“So every night this place is filled with…”
“BDSMers? Nah. Saturdays only. Fridays are for the swinging crowd, Thursdays are leatherboys. Sometimes he’ll rent the room out for private parties.”
“Busy place.” Master Z, they called him. So he was a dominant, and he treated her like a submissive. Submitting to a man. Even as she rejected the whole idea, her body thrilled at the thought. Dammit, he’d hit her with a paddle until she’d been crying all over the place. Then he had held her as tenderly as a child and let her cry on him.
She shifted again, trying to find some position where her butt didn’t hurt. Like that would happen. So would she prefer sex to have a bite? Should she be analyzing this like she would some client’s books?
Why shouldn’t she take the time to study it?
Okay, then, admit it… Watching the Dom/sub couples had made her hot. Hotter than she’d felt even watching porn on TV with Matt, her last boyfriend. He’d been trying to get her more interested in sex, but the porn had been not only boring, but a turn-off.
Watching that Dom kiss his sub -- no, take a kiss, allowing no refusal -- had been far more erotic than watching a penis pumping into a woman on film. And the way Master Z kissed… Her insides melted at the memory. She shook her head. Thinking about his demanding mouth, those firm lips, would turn her brain to mush. Think, Jessica.
But this BDSM stuff was way over the top, wasn’t it? She didn’t need something kinky to get off. Sex for her was pleasant enough, really it was. Once she got started. And she got off at least half the time. Her orgasms were nice.
She bit her lip. Why did she get the feeling that if she went to bed with Master Z, nice@ wouldn’t be the operative word? Because he’d take her, not have sex with her. And she figured she wouldn’t have any choice in how it would happen or what he’d do.
And just the thought of that sent moisture trickling between her legs. Oh, God.
Still drawing the comb through her hair, she realized the strands were free of knots, flowing down to the middle of her back. Now what was she going to do to keep herself diverted? She could hear the people inside the club laughing, talking. The music thrummed with a compelling beat.
She wanted to go back in there. Find out what she was missing. And she was too scared to do it. He’d spanked her, dammit.
A part of her brain pointed out that she’d broken the rules, and he hadn’t been happy at all about having to enforce the rules.
Nonetheless, what if she went back and he did something horrible to her?
She didn’t even know him.
“Is he a good boss?” she asked, her voice barely over a whisper.
Ben shook his head. “Oh, you’ve got it bad, don’t you? Okay, here’s the rundown on Master Z. Been here for years. The club is his hobby. Nothing unlawful, no drugs allowed. Pays his employees on time. Expects his people to be professional. Divorced once, two grown children, not serious with anyone now. Women fall all over him, and in his world, he’s known as the best master around. And that’s according to the subs, who would definitely know.” He gave her a challenging grin. “That what you wanted to hear?”
She flushed and nodded, looking down at her hands.
“Oh, and he doesn’t go for the hard-core S/M stuff, whips and beatings and hot wax stuff. If you’re hankering after that, he’s not your man.”
“But --” The paddle.
“Not to say if a sub stepped out of line, she wouldn’t get punished,” he added. “But there’s a difference between a spanking kind of thing and getting whipped. Or so I’ve been told.”
“Oh.”
Sir was interested in her. She’d seen that, felt his erection pushing against her. He’d be willing to take her to bed. Show her…things. The thought made her insides quiver and her core throb.
If she stayed here in the entryway and left in the morning, this Dom/sub stuff would be an itch at the edge of her mind, be whispering to her every time she went to bed with someone. She’d be comparing a what might have been with normal sex and never know if reality would have lived up to her imagination. After all, maybe sex with a master would be just another fizzle like so much of her sex life had been.
Could she stand not knowing?
Before she’d really decided -- had she decided? -- she was on her feet.
“Going back in?”
She set the comb down on his desk. “Don’t tell me. I’m dumber than I look, right?”
He grinned. “Braver at least.”
Zachary felt her before he saw her, a compelling mix of desire, fear, and determination, and his own emotions flared up with pleasure. Although he’d hoped, he hadn’t really expected her to return, not after such a harsh introduction to the lifestyle. He’d considered joining her in the entry, talking more with her, but had refrained. She should make her decisions without his influence.
Wasn’t it ironic that he’d discover an intriguing woman, one where the chemistry between them was like pouring gasoline on fire, and she wouldn’t be part of the scene?
But here she was now, resolve and courage uppermost in her emotional fields. She might be innocent as far as alternative sex, but she had an admirable ability to honestly acknowledge her own needs. And the guts to go after what she wanted.
Pity her bravery had brought her to this scene, he thought, trying not to smile as she walked up beside him and froze. A pretty sub with bright red hair was tied to a spanking horse. The angle had been tilted so her ass was high in the air, much like Jessica’s had been, Zachary remembered with enjoyment.
He glanced down, seeing Jessica’s eyes widen, feeling her shock at seeing the tied sub. And then her imagination was putting her there in the sub’s place, with him behind her. Her memory of the paddle was submerged in the arousal searing through her veins at the idea.
The Dom in the scene squirted some lube onto his fingers and now slid two fingers into his sub’s perky little asshole. She wailed and squirmed -- more from arousal than pain, Zachary knew. But Jessica tightened against his side, so he leaned down.
“These two have a long relationship,” he whispered. “He has taken her this way over and over, and she comes screaming every time. They’re both enjoying the show they’re putting on, Jessica.”
She was stiff until his words sank in, then relaxed, gazed up at him. “You’re sure?”
“As sure about them as I’m sure that you’re not ready to have my fingers sliding into anything except your pussy.”
Her sharp inhalation, followed by a shock wave of heat, hardened him like a rock. Yes, the attraction was definitely there. Would the trust that was needed follow?
So when she pushed herself into feeling angry at his blunt words, turned her face up to scold him, he simply took her lips, those soft pink lips he’d been craving since the last time. His arm around her foiled her attempt to step back. He set his other hand along her jaw, keeping her tilted at the right angle to toy with her mouth, to nibble on her succulent lips, run his tongue across the velvety skin and tease until she opened for him, letting him in deeper to discover the secrets inside. When he sucked on her tongue, he could feel her melt.
Her lips seemed to burn under his as he tantalized them both until she flattened her curvy body against him in an effort to get closer. Pleasure indeed.
Reluctantly, he pulled back, taking her arms and setting her away from him. As she blinked, returned to her surroundings, the tied-down sub in front of them received her master’s cock with a shriek of delight and then spasmed into a loud and happy orgasm.
Jessica turned a dark red, choked a little. “Ah. Guess you were right about them, huh?”
Grinning, Zachary put an arm around her, steering her away.
They weren’t returning to the bar; he was taking her toward the front of the room. Jessica dragged her feet. “Where are we --”
“You’ve had a long day and probably missed supper,” Sir said. “You must be starving by now.”
Food? That seemed so…mundane in this exotic place, but the thought set her stomach to growling. “I guess I am a little hungry.”
She hadn’t noticed before, since it had been on the other side of the bar, but the front corner opposite the dance floor held long tables filled with finger foods. Sir handed her a small plate, and she moved down the table, picking up tiny meat pastries, stuffed mushroom caps, crab canapés. He didn’t take anything to eat, just poured them each some iced tea.
“Aren’t you hungry?” she asked.
“I ate earlier.”
In an unoccupied sitting area, she sat on the couch, and he took a chair. He rarely wasn’t touching her, she realized, looking over the coffee table at him and feeling more than physical distance growing between them. She set the plate on the coffee table, increasingly self-conscious.
“So,” she said. She was back to feeling awkward in a man’s presence; wasn’t that weird? “How did you come to own a club like this?”
He leaned back in the chair, obviously at ease, his legs stretched out in front of him. One lean hand held his glass of tea as he contemplated her for a moment. “The lifestyle can be a lonely one, and people turn to the clubs for company. I didn’t like some of the abuse taking place in them and wanted to see if I could do better.”
