Undone (16 page)

At the head of the stairs, Sol ushered me aside and said, ‘Now I want you to stay silent until I give you permission to speak.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Are you challenging my authority?’

I laughed. ‘Seems so.’

He gave me a warning glare. ‘Shut. The fuck. Up.’

A smile twitched on the corner of his lips, threatening to undermine his attempt at nastiness, but somewhere under his heavy brows a darkness burned. And somewhere between my thighs a response tugged.

The dungeon was nothing more exotic than an upstairs bar in a smallish room. An anachronistic disco ball cast shattered light over people and rippled across pieces of equipment with a medieval aesthetic. A man in a terrible red thong stood strapped to a padded X-shaped cross, his back, butt and thighs striped with welts. A plump woman in a black PVC mini-dress thrashed him with a short whip. Two women sat on a peculiar leather-topped bench, drinking cans of Red Stripe. The other items of furniture, ominous pieces fashioned from wood, metal and leather, and adorned with clips and chains, remained unused.

Most people stood on the periphery of the dungeon space, chatting and drinking as if nothing unusual was going on. The whip cracked above the music and the man flinched whenever it landed, occasionally rolling his shoulders as if luxuriating in his painful pleasures. He’d clearly been fastened to the cross for some time. I wondered how it would feel to be subjected to such punishment. I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to experience such an extreme degree of pain. Each to their own, but that was so far outside my comfort zone it was virtually in another universe.

‘Let’s hang out here and watch,’ said Sol. ‘Get the lie of the land.’

I turned to him with a deliberate open mouth, a visual comment on my enforced silence.

Sol grinned. ‘You are so going to get it in the neck later.’

I raised my brows and smiled as salaciously as I could.

We found ourselves a corner to observe from. Sol held me close in front of him, an arm around my bare midriff, one hand under the strap of my braces, caressing lightly. His sweat-damp torso pressed into my back, the wool of his open uniform tickling lightly. We watched as a woman wearing plaits and a schoolgirl uniform took up position at a bench seemingly designed for spanking. She knelt on raised cushioned rests and leaned face forwards over the length of the padded bench. Her partner, a burly guy in military fatigues, lifted her plaid skirt onto her back and lowered her big, white knickers down to her knee-length socks. He rubbed at her exposed, dimpled buttocks, glancing up to see who was watching.

In my ear Sol said, ‘You think you’d like that?’ The caress on my waist strengthened. ‘Ass in the air in a room full of people?’

I shook my head, closing my eyes.

‘You sure about that, Cha Cha?’ He pulled me tighter, holding me across the hips as he pressed into my buttocks, making sure I could feel the jut of his erection through my skirt.

My breath quickened, as did my heart. He wouldn’t make me do anything so outlandish, would he? A dull crack sounded and I looked back at the couple. The woman’s bottom wobbled with the impact of a blow. Her army guy stood behind her, leather paddle in hand. He swiped her other cheek, making the flesh shake. A woman in spike heels, a nautical bikini and a sailor’s cap sashayed around the equipment, hands in the air.

Sol squeezed and rubbed my waist, cupped my breasts, and murmured filth in my ear. He could have been reading from a Chinese takeaway menu and the accent alone would have made me wet. I arched into him, rolling my head against his shoulder. He stroked my silver collar and drew fingertip circles in the hollow of my throat.

‘That’s where I wish my cock was right now,’ he whispered, pressing firmer. ‘In your mouth so deep it’d reach to here.’

He smudged kisses across my neck, behind my ear, until I was limp with lust.

‘OK, Cha Cha,’ he said. ‘I want you to do something now. I’m going to give you some money and I want you to get us a couple of drinks.’ He patted my arse sharply, changing the mood. ‘And while you’re at the bar, see if you can get into conversation with the guy dressed in black. The one with a goatee and a shaved head.’

I didn’t want to move, wasn’t sure if I could, but when I looked over to the bar, I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘You just described half the men in this room,’ I said. I turned to embrace him and rubbed at his chest, his crisp, coarse hair springing under my fingers.

‘Yeah, OK,’ he conceded, grinning. ‘The one on the left. He’s with a woman wearing a green tutu and stripy stockings.’

I glanced their way as I slipped a hand under his blue jacket, caressing his warm, smooth back. ‘OK, Squadron Leader Miller.’

‘Don’t get lippy,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, who gave you permission to talk?’

‘Um, how else am I going to get into conversation with someone, Sherlock?’

‘Here, take thirty.’ He flipped open his wallet and handed me a couple of notes. ‘Buy them a drink if you need to.’

‘Who are they?’

Sol shrugged. ‘Dunno. But they seem to know a lot of people so it might be useful to forge a connection.’

‘OK, boss,’ I said. ‘Here’s hoping they don’t ask me about my years shacked up with you in New Jersey.’

I took a shortcut through the dungeon arena, careful to keep my distance from those wielding whips and paddles. Then I edged through the crowds, my skirt crumpling around me. I stood near the couple at the packed bar. I felt sorry for the harried guy serving but the chance to linger was useful.

‘Is it usually so busy?’ I asked the woman in the tutu.

She shook her head. ‘First time they’ve had a night at this venue. There aren’t enough staff on. It’s mad. Bit shit as well, to be honest.’

‘Where’s it usually held?’

The woman’s partner nudged closer to the bar, brandishing a folded tenner over other people’s heads. I guessed he was her dom or master or top or maybe simply her kinky boyfriend.

‘Best ones are in London. But here it’s usually at Zangos. Down by the beach. You know it? Love your make-up, by the way.’

‘Cheers! And I love your skirt,’ I lied. ‘Don’t know Zangos, no. I live in Saltbourne. Only moved there recently. Just getting to know the scene down here.’

‘Oh, a mate of mine lives in Saltbourne. Have to confess, I’ve got a love–hate relationship with the place.’

‘Yeah, it’s that kind of town.’

And we were away, chatting above the music while getting jostled by people eager to get served. She was called Emma, her partner was Mark, their friend was Tom, this was Declan, Veronica from Poland, and, oh and that was Merry Nell.

‘You on your own?’ Emma asked.

I was warming to her sweet, cheerful manner. ‘No, with my partner. Seem to have lost him though.’

The group disbanded as people got served but I managed to keep chatting to Emma, Mark and Tom. We edged towards a square column with our drinks, because, when I’d mentioned being the owner of a cocktail bar, Mark was keen to tell me exactly how to make a gin martini. I sighed inwardly because gin martini
is
martini. Vodka martini is a variation on a classic.

‘I always say,’ declared Mark, ‘fill a glass with gin and wave it in the general direction of Italy.’

His friends laughed.

‘That’s a famous quote,’ I said. ‘Noel Coward, if memory serves.’

‘Is it? Well, he had the right idea.’

To my relief, I spotted Sol threading a path towards us. I wasn’t sure what I was meant to be doing, whether making friends with these people was enough or if I should be trying to establish if they knew Misha.

Sol had that dark, clouded look on his face, an expression suggesting he was either angry or mercilessly horny. Impossible to tell if he was pissed off or he’d fully stepped into his role as my dominant. Either way, he looked hot and mean, intent on business.

When he neared me, he clasped me lightly from behind and leaned close to my ear. His breath tickled. ‘Put the drink down, baby,’ he said.

His soft, authoritative tone sparked a liquid rush. He caressed my midriff, and between my thighs my lips thickened quickly. I swallowed nervously, placing my vodka next to his beer bottle on the ledge of the column around which we were clustered. He kissed and nuzzled by my ear then I felt him rummage in a jacket pocket. I half turned to see him withdrawing the Hiatts. With a quick, brutal flick, he snapped the cuffs on to my wrists, tugging my arms back so hard he jolted my shoulder sockets. I yelped, wriggling instinctively to be free. They were called speedcuffs for a reason but, nonetheless, the suddenness of his action startled me. I continued struggling, irked with him for slapping on the cuffs without warning.

From behind, he reached for my neck, half circling me below my chin with the span of thumb and forefinger. He titled my head backwards, stretching my neck taut. He held the cuffs around their rigid stem, twisting me fractionally, demonstrating how easily he could steer me. The metal edges dug into my hands.

‘Hush now,’ he murmured in my ear, lips brushing against me. ‘Hush, there’s a good girl.’

I calmed, his voice a swift, dizzying narcotic, and drew slow, careful breaths. Awareness of the eyes observing us made me burn with shame and dark, secret pleasures.

‘That’s better,’ Sol whispered, removing his warning grip from my neck. I cast over my shoulder to see him take the baton key from his top pocket. I turned away from him and stood motionless, obedient, my eyes fixed ahead as he bent to lock the cuffs in place.

My three new friends watched, interested and amused. Cold, harsh metal weighed low on my hands, the angle of my capture causing my shoulders to jut, and my tits to thrust as if on offer to all and sundry.

I found my public vulnerability excruciatingly awful, my sequin-tipped breasts on display and devoid of protection. That inability to defend myself is what I love and loathe about cuffs. It’s not simply about the restriction of movement; it’s about the restriction of movement when you know damn well someone’s keen to exploit that.

‘You want to play with her?’ asked Sol. He pinched my jaw with one hand, tipping my head back as if better to display me.

I winced, a wave of heat rising from my neck to my cheeks. A pulse pounded in my ears and my entire face throbbed with the upsurge of blood. Between my thighs, a burst of wet arousal made my folds swell and throb. I silently cursed Sol for pushing me towards my limit so early in the game. These people had accepted me without suspicion so the master/slave act wasn’t remotely necessary. But Sol knew I couldn’t protest without destroying the sham which wasn’t quite a sham.

‘I’d love to play,’ chirped up Emma.

I heard chains rattle behind me and felt a slight tug on my cuffs. Cool metal touched my bare back and when I heard a click by the base of my neck I understood Sol had linked my cuffs to my collar with a length of chain. Jeez, he hadn’t mentioned that his voluminous jacket pockets doubled as a portable dungeon. What else had he brought out with him?

‘Excellent,’ said Sol. ‘Why don’t you start by taking off her pasties?’

I jerked my shoulders in protest, complaining softly. Tears of humiliation stung my eyes. I wasn’t sure I could tolerate being toyed with in such a public venue.

‘Aw, but they’re so pretty,’ said Emma, sarcastically reluctant.

‘What’s underneath is even prettier.’

I closed my eyes as Sol stroked a finger around one nipple patch, lulling me towards receptivity, drugging me with lust. When I opened my eyes, Emma was studying me with an expression I’d never received from a woman before, cruel, mischievous and unpleasantly smug. Perhaps she wasn’t the sweet, friendly creature I’d first taken her for.

With pinched fingers, she took the point of one sequinned star; then, her gaze pinned on my face, her tongue tip poking, she peeled down the sticky little shield to uncover my nipple. I felt my exposed tip begin to spike.

‘Ooo!’ She handed the pasty to Sol.

I was mortified at being treated this way in front of spectators; mortified too that my tormentor was a perky young woman wearing a cartoonish net skirt. With a brisk, workmanlike touch, Emma squeezed my nipple and then rubbed her thumb back and forth. She was erasing traces of adhesive and the confidence with which she handled me turned my cunt to syrupy warmth. I threw a glance at our onlookers. We had around half a dozen guys, presumably hoping for some extensive girl-on-girl action. But I’m not into women so I privately cast Emma as a sadistic slave cleaning me up for the approval of men watching me at auction. My imagination was evidently quick to get in role.

My nipple hardened fully. Smirking, Emma tapped with her fingertips as if dusting away flecks. She stepped closer, rested her hands on my waist, and leaned forwards.

Oh sweet Jesus, no. I squeezed my eyes shut, my face on fire. Heat and wetness flared around my nipple. A man laughed, a boorish thump of noise lifting above the music. Another jeered in encouragement. Someone whistled. Emma’s tongue slathered circles around my stiffness; then she sucked tenderly as if trying to draw precious juice from me. I thought my knees would buckle. Her touch above my hips felt like a gigantic pressure threatening to topple me.

For several moments all I knew were those soft hands on my waist and the wetness around my tip. I barely breathed. My nipple felt enormous, expansive, as if Emma’s rippling, sucking, sloshing heat were spreading to overtake my entire upper body and connect with the sensation swirling in my cunt. And through all the dizzying bliss ran the more dubious pleasure of knowing strangers watched us, cocks getting hard. Their attention generated and exacerbated the dark, stormy charge of my humiliation, their enjoyment of my discomfort making my discomfort worse than ever.

I kept my eyes shut tight, trying to block out my audience, until Emma pulled away. I released my breath, gawping down at her in arousal and astonishment. She gazed coquettishly upwards, grinning. She straightened, flicked her thumb across my nipple. After a nod at Sol, she turned her attention to my other, covered nipple. With the same lingering pleasure, she peeled away my second pasty, studying my face all the while. From behind, Sol reached out a cupped hand and Emma placed the sparkly black star in his palm.