Sweet and Dirty (12 page)

“Threesome.”

She considered. “One. Well…it depends. Two guys, maybe a three.”

“Feathers, fur, food.”

“Four.”

“Hair pulling.”

“That doesn’t sound fun. Two.”

“You’d be surprised. Role playing.”

“It depends.” In her fantasy, the man stalked her, then had his way with her. Should she tell him that? She felt tempted, then pushed the fantasy back underground where it belonged. “Could you give me an example?”

“Doctor/nurse. Teacher/student. Boss/secretary. Torturer/ prisoner.” He looked at her. “Predator/prey.”

“Could you…explain that last one?”

He was quiet for so long she wasn’t sure he heard her. Then, “One of the most common role-playing fantasies for women is to be taken against their will.”

The air in the room seemed to turn electric, plucking at her nipples, teasing her intimately until she felt short of breath. She tried to hide her reaction. “Yes, I’ve heard that’s a common one.”

“Give it a number.”

“I…can’t.”

His stare burned her. “You can’t? I think you can.” He gave her a fierce smile, showing teeth. “Is it being kidnapped and used as a sex toy? Or chased and brought down and brutally fucked? Maybe a date rape, or a home break-in, or a cruel ravishing while tied to a pirate ship’s mast.”

Her mouth went dry. She wanted to dash from the room, and yet she sat rooted, unable to even look away. She felt her eyes widen and her nipples stand erect, no doubt clearly outlined under the tissue-thin material of her dress. She tried to remember how to be the coolheaded, knowledgeable person she was at work. People consulted her, looked up to her for her experience, her capable management, her enthusiasm for researching anything she didn’t know. But nothing she’d encountered in the workplace or elsewhere prepared her for this sensation of willing helplessness under his gaze. He was talking her language. If he wasn’t careful, she’d…she’d what? Beg him to rape her?

To calm herself, she reached for her glass of wine. “I’m not sure that’s…” To her horror, her hand was shaking. She set the wine down abruptly.

“Some men have the same violent desires. To take, to dominate a struggling victim.
As a fantasy only
. Nora? Nothing here happens that isn’t consensual. You’re safe, I promise.”

He looked off into the distance. Then, “Some men mistakenly believe a woman doesn’t care who stars in her fantasy. Of course she does.”

He referred to Ryan. He believed she was still affected by Ryan’s foul trick on her, she realized with relief. He had no idea what dirty thoughts played in her mind.

Or did he?

She went on the offensive. “Do you have those fantasies, Sylvester?”

“We aren’t talking about me.”

“We’re talking about fantasies. You’re explaining them so well. Do you dream of torturing your helpless victim, then spreading her legs and plowing her as she struggles underneath you? Do you fantasize about stalking a woman, capturing her, and forcing her to perform degrading acts on your filthy body? Does it do it for you, having a woman naked and whimpering while you press her up against the slick walls of her shower, begging you to stop and crying when you push your big cock up between her legs?” Oh god, talking about it was getting her way too hot. She decided to throw caution to the winds. “Do you want to force me, Sylvester?”

Sylvester found himself on his feet, looming over Nora. The woman clutched the edges of her chair as if afraid, but her fast breathing made her obviously hard nipples thrust up at him like pointy little invitations. Which they weren’t. They
weren’t
.

She didn’t know what she was asking for.

He should know better than to be taunted into a lather by a hot-talking woman. Know better than to believe such words at face value. He had, once upon a time. It had ruined his life.

He looked down at her. No denying she wanted something. Possibly him. Probably an effect of her rebounding emotionally from her boyfriend’s betrayal. This had to be put into perspective.

Throttling back his own lust along with the agonizing memories she’d inadvertently evoked, he shook his head. “What I want isn’t relevant at this time.”

Knowing his erection tented his pants, and that there was nothing to be done about it, he slowly returned to his seat. “This isn’t about me and my list of fantasies. It’s about yours. What you want.” He saw her heat undiminished, and marveled at her. Tempting. Refreshing, brave, desirable. In other words, extremely bad news for his hard-won equilibrium.

“It’s just a fantasy, right Sylvester?”

“For some, yes.”

“For you.”

“Irrelevant. Taking me out of the picture, what does Nora Sabine want?”

“I want the world,” she declared. She seemed surprised by her own answer.

Truth rang in her words. Struck by her hunger for life, even after the trick that was played on her, made him admire her more than a little bit. Then again, she might just be tipsy from the wine. “You’ll have to narrow it down. ‘The world’ might be a tall order, even here.”

“Do you generally participate in the playing?” She pulled off her high heels, wiggled her toes. Then stood. He knew there was no misinterpreting the challenging look on her face.

“As the resident dungeon monitor, I try to keep an eye on things. I need to be ready to help out when and where needed.” Her scent, an alluring floral scent of light musk and the soap he’d chosen for all the showers, reached him. It made him blink slowly, savoring. He stared at her. “If the help is welcome.” Now why did he say that? She looked at him, clearly wondering whether to “welcome” him further. He nipped it in the bud. “Ethics forbid involvement.”

“Ethics? Or fear?”

He felt stung. Was she suggesting cowardice? She had no idea who she was talking to. “Let’s talk about you,” he repeated. “You’re curious. You want to play. You seem to have an interest in playing with me, but that’s not something I wish to discuss tonight. You’ve met the other guests. Who’s choice number two? How about Master Andre?”

After a moment in which he was certain she’d storm out, she merely shook her head. “Arrogant, much?” Her lips twitched with suppressed laughter. “What can he do to me that you can’t?”

Nothing, he wanted to tell her. Instead he said: “Master Andre’s an accomplished dominant. He has a solid reputation, and is well known for his Florentine flogging style.”

“Dominants like submissives. I’m not a submissive person.”

He looked at her, evaluating. Maybe she wasn’t. But she wanted to be conquered, was begging for it.

The way she held herself, like a prize bitch daring him to take her down, kept him hard. She really had a sexy body, her curves and muscles in all the right places, her movements graceful as she moved about his room, stretching out. Making herself comfortable. Burning off excess energy? He’d like to help her with that. She would be more than a firecracker, she’d be an explosion of sensuality. The pinnacles to which he could take her. The delights they could share. His mouth filled with saliva at the idea of her welcoming his rougher attentions.

But she wasn’t for him. That fantasy was too dangerous. He stood, prelude to escorting her to Master Andre.

As if reading his mind, she pivoted and stepped against him. He didn’t even have a chance to protest. He couldn’t move for a moment. The shock of her warm body so unexpectedly fitted to his sent sensual forks of lightning all through him. “I want you,” she said in a demanding growl that he felt as well as heard. She grasped his hard cock through his pants. It would have taken a stronger, kinder man to resist the temptation to pull her closer, take what she offered…and he was neither.

He grabbed the cheeks of her ass and hauled her onto his hardness. “You want this? No?” he asked as she recoiled from his size. “Too late,” he said as she suddenly struggled against his obscene thrusting against her. He could rip off her ridiculously thin dress so easily. He could almost hear the tear of fabric, and see her cowering to hide her nakedness, ashamed, but not really…

He felt his eyes narrow in pleasure as she pressed her palms against his chest, pushing, and her small body made a convulsive, and wholly unconvincing, motion of resistance. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, and delved down the front of her dress with the other. “No bra. What a little slut you are.” She tried to twist away, but he tweaked one nipple, pinching it cruelly just to hear her gasp. He cupped one breast. “Nice. Not too big, not too small.” He weighed it like so much meat.

Then he pinched her other nipple. Hard. Harder. He needed to make her cry out, needed her fear, her pain and pleading and tears like other men needed moans of pleasure.

“Nooo,” she finally begged, squirming against his cock, and it was as if she’d taken him into her mouth. Hissing, he pushed against the juncture of her thighs and let his hand leave her tits to cup her ass, to drag her hard against him. As his fingers sank with difficulty into the fear-sealed crack of her ass he felt himself teeter on the edge of losing control completely.

Again.

He couldn’t let it happen again.

He backed away from her, shaking.

She swayed in place, lips parted, eyes glazed. “Don’t stop.”

God, she was tempting. He made himself take another step back. “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate.” He watched her recover herself. Smooth her dress. When she again focused on him he saw anger in her eyes, and was glad for it. “You’re in a vulnerable place right now. I want to help you,
but not that way
.”

She looked at him, at the telltale bulge in his pants. She tossed her hair. “Bit of a drama queen, aren’t you. It’s just sex. You. Me. Bouncy bouncy.”

“Thank you, but I’d prefer not to.”

“But I could
feel
—”

“We didn’t negotiate that. You don’t have a safe word established. There are too many reasons to list why that was wrong and why it’s not going to happen again.”

“No means no.”

He nodded. “Unless negotiated otherwise.”

“I thought you and I were negotiating?” She looked at him hungrily.

It made him nervous. Her sexuality baked off her like a heat aimed right at him. How long had she buried it, denied it, dated people like Ryan who didn’t have a chance at truly satisfying her? He reminded himself she had no idea how much danger she was in.

She was forcing him to rudeness. So be it. “This conversation is over, for the moment. Go. Play with Master Andre, or whomever else you wish.”

Target hit.

She drew back as if he’d transformed into Frankenstein before her eyes. “Right. Got it.” She turned her back, slipped on her shoes, walked away.

Too much? “Don’t forget to discuss your list with him, and choose a safe word. I’ll see you at breakfast,” he called after her. “It’s going to be—”

The door opened, slammed shut.

“—Belgian waffles,” he finished in an empty room. “And berries.” He let himself fall back into his chair, heavy and as helplessly riveted by his lust as if he were trussed to immobilization by Mage’s most elaborate knotwork.

W
hen her eyes focused again, she’d crossed the hallway connecting Sylvester’s suite to the great room. A sense of being watched prickled her skin.

Master Andre stood in the middle of the room. The TV was off; his gaze was steady on her. He waved.

The simple, normal gesture made her smile. She waved back, veered toward him.

“Hello. How are you doing?” he asked when she closed the distance. “Considering everything,” he added. His voice was softer than it had been at the dinner table. In deference to her supposed fragility?

Her body still tingled from Sylvester’s rough touch. And still ached with need for more of his bruising, forceful assault.

So much for fragile.

“Pretty good. Considering everything.” She looked around, appreciating anew the tasteful luxury of the large room, then at Master Andre. In her limited experience, mostly from the media, the S and M-type “masters” all wore sweaty leather vests and leered a lot, as if they’d just cleaned up from a porn shoot.

Master Andre wore a tasteful flannel shirt over black jeans. Standing, he was taller than she’d thought, and though he wasn’t smiling, his lips naturally curved up at the ends. His thin brown hair wanted to recede, would doubtless begin to in a few years, but he had the shapely skull and elegantly casual bearing to get away with it. He reminded her of Bruce Willis. The only hint of leather was a pair of beefy Doc Martens, but she had a pair of those, too, and it didn’t make her into anything but appreciative of good boots.

Master Andre didn’t leer at all. He just stood there, indulgent, permitting her scrutiny. She remembered his proprietary way with Black and White. “They won’t really hurt Ryan, will they?”

He didn’t pretend not to know what she meant. “No.” He considered. “If by that you mean any permanent physical damage. That’s just not what it’s all about.”

“What is it all about?”

He grinned, an easy, cheerful smile that would’ve looked foreign on Sylvester. “You put your right foot in, you put your right foot out…”

“Sylvester explained a few things, but he didn’t cover the Hokey Pokey.” She cocked her head at him. “Master Andre.”

Something flickered in his dark eyes. “That does sound nice coming from you.”

“Does it?” He wasn’t Sylvester, but if she wasn’t mistaken, this very attractive, dominant man wanted to “play.” Whatever that meant. She found herself excited at the thought of finding out.

“What exactly did our gracious host explain, Nora? I’ll be happy to answer any questions you still have.” He looked at her inquiringly. Politely.

“I’m curious…”

“Yes?” His voice was kind.

“…about bondage. And S and M. And everything.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Everything?”

“Not everything,” she hastened to say. “But…well, there’s a list.” She felt strangely flustered again. He had charisma and self-assurance to spare. She wondered at all the things he knew. Hadn’t Sylvester said Master Andre was an accomplished dominant? And what on earth was “Florentine”-style flogging? And where could they go to have him show her?

Suddenly he laughed. “You’re all but in subspace just standing there, aren’t you? I’d better get you down to the dungeon where I can deal with you properly. If you’d like me to?” Polite again.

Her curiosity about the dungeon, about the nasty, clever wiles he’d taught Black and White, about what Master Andre could do to her, emboldened her, yet at the same time she felt oddly abashed. She wasn’t sure of the protocol.

“I’d like you to.”

“Come with me,” he said, taking her arm and placing it firmly in his as he directed their stroll to a wide staircase leading down. “Now, tell me the things on your list. But first and foremost, for a safe word, I’d like to use the default one, the traffic light system. Have you heard of it? Red, yellow, green? Probably self-explanatory, but red means complete stop. Yellow means pause. Green means…”

“Go.”

“Very good. Now tell me all about your list.”

By the time she finished, carefully omitting all mention of Chase and Capture rape fantasies, they’d entered the candlelit domain of the dungeon. She felt wonderfully sensitive, alive to the slightest shift in the air from talking about her fantasies again.

She stared around the room, marveling. The sun had sunk, so the only lights came not from the glass on the two different French doors leading outside, but from the fireplace, the low-watt bulbs placed above the erotic pictures and freestanding art, and the countless pillar candles placed in corners and on shelves.

The art complemented a torture-chamber decor. She peered more closely at one particularly well-lit display of weapons. Steel helmets, short swords, a well-honed trident, and a weighted net pegged to the wall. She fingered it, curious.

“A retiarius net, used by gladiators to snare their adversaries.” He waited for her, indulgent.

Did he think she was stalling? She swallowed, moved away from the weapons. Maybe she was.

A rug over a carpet gave part of the room a lush, opulent feel. Farther away, under low-hanging beams from which chains dangled free, the floor showed only bare concrete. In one corner, dangling from a large exposed beam, was a twin piece of art to the pink-encased man upstairs. It looked just as odd down in this den of exotic sensuality as the other one did upstairs in the elegant dining room.

Unfamiliar music throbbed, a sensual bass beat. She wet her lips, gazing at the bondage furniture. The beds and benches and other larger pieces could be nothing else; the straps and chains and eyebolts made them single-purpose devices. She recognized a converted sawhorse, and an enormous X-shaped cross of wood, and a tall human cage with a tall human male confined inside…. “Ryan!”

“Nora?” He wore a blindfold.

“Don’t talk to the doggie.” Black strolled by her, wrapped herself around the narrow cage. She cooed, “Bad doggie. I told you not to speak. And you’re not erect. You know what I have to do to you now? I have a cattle prod in my hand.” She displayed a long, red wand to Master Andre and Nora. Inserting it through the bars, she murmured, “I could zap you over and over until you screamed. I’d like that.”

“She would,” White told Nora, who jumped. She hadn’t heard the woman approach. “But I’d be very sad. Maybe we could just zap him once, so he knows better for next time.”

“You’re too nice,” Black complained, tracing Ryan’s naked ribs with the probe. Down to his belly. She poked his penis, which stirred.

“Please, Mistress Black.”

Zap! Ryan screeched and Nora jumped at the popping sound of the electrical burst. She covered her mouth.

“Just above his pubic bone,” White whispered. “It sounds worse than it feels.” She considered. “Though it doesn’t feel good.”

Black continued. “I didn’t give the doggie a command to speak. Care to say anything else? No? Then I just need to decide where to zap you one more time…. The arm? The nipple? Oh, he doesn’t like that, look at him tremble! The belly?” Before she finished the word, White triggered the prod. Ryan screamed and the smell of ozone joined the good wood scent from the fireplace.

Nora stared.

“He’s okay,” White assured her, still in a whisper. “Look,” she said, and Nora did. Ryan’s erection jutted up and out, straining through an opening between two metal bars. Black strode up to him, and without warning grasped his cock and balls, fondling them briefly yet expertly. “Good dog.”

Ryan moaned, shamed but clearly in a state of bliss.

A strange surge of feeling rushed through her as she watched Ryan’s arousal. His face was red, he seemed on the verge of dying of mortification, yet his penis leapt and danced the way it never had with her. A willing torture victim.

“How are you feeling?” Master Andre asked, watching her closely.

“I’m feeling…kind of good.”

“Would you like to feel more of that? I’d be honored to guide you in your first submissive experience.”

She wasn’t feeling particularly submissive, but she liked the way Master Andre’s eyes seemed to promise a world of dark delights. “Lead on! Um, the cattle prod thing? Probably only a ‘two.’ And regular sex is right out; I hardly know you.”

He smiled, indulgent. “Not a problem.” The mischievous glitter in his eyes made her wonder what sorts of irregular sex he was thinking about.

He guided her. “This environment is particularly intimate and welcoming. The far doors over there lead to a small balcony for smoking. Do you indulge? No? A pity; quality pipe tobacco is a soothing thing after a session. I go out there all the time.”

He continued to walk her about the place. “Over here is a small, cozy area near the fire. Hardly anyone can see us, but we can see them, can’t we? Black and White are making that poor boy squirm. Mistress Kiana seems fatigued; she’s letting Little Peter give her a foot rub rather than inflicting her usual diabolical punishments. Sylvester’s off doing Sylvestery things, and Mage is forever sequestered in his garret. Other than that it’s just us…and this rack of toys. You haven’t seen these before, have you? Sylvester’s collection, and more. His guests buy toys from shops and vendors’ fairs and Home Depot. They often leave them here. Lucky us.”

He touched one after the other. “Spanking gloves, paddles, shackles, ropes, clothespins, single tails, floggers, canes…Any preference? No? That padded table”—he indicated a wooden table between him and the fireplace, covered only by a fitted gray pad—“will do for you.”

She gazed at it. A bare expanse. Was she supposed to lie down on it?

He gave her a wolfish grin. “First: strip, Nora.”

She swallowed. Just like that?

“Do you need help?” he asked, solicitous.

“No…” Her cheeks burned. Could she do this? She knew she could trust him, could trust everyone she’d met—if she said “red” her adventure with Master Andre would end—but could she take off her clothes in public before a man she hardly knew? She glanced at the others, busy with their own adventures.

If she didn’t, wouldn’t she always regret it? Here was her chance to claim some of the “world” she’d so vehemently told Sylvester she wanted. What was he doing right now, she wondered. Was he having as much trouble as she was, trying not to think about their intense connection? If only Sylvester would give her what they both needed.

But Sylvester had pushed her toward Master Andre.

Who was watching her, a polite question in his dark eyes as she simply stood. She wanted Master Andre, too, wanted his expertise on her body. Wanted his bondage, his flogging, his mysteries. She stepped out of her shoes, kicked them away. Slowly, she pulled up her dress. Folded it, placed it to the side. Feeling his eyes on her body, she bent to remove her black lace panties. Placed them on top of her folded dress.

Should she sit on the table? It felt odd to simply stand, nude. She kept her legs closed, then crossed them. She folded her arms across her chest, then clasped her hands, unable to find a comfortable position for her arms and legs. Master Andre watched, seeming to enjoy her ordeal.

Then he approached. She shook, a little, but not from cold. “Relax, please,” he told her. “You’re going to have a wonderful experience.” He circled her as if she were only a piece of art to admire, as if it were unthinkable to touch her. “You’re very beautiful. I very much like the taper of your waist, and your breasts. Your ass is firm and round. I hate a flat ass; they have no mystery. Your legs have good muscle tone. Do you run?”

“I…yes.”

“I’m not the least bit surprised. You have a lovely body, and a lovely face. I’m going to put your hair up for you, to get it out of the way.”

When she moved to help, he gently placed her hands at her sides. “Not necessary.” With the finesse of an artist, his warm fingers gathered up her hair, twisted it around at the crown of her skull. He tied it off with a knot.

He let his fingers trail sensuously down her neck, tracing patterns on first her right shoulder, then her upper back. His voice in her ear was as soft as thought. “If I do anything that distresses you, or you wish me to stop, say ‘red.’ If you’d like me to pause, to ask me a question or for any other reason, say ‘yellow.’” He drew a snaking pattern on her left shoulder. Then the nape of her neck. “Do you understand?”

Nora nodded. His touch made it difficult to focus on anything else. The light skimming of his fingertips felt gentle, not at all like Sylvester’s punishing touch. She couldn’t completely relax, knowing Master Andre planned his own kind of punishment using the toys he’d called to her attention earlier. But the slow movements of his fully clothed body and his delicate touch didn’t seem sadistic, or cruel, or threatening at all.

Her instinctive grasp of Master Andre’s rhythms guided her. He wouldn’t mar the soft, erotic rhythm of such a masterful touch with something so crass as a sudden beating. His hands continued to stroke and explore her curves and planes and angles, probing here, tickling there, brushing against her nipples so lightly it might have been accidental. She felt her nerve endings come alive at his touch, a hot tide following in the path of his trailing fingers. She leaned into it.

“Nora. I want you to climb up onto this table. Please get on your hands and knees. Yes, parallel to the fireplace, facing this candle pillar.”

She did as he instructed, wondering where her will had gone. It seemed perfectly natural to do as he said.

“Good. Spread your legs for me, Nora.”

She complied, feeling a delicious vulnerability.

“Close your eyes.”

She did, and the faint flicker from the fireplace at the edge of her closed right eyelid became the only movement in her world. As if an expression of that flame, Master Andre’s hand grazed her back, then the cheeks of her ass, then her sides and her flanks, warming her far more than the fire. She trembled.

“Hold very still. Don’t make any sound.”

She held her breath. She tried not to move at all, waiting for who knew what else would occur, but nothing did.

Only the rhythmic beat of the music kept her company while she waited. The tension built in her.

Light as a butterfly’s wing, his touch finally trailed from the top of her neat triangle of hair, down into the crevice, around her lips and back up to circle her clit. Not touching it, just circling. Teasing.