long look at her face in the dim room.

His breath caught.

It couldn’t be!

Landry leaned forward again. “Stay here.” He stood and walked over to the buffet table where he got them bottles of water from a nearby cooler. He stopped and talked to one man for a moment, laughing and smiling, until he thanked the other man and returned. He retook his seat on the sofa and handed the slave a bottle.

“Her name is Mistress Cardinal.”

The slave tried not to react. She’d never been fat, but she not only lost over thirty pounds by his best guess, but had chopped off and dyed her long, beautiful hair.

It
couldn’t
be her.

Not his sweet, gentle Redbird.

He watched as the woman finally allowed the man to get dressed. While he did, she headed for the bathroom.

Landry stood and picked up the gear bag he’d brought with them. “Come on, slave. Let’s go.”

He kept his head down as he followed Landry. He prayed Ross and Loren didn’t recognize him,

but they walked past them to the far end of the dungeon play space without incident. There, Landry quickly outfitted him with a hood and made him strip.

Landry put the slave’s hands on the bench so he could feel it. The hood didn’t allow him to see.

“Get into position and wait for me.”

* * * *

Landry didn’t want to cuff him yet since he left him unattended. He waited until Mistress

Cardinal returned from the bathroom to seek her out.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he started, “but I was told you might be able to help me.”

She suspiciously sized him up, her hazel gaze guarded. “About what?”

He handed her a business card. “I have a slave in dire need of training.”

That seemed to relax her. She studied his business card. “I’m sorry, Mr. LaCroux. I don’t work with women.”

“He’s not a woman, although there are times I’ve seriously considered gelding him.” When he

laughed, she laughed with him, her body language relaxing a little more.

“Hold on.” She went to her bag and returned with a business card of her own. Just her name and a local phone number he suspected went to an untraceable cell phone. “Call me and set up an

appointment. I’m very expensive. I also don’t offer any sexual services. I’ll warn you, I have a vicious reputation.”

“Perfect. Exactly what he needs.” He pointed across the room to the bench where his slave

knelt, waiting. “I don’t think I’m vicious enough.”

* * * *

Tilly watched the man walk back to the bench. She collected Bob and went to say good-bye to

Ross and Loren. They seemed nervous, had acted a little tense all evening. She wondered if they’d had a fight but she’d have to wait until tomorrow to call Loren and talk to her.

To leave, she had to walk past the benches on the far end of the space. As she did she saw the man, Landry LaCroux, playing with his slave. Bob nearly ran into her when she suddenly stopped without warning. The tattoo on his slave’s left ass cheek…

She stared. It wasn’t unusual. Lots of people probably had that same tattoo, or one similar. A Kanji character. They looked a lot alike to most people anyway, including her.

Even in that same place. She’d seen lots of people with tattoos in that location. It was popular because it was discreet.

And it had been five years. She could easily be wrong.

Without warning, her mind flashed back to a memory of her fingers tracing the Kanji character on Cris’ flesh, always fascinated by it, never quite satisfied when Cris said he was drunk when he got it and couldn’t remember what it meant, but willing to let the explanation go.

He was her Master.

And in her heart, she knew the shape of that character, could trace it in her dreams.

Her mind rebelled, insisting she was wrong.

“Take me home, Bob,” she said, forcing her eyes from their scene. Landry started going after the guy with vicious swings from a crop that immediately raised welts.
He
needed help controlling his slave?

Well, money is money.

* * * *

Bob drove her home. Once there, he opened her car door for her, carried the toy bag, and

escorted her to her front door.

She wondered if he’d try to kiss her goodnight or not.

Unlocking the front door, she said, “Bring that inside and put it in the playroom.”

He hurried to comply while she set her purse on the counter and kicked off her heels with a sigh of relief. When he returned he dropped to his knees in front of her and waited.

She studied him in silence. She felt affection for him, but she couldn’t say she loved him.

She wasn’t capable of love anymore.

After a moment she ran her fingers through his hair. “How do you feel?”

“Good, Mistress.”

“Do you hurt?”

“Yes, but I don’t mind.”

“You’re a very good boy, Bob.”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

For a fleeting moment she tried to imagine what he’d look like kneeling on the floor next to her bed, going down on her.

She couldn’t.

With a reluctant sigh she affectionately ruffled his hair. “Can you come for a play date one day or evening this week? For free. I feel like rewarding you again.”

“Yes, Mistress. Thank you! Anytime you say.”

“Tuesday night, seven o’clock. You may go.”

He stood, his head bowed, and kissed her hand when she offered it. “Thank you, Mistress.

Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

She didn’t move until after she heard his car start and pull out of her drive. She locked the front door and turned off the lights. She didn’t know why she offered him another freebie. That wasn’t like her. She liked to space rewards far enough apart that the client wouldn’t expect them.

He was single.

She stripped and stood in the shower, the water as hot as she could stand it. If only she could feel passion, love, anything.

She couldn’t even blame it on the anti-depressants, because she’d had herself weaned off those six months after…

She stopped herself from thinking his name. That fucking tat on Landry’s slave had totally

screwed with her equilibrium.

A long time ago she’d quit engaging in the
I wonder where he is?
game. Because it hurt almost as badly as the
I wonder who he’s with?
game, but not nearly as bad as the
Why wasn’t I good enough
for him?
game.

It was the only explanation that made sense. Another woman. It had to be. Cris never spoke of his family or his past other than in the blandest of ways. He’d been estranged from his family for years, she knew that, she just didn’t know why.

Considering her own crappy background, she’d respected his desire to not talk about it.

As she finished her shower and climbed into bed, she tried to focus on Bob’s face and realized without him in front of her, she really couldn’t recall anything but his blue eyes and the rounded shape of his naked back as he knelt on the floor while awaiting her instructions.

* * * *

Naked, the slave knelt on the motel room floor and waited for his Master to finish showering.

Landry had been particularly vicious that night during their scene, as the slave had expected. Had been vicious ever since Master discovered the secret he’d kept.

The slave didn’t deny he deserved it. And more.

Although nothing his Master dished out could compare to the mental agony he went through

every day. The guilt.

The self-loathing.

The regret.

He heard the water shut off and Landry emerged a moment later, drying himself with a towel.

“You sleep on the floor tonight, slave,” he said. “No pillow, no sheets.” He walked over to the A/C unit and turned the temperature down as far as it would go.

It would be a long, cold night.

“Yes, Master.”

Landry sat on the edge of one of the beds and stared at him. “I did more asking around before we left the club. That man wasn’t her boyfriend, he was one of her clients.”

The slave prayed he masked his surprise well enough so it didn’t show.

And his hope. Of course, he knew hope was a stupid emotion to have. He totally belonged to his Master, heart, mind, body, and soul, and she no longer belonged to him.

Still, old habits and feelings died hard.

Landry continued. “Apparently she’s single. One person hinted something very bad happened to her a few years ago but they wouldn’t talk about it. Of course, I couldn’t push them, it would bring suspicion.”

The slave closed his eyes, wishing he didn’t have to sit and listen to this. He’d prefer another vicious beating. At least that pain ended relatively quickly and sent his mind to a beautiful place where he could temporarily abandon thought.

Landry spread his legs and in French ordered, “Come here and suck my cock.”

Obediently, he knelt between Landry’s legs and performed as required, wishing for a little

tenderness, even a kind and gentle word, and knowing his Master wasn’t yet ready to allow that.

Landry grabbed his head and forced him to go deep. He swallowed his shaft and waited him out until he finally came.

When Landry finally released him, he pointed to the floor. “Go on. You’re done.”

The slave bowed his head, curled up on his side, and prayed for sleep.

Prayed for forgiveness.

Prayed his Master didn’t force him to face Tilly.

Chapter Three

Tuesday afternoon, Tilly parked in the public garage off Ringling in downtown Sarasota and

donned her dark, mirrored sunglasses. The café where they would meet had outdoor seating. Despite having to put up with smokers, she wanted to be out in public when talking to this man.

Landry LaCroux. His voice bore the barest trace of an accent, but she couldn’t place what

exactly. She suspected French. Not Québécois, but more like a native of France.

When the memory of how she might know that threatened to creep in, she squelched it

immediately. Too many old memories had tried to sneak in since seeing Landry’s slave at the club. This happened every once in a while. A song would catch her unprepared and nearly take her knees out. Or watching a movie might bring back a memory and send her to bed crying for the evening.

Fortunately, those weak periods happened with rare frequency lately. The other night at the club was her first lapse in several months.

Maybe I should take that as a good sign.

She arrived nearly half an hour early and brought her Kindle to read. She wanted to control the situation, where they sat, everything. She had the waiter seat her on the far end of the patio where she could watch people walk by on Ringling. Ten minutes later, LaCroux showed up.

Her instincts had been right-on there.

“You are very early, Mistress Cardinal,” he observed as he sat.

“So are you.” She leaned back and studied him. “Tell me, Mr. LaCroux, why does a man such

as yourself need any kind of assistance? I saw you playing with your slave the other night. A few minutes of it, at least. You seem to have him well in hand.”