Heart of the Warrior (31 page)

"Mistress."

"My servant." She stood aside. She knew he had
little time. "Undress and get on your knees."

Trace stripped and fell to his knees after she closed the
door. Already, he could feel his power ebbing. Thank God he had made it in
time.

"What would you have of me, my mistress?" He kept
his gaze on the immaculate marble floor and watched as her black, leather boots
came into view in front of him.

She strapped a collar around his neck and hooked a length of
leather to it. "I have work for you to do, my pet. But first,
downstairs." She tugged on the leash and he fell to all fours and crawled
after her as she led him through the house.

He could hear the subtle tap-tap-tap of a riding crop, as if
she was gently tapping it against her own thigh as she walked.

Trace didn't love her, and she didn't love him. They trusted
one another, but that was as far as their relationship went. Sexual congress
wasn't the objective during these scenes with her, control was. He needed the
pain and to be controlled to bring his power down. Even so, sometimes they
didn't waste the erections he obtained during these sessions and had sex. Trace
wasn’t able to get an erection without feeling humiliated, dominated, or
otherwise tortured in some way, so it seemed a shame not to enjoy a carnal
relation when he got the chance.

He crawled behind her, the marble and hardwood floors biting
against his knees until he reached the door to the basement. He began to stand,
but she smacked him with the crop.

"Crawl down backward, servant."

He bowed his head to the floor. "Yes, Mistress."

Trace turned around and slid his knee back until he found
the edge of the first stair then lowered it to the next. Then he lowered his
other knee until he found the next step. And so forth. It was slow going, and
the mistress tapped her booted foot impatiently as she tugged on the leash.

"Hurry up. You move like molasses, my pet."

Trace tried to move more quickly, but he could only go so
fast.

She whipped the riding crop down over one ass cheek, then
the other. "So slow you move."

Then Trace shuddered as the tip of the crop slid down the
crack of his ass and rested against his scrotum.

Yes, yes, yes!

With rapid, gentle swats she spanked the tender sac of
flesh.
Tap-tap-tap.
The sting was delicious, and Trace groaned as he
went still halfway down the stairs. For him, pain was pleasure.
Aaaahhh.

She tugged on the leash again. "Stop wasting time,
servant."

The riding crop was pulled away from his balls and switched
down over his ass again, spurring him to get moving.

"My apologies, Mistress."

He crawled backward the rest of the way down the stairs,
following the scent of leather and disinfectant. He wasn't her only submissive,
and she kept her equipment expertly cleaned. Not that he really cared. It
wasn't like anything the others left behind would hurt him.

As he turned around at the base of the stairs, he looked up
at her as she walked over to a shelf of accoutrements. Her long, blond hair was
pulled up in a high ponytail, and he imagined that her lips were painted blood
red.

Other than the knee-high boots, she wore a leather bustier
and cuffs, as well as a leather choker around her neck.

She turned around and he quickly ducked his face to the
floor. She tsked and slinked back  to him before kneeling down in front of him.
"Are you looking at me, pet?"

He kept his gaze on her boots and nodded guiltily.

"Awe, now. That's a bad pet. Bad bad pet." She
brushed her hand over his bowed head, scratching his bald scalp with her
fingernails.

Trace had looked at her on purpose, because he needed the
punishment. "Yes, Mistress. I've been bad. I need to be punished."

She swatted him across the back with the riding crop.
"And you shall be. Follow me, bad little doggy."

Trace began to stand, purposely looking to disobey her, and
he was rewarded with a strike of the riding crop across the back of the thigh.

Fuck! That shit was beginning to sting like hell. And didn't
that just get him all fucking excited.

"Stay down, servant. I didn't tell you to stand."

He bowed and knelt once more, crawling behind her to the
area of the basement she used for suspension.

The air was cool in the basement, but that would change soon
enough. Before long, he would be covered in sweat as she pushed him to his
limits of pain tolerance.

She stopped and stepped her boot up onto a raised block of
wood. "My boot needs shined servant." She switched him lightly on the
back of the shoulder.

Not wasting time, Trace leaned forward and licked the shiny,
patent leather, eager for the debasement.

"Mmm, you are in need tonight, aren't you?" Her
voice crooned as he continued swiping his tongue higher, licking up the seam of
the zipper on the inside of the boot until he reached her knee.

After a few minutes had passed, she shoved him away with a
wicked laugh, as if she was amused by some debauched thought of what she
planned to do to him. "Now you may stand," she said, turning away
indifferently.

Trace rose to his full six-foot-five, naked, his dark skin
gleaming in the faint light, his cock already stiffening. He knew what lay
ahead and it excited him. He didn't arouse easily, but during these scenes, he always
did. It was as if his power subsided enough while being worked over that he
could feel the rest of his body and experience other sensations than tension.
Because tension was all his power allowed him to feel outside these walls. He
had to exercise constant control over his power to keep from losing himself and
his mind.

And didn't powerful, control-freak types often make the best
subs? Trace had often heard at the scene parties he attended that the more
powerful or controlling someone was in the real world, the better they
responded to submission. That was certainly true of him.

"What's on your mind, my pet?" Mistress Diamond
prowled around him, inspecting him, trailing the tip of the riding crop over
the curve of his ass before giving him a gentle swat. It would get worse. It
always did.

"Answer me, servant!" She smacked his thigh.

Trace winced. "You, Mistress. You're on my mind. You're
always on my mind." A lie, but his training required such an answer.

"Is that so?"

"Yes, Mistress. I can't stop thinking about you."

"And what do you think about?"

His deep voice lowered even more as he replied. "The
gift of pain you give me."

"And you like that?" She struck his ass with the
riding crop.

Trace bit back a grunt. "Yes, Mistress."

"Give me your wrists, servant."

Jesus! Yes!
Trace's knees trembled at the thought of
what was coming and he lifted his arms.

With expert fingers, she secured thick, wide, leather cuffs
around both wrists then attached a heavy clip connected to a chain to the hook
between the cuffs. In a matter of seconds, he was hoisted into the air, his
arms pulled tight above him as she cranked the handle of a pulley until he was
suspended at least a foot off the floor.

His muscles pulled and stretched, and his cock sprang nearly
straight up. Shit, she hadn't even had to use a cock binding on him tonight.
Probably would have helped keep his already-looming orgasm under better
restraint if she had, though.

"Mmm, you
are
ready for me, I see." She
knelt behind him and he felt her secure the spreader between his feet, cuffing
his ankles to each end after prying his legs open.

Fuck! He was about to come.

She seemed to sense this. "Do
not
come, yet, my
pet. I will be very displeased if you come before I am ready for you to."

Rainbows and unicorns. Rainbows and unicorns. And rotten
meat. Yes, rotten, spoiled meat. That works.
It was the only thing he could
think about to bring his erection under control, but it worked and his pending
orgasm took a breather and chilled out.

"You may look at me now, my pet." She stepped in
front of him.

As he thought, her lips were blood red and her hazel eyes
appraised him scornfully. She was a beautiful woman, and an excellent mistress
as far as humans went, but he felt nothing for her besides his trust that she
could give him what he needed.

She held a horse-hair flogger in her hand and brushed it
down his chest. Trace shivered. With soft strokes, she brushed it side-to-side
over his torso. The coarse texture of the hair scratched his skin. Lower still
the flogger crept, stopping just before brushing over the head of his cock. She
knew that would send him over, didn't she? Then she pulled back and lashed him
with it. In two diagonal strokes, she whipped it down over his chest.

Trace winced and jerked in his restraints. She circled him
and repeated the whipping action on his back until he cried out.

Mistress Diamond stopped and gave him a rest from the
flogger, but not from a verbal berating. "Quiet down! You're weak,
servant. Weak!" She waited another couple of seconds then lashed him again
before rubbing the horse hair over his ass then down and against his exposed
scrotum. The rough texture hurt against his sensitive skin, but that only made
it better. He liked the pain. He needed it. And she knew that.

Trace's orgasm pushed forward again, unable to withstand the
pain.

The flogger skimmed back up to his shoulder as he felt a
cold, metal cylinder press between his ass cheeks. It was thick and heavy and
breached him as she pushed.

He thought he saw stars from the tight fullness and the way
it stretched him. She pushed the cylinder in slowly, then drew it back out,
back in, and out, taking turns whipping him with the flogger. She hadn't used
lubricant on the cylinder and he winced at the dry, slow strokes. He knew the
intent of the cylinder wasn't to hurt him. Just to make him uncomfortable. And
it worked. Very well, in fact. In combination with another whip of the flogger,
the stroke of the cylinder had Trace on the verge. He wasn't going to be able
to wait.

"May I come, please, Mistress?" He was barely
holding it in as it was.

His jaw clenched and his teeth bit together. His more urgent
sessions usually progressed this way, with a relatively rapid release followed
by hours of intense submission that usually included two or more orgasms. Trace
had a feeling tonight would be a good night.

She stepped in front of him and scowled, but Trace could
just sense the pleasure in her eyes that she could drive him toward the brink
so quickly. She stood there, not speaking, not moving, just watching him.

"Please, Mistress." The muscles in Trace's neck
and shoulders strained and his abdomen quivered. He couldn't hold back much
longer. "Please, may I come, Mistress?"

She clamped her hand over his balls and squeezed. "Yes,
you may."

His entire body convulsed as she gripped and twisted, and
almost immediately he released a violent shower of semen that sprayed into the
air then fell over her arm and rained down on the concrete floor. The chains
and equipment holding him rattled and shook, his whole body wracked with
endless spasms as she continued to squeeze his scrotum. The pain – the
beautiful pain – blew him apart until nothing was left, and he slumped over,
spent, feeling like a lamb left for sacrifice.

A minute later, he felt himself being lowered to the floor,
and his widespread feet touched the cold surface within seconds. Then the chain
and cuffs were removed from his wrists and the spreader removed from between
his legs. The cylinder in his ass had already been removed. Hell, maybe it had
fallen out on its own during his orgasm, and he had simply failed to realize it
while in the throes of ecstasy.

After being unbound, he moved his arms and legs, loosening
them up, his body coming back alive as he prepared for more.

"Over there." She pointed to the St. Andrew's
Cross against the wall. It was a large, X-like rack he was very familiar with.

His cock was already growing hard again, and he trudged to
the rack and lifted his arms to the manacles on each side of the upper half of
the X. She strapped him on then shackled his ankles to the bottom.

Aaaahhhh, now the real beating would begin.

Trace closed his eyes and smiled blissfully. His power was
completely shut down. He couldn't even feel it, anymore. Sweet Jesus, praise
God. He was free. For just a little while, anyway, he was free.

Io leaned back against the wall outside Sev’s room, his face
the visual definition of the phrase, stunned stupid. He wasn’t sure how to
feel. His best friend was gay. When had this happened? How the fuck had Ari
become a faggot? The two of them had fucked plenty of women, sometimes
together. How did you go from fucking women to being gay and mated to a dude?
He cringed. What if Ari had been hoping to score with Io during those group
scenes? Had Ari wanted to tap his ass instead of the female tail he had been
getting?

The thought made him shudder.

He closed his eyes and thunked the back of his skull against
the wall. Io had seen Ari with plenty of females, but the fact he had mated Sev
was unavoidable. His bestie had taken Sev as a mate.

How did he feel about that? Io’s stomach knotted. Like he
wanted to get sick, that’s how he felt.

"I know what you’re thinking, Io," Micah said.

"Oh, you do, huh?" He opened his eyes and scowled
across the expanse of the hall to level Micah with a lot of silent eat-my-shit.
Micah had taken a male lover before he had met Sam. Did that make Micah gay,
bisexual, or just a freak?

"Fuck off, Io. I don't work with labels. And, no, Ari
never thought of you like that. He never wanted to 'tap' you, so shut that
thought process down right now."