Club Helix: The Power Games (10 page)

“Ava,” he acknowledges, inclining his head slightly in my direction.

“Sir,” I return with a small smile. I had meant it as a joke, but his eyes light up with such pleasure and desire that I wish I’d meant it. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to try to act a little more submissively with him.

“I…I’m sorry I hit you yesterday,” I say.

“Apology accepted,” he says, his smile growing wider. It’s a good thing he doesn’t smile like that often, or I’d be in trouble.

I look at him from beneath my impossibly long fake lashes, suddenly curious what would have happened if things had gone differently. After all, he had already ordered me up to our suite with that dangerous look in his eyes before I had slapped him. “What were you going to do if I hadn’t done that?” I ask.

“Give you an orgasm so powerful and mind-blowing that you couldn’t remember anyone’s name but mine.” His voice is perfectly even, his eyes dark and intense.

“But…you still did that.” I blush, remembering exactly what he’d done to me.

“Ah, that was nothing, Ava,” he says with a small smile. “Nothing but a taste.”

I swallow hard. “Oh.”

His voice lowers seductively. “You have no idea the things I can do to you. That I will do to you. If you cooperate and behave like a good little sub, that is.”

The door opens, and the photographer walks in.

Roman’s voice becomes brisk and businesslike. “Go change for the photo shoot.” He hands me several hangers and nods toward the bathroom. “Start with this.”

I walk into the bathroom, grateful for the fact that I wasn’t expected to undress in the middle of the suite while Roman and the photographer watched. However, after I put on the lingerie Roman bought me, I realize it wouldn’t have made much difference. The panties are white and lacy and cut so my butt is almost fully exposed. The matching bra forces my breasts up, creating cleavage I didn’t know I had, and it barely covers my nipples. If I move just right, I’m definitely going to have a wardrobe malfunction.

I slowly walk back out into the suite, aware of Roman’s heated gaze as it roves over me. The photographer sizes me up appreciatively.

“She is as beautiful as you said,” he says to Roman in a thick Italian accent. “She is your
schiava
, yes?”

“My schiava?” Roman looks amused. “Yes, she is my slave girl.” He holds out his hand, and I take it tentatively.

“Why do you keep calling me your slave girl?” I mutter under my breath.

His lips quirk up. “What do you think you are?”

“We’re partners,” I reason.

“Partners, huh?”

I nod.

He takes a step closer and cups my face, his thumb brushing over my lips.

“Who bought you?” he asks, his voice husky.

“You did,” I whisper.

He leans forward, trailing his soft lips up the line of my jaw. My breath hitches.

“And who makes the rules?” he murmurs, his breath hot in my ear.

“You do,” I manage.

He sucks my earlobe into his mouth, his teeth nipping it lightly before releasing it so he can press a kiss at the tender spot just behind my ear. “And who abides by them?” he rasps.

“Me?”

“Exactly.” His voice is seductive. “That makes you my schiava, Ava, my slave girl. Now come.”

He leads me over to the bed, and I follow, feeling suddenly disoriented like I’ve been hurled down some erotic rabbit hole.

“Lie down on your back.”

I do as he says, following his instructions as he arranges me so my head is hanging over the side of the bed and one knee is bent, the position causing my breasts to swell up out of the bra.

“
Perfetto
,” the photographer murmurs, moving behind me to take several shots. After they both look at the photos on the camera’s screen, Roman instructs me to roll onto my stomach. He drapes me in pearls as the photographer focuses his lens on the curve of my bottom and the dip of my spine just above it, taking half a dozen more photos. Then Roman blindfolds me, and all I can hear is the click of the camera and the softly spoken commands of the men as I’m arranged for their pleasure—lying on my back, kneeling on the bed with my hands resting palms up on my slightly parted thighs, standing with my legs spread and my arms over my head, pressed against the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. It’s surprisingly sensual, and I find myself softening, becoming someone sexual and beautiful, the perfect submissive Roman swears he can make me into.

Eventually Roman takes the blindfold off and nudges me into the bathroom with the next outfit, a black corset paired with a garter belt, stockings, and a pair of fuck-me stilettos. I pose myself with my head and shoulders on the bed and my feet on the floor as if I’ve just half slid off it, looking directly at Roman, and I feel a ripple of feminine power as his eyes flare with desire.

“In the chair now,” he rasps, and I straddle a chair as the photographer clicks away behind me. The outfits and the poses continue, wrapped in a seductive cloak of murmured compliments and approval.

“Beautiful schiava.”

“So exquisite.”

“Such flawless skin.”

Both Roman and the photographer fuss over me, stroking my skin while they bend me over, position me on the bed with my legs parted as I hold up my hair, on my back with my legs straight up, standing with my back arched against the wall and my arms extended over my head. With authoritative fingers, Roman removes my bra, and I languidly cover my breasts with one arm as I lie on my back with my knees bent and my back arched, feeling beautiful…powerful.

“
Eccellente
,” the photographer says finally, turning to put his camera away. “
Finito!
”

“I want to take some in the Helix Room,” Roman says abruptly. He turns to me. “Are you up for more?”

I nod. Quite honestly, I could do this all day. I’ve never felt so beautiful or so utterly feminine in my life. I move toward the bathroom to change since I’m wearing nothing but a black lace thong, but he stops me, grabbing a short silk robe off a hanging rack and handing it to me. “Don’t change. I don’t want to break the mood. I like you like this, all soft and pliable. Submissive,” he adds, his voice dropping lower.

The photographer gathers his equipment, and together we walk through the hotel to the Helix Room. Roman turns the lights on as we enter, dimming them before he removes my robe and takes my hand, leading me straight to one of the enormous wooden crosses.

“Stand against it,” he murmurs.

I do as he says, my breath catching at the feel of the cool, smooth wood against my bare skin. He grabs one of my arms and buckles it to the top of the X with the attached restraint, then does the same with my other arm. He bends to move my feet until they are flush with the bottom points of the X and attaches the cuffs so I’m completely immobile, my limbs spread obscenely and secured to the four points of the cross. I have never felt so vulnerable or exposed.

Roman looks at me with approval as his hand lightly grips my throat.

“How does it feel, schiava, to be totally at my mercy?” He slowly trails his finger from my wildly beating pulse down the valley of my breasts, stopping just above my pelvic bone. I can’t help myself from trying to tip my hips toward his hand, but he removes it, laughing softly.

“Take the picture now, Eduardo,” he says.

I’m suddenly conscious of the way I must look trussed up on the cross, splayed and open. My lips part slightly as I try to suck breath into my lungs. This is an entirely different kind of photo shoot.

After the photographer snaps a few shots, Roman steps toward me with something that looks like a black rubber ball with straps attached dangling from his fingertips. Before I can ask what it is, he’s placing it between my lips and fastening the straps behind my head so the damned thing is firmly wedged in my mouth.

“Mmmmfff!” I writhe against the restraints, panicked by my inability to either move or speak.

Roman’s hands are on me instantly, both calming and arousing me as they traverse my hypersensitive skin.

“Shhhh. Relax. It’s just for a few photos.” Roman’s touch, coupled with the soothing deep baritone of his voice, quiets me as the photographer steps forward and Roman retreats. I know I look wide-eyed and helpless as the shutter clicks away, and I’m relieved when Roman is next to me again, unbuckling the straps and removing the gag. I take deep, gulping breaths, quivering with both anxiety and arousal.

“We’ll have to work on the gag,” Roman says with a small smile. “Or maybe you’ll just have to behave so I don’t need to use it.”

I swallow hard. He uncuffs me from the cross and leads me to one of the low pedestals that’s surrounded by a circular burgundy leather banquet seat. He lifts me easily so I’m sitting perched on the edge. He vaults up onto the pedestal next to me with practiced grace and pulls me to my feet as his strong arms go around me. Feeling totally out of my comfort zone, I lean into his hard chest, grateful for the security of his arm around me, even if it’s just an illusion, as his hands stroke my back soothingly.

After a moment, he reaches above us and catches a pair of leather cuffs that are dangling from a chain attached to the ceiling and wraps them around my wrists, shackling me with my arms over my head. I struggle slightly, panicked again, and Roman chuckles. He tugs another chain suspended next to the one with the cuffs, pulling me onto my tiptoes. He hops off the pedestal, nods to the photographer, and then walks away. I stare at his retreating back as tendrils of fear creep up my spine.

I stand there dangling, objectified, and mortified, my panties inexplicably growing wet as the photographer moves around me, snapping picture after picture. What the hell is wrong with me that panic and desire can swirl together so seamlessly, making me needy in a way I never imagined?

Then Roman is there, and I can’t help the swell of relief I feel when he joins me on the pedestal again.

“You are lovely when you’re vulnerable,” he says softly. He palms my breasts, and I inhale sharply at the feel of his hands on my body, singeing my skin with his touch. My nipples feel like hard diamonds, and he takes one between each thumb and forefinger, rolling them until I moan.

He pulls two small clamps joined by a thin silver chain from his pocket.

“Wh-what are those?”

“Nipple clamps.”

“I don’t want those!” I say with a hint of desperation. The chain clangs above me as I futilely try to move out of his reach, but I can’t with my arms imprisoned over my head. I can do nothing but hang there helplessly, my body available for whatever pain or pleasure Roman chooses to give.

“You agreed to these in the questionnaire you filled out,” he says mildly. “In fact, you agreed to the use of any and all toys.” His smile is voracious. “I’m looking forward to seeing a plug in your sweet little ass. Maybe one with a tail attached.”

He chuckles at my look of horror, taking advantage of my alarm to attach one of the clamps to my sensitive nipple.

“Ow!”

“Breathe, Ava,” he says softly, his hand stroking my back again. “Breathe through the pain, and it will turn to pleasure.”

I’m not so sure about that, particularly since he’s doing something to the clamp that’s making it even tighter. Fuck, it hurts! I suck in air until I grow accustomed to the pressure compressing my poor nipple. Apparently satisfied that I’m in sufficient pain, he cups my other breast, flicking the nipple hard enough to make me wince before applying the other clamp to it. He gives the chain a little tug that makes me gasp, and then he pulls the blindfold out of his pocket, and I’m once again thrown into darkness.

“Take more,” he orders the photographer. The onslaught of sensation threatens to overwhelm me as I stand there bound and utterly helpless, unable to see or move. The clamps are biting into the tender flesh of my nipples, shooting daggers of agony coupled with an odd craving straight to my core, and my body throbs rhythmically with my nipples as the photographer captures my anguish and ecstasy. Then Roman’s back, freeing my wrists from the cuffs over my head only to cuff them again behind me before lifting me off the pedestal.

He kisses me hard, his own arousal and need evident in the thrust of his tongue and the bruising demands of his lips, and I can feel myself start to unravel. He threads his fingers in my hair and tips my head back until my throat is exposed. With brusque instructions for me to stay still, he steps back abruptly and again orders the photographer to take more pictures.

I sense Roman’s presence near me even before his fingers begin untying the blindfold. He moves back into my field of vision, and the need that has been building in me all afternoon spills over like a volcano that has been simmering for centuries, finally unable to be contained any longer. I want to throw myself in his arms. I’m needy in a way I’ve never been before, and while I know that later I’ll need to examine my feelings and shore up the cracks in the fortress that’s integral to my well-being, in this moment I just want Roman and what he can give me. For once, I don’t want to feel numb and hollow. I want to experience the full gamut of emotions, to be taken and used. In this room I have become someone else, someone whose desire is only to please and be pleasured.

“What are you?” he asks, his fingers in my hair forcing me to look into his indecipherable eyes, which have darkened to blue.

I’m so desperate with need, so consumed by the onslaught of unexpected and unfamiliar desires, that I’d tell him anything right now, and I know what he wants to hear.

“Your slave,” I say, my voice ragged.

His eyes gleam with triumph as he traces my cheekbone almost reverently with the pad of his thumb. “You will be,” he says simply, leaving me wondering what exactly he means.

He removes one of the clamps from my breast, and my nipple erupts into flames. Holy fucking hell. I’m going to die. His mouth fastens around the impossibly sensitive peak, and I feel the pain recede as his tongue softly licks the abused flesh, driving my arousal even higher.

I brace myself for the pain as he moves to my other breast, but he distracts me, slapping my ass sharply with an open palm. By the time I’ve processed the sting that quickly morphs into an aching warmth, the clamp is off, his mouth is once again on my nipple, and I’m whimpering at the river of sensations flowing over me.