Donovan chuckled softly, but mercifully he replaced the shower head in its slot overhead. He pulled Jordan gently from the bench, but instead of allowing her to rise, he pressed her to her knees. His erect cock brushed her cheek and she needed no further instruction.
As the hot water rained down on her back and shoulders and steam swirled around them, Jordan took Donovan’s cock deep in her throat. She cradled his heavy balls in her hands as she bobbed over his groin, worshipping his cock with every ounce of her being.
When he ejaculated deep in her throat, she barely had to swallow. Not ready to let him go, she continued to suck and stroke his shaft with her mouth, lips and tongue. She felt as if she could do this forever. She was completely consumed with her delicious task. It wasn’t about power or control, as it had been with the other men in her life, but rather about giving over, about surrendering to the pure, raw masculinity of this perfect man who stood before her. She would have kissed and suckled him for as long as he let her. But he was pulling back, his hands lightly on her shoulders as he stepped away. Reaching for her, he drew her up into his arms.
When they got out of the shower she picked up a towel, suddenly feeling the need to serve the Master. She was silently grateful when he permitted her to do this small but centering task. She ran the terrycloth carefully over his naked body and limbs, adding a kiss to the head of his penis when she was done, which made him laugh, and she laughed too, beyond happy.
She knelt on the cushion in the kitchen while she watched Donovan prepare a simple breakfast of toast and fresh peaches with cream, along with strong, hot coffee. He fed her lovingly, and each bite was more delicious than the last.
When they’d both had their fill, he did a very curious thing. Taking her left hand in his, he stroked her ring finger with the tips of his thumb and forefinger, as if he were placing an invisible ring there. She met his gaze, a question in her eyes. He smiled and said enigmatically, “Trust. A matter of trust.”
~*~
Donovan led Jordan into the playroom and had her stand on the mat in the center of the room. “Hands overhead,” he instructed, excited at the scene he had planned for her. Ever since the epiphany he’d experienced in the parking lot with Gene the night before, Donovan had felt different. Lighter, somehow, as if heavy chains he hadn’t even realized he’d been dragging along behind him had suddenly been cut away.
The very thing he asked, or in truth, demanded of his subs was the very thing he had withheld from Jordan. Listening to Gene, he had understood suddenly that his anger when he watched Mistress Jordan with her sub boys wasn’t about concern for her safety or even jealousy that she might fall for another guy.
Beneath the anger was fear. A fear he would have staunchly denied if Gene hadn't somehow penetrated the armor of his denial with one well-placed stroke. Why was it he’d never found a woman to love? Why was it, at age thirty-two, he was still alone at the end of the day, never satisfied with what he had, always finding fault or lack in whoever he was with, and in so doing absolving himself of any responsibility for his failure to connect?
It was about trust!
Trust not only in the woman he was with, but in himself. Trust that he had what it took to enter into and sustain a mature, loving relationship with another person. Trust that he had the courage to be vulnerable with the one person who had the power to hurt him the most.
He didn’t want to stop Jordan from being who she was, any more than he would have wanted to stop being Master in residence at the club just because he’d met the girl of his dreams. He loved Jordan, he understood now, not in spite of her dominant side, but because of it, because of precisely and exactly who she was, as complex and fascinating as any woman he’d ever known. By example she had shown him what true courage was, the courage to submit when it was scary, the courage to be vulnerable in the face of uncertainty.
And by example, she had taught him what trust was about. She had given him no reason to doubt her, not once, not for a second. No matter how many men crowded around her, or how intense the scenes she executed in the red room became, Jordan always and only had eyes for him, for her Master, for Donovan.
He wrapped the Velcro cuffs around Jordan’s wrists and attached them to the chains hanging from the ceiling beam. Going to the wall, he turned the winch to raise the chains until Jordan’s arms were taut overhead, her luscious breasts lifted like an offering. He moved to stand in front of her, his cock tenting his boxer shorts at the sight of the lovely young woman in his chains, utterly at his mercy. He tugged the underwear down his legs and kicked it away.
He leaned down and kissed her mouth, slowly, lingeringly, while letting his hands roam over her smooth, bare body. He rolled her nipples in his fingers until they were hard beneath the spongy flesh. He let his hand trail down between her legs, slipping a finger into her wetness and grinding his palm against her spread sex until she groaned.
Finally letting her go, he stepped back so he could look deep into her eyes. “Do you trust me, slave girl?”
“Yes, Sir,” she breathed, her eyes fluttering shut.
“Open your eyes,” he instructed. “Look at me.” He waited while she obeyed. Keeping his gaze locked on hers, he said, “Today I’m going to take you further than we’ve been before. I’m going to test that trust.” He reached for her throat, stroking the supple skin with his thumb and forefinger. She shuddered and her lips parted, her reaction zinging directly to Donovan’s cock.
“I’m going to control your breath,” he informed her, tightening his grip slightly on her throat. “You will keep your eyes open and your gaze on mine. I will count, letting you know beforehand how long we’ll go. Okay?”
“Yes, Sir,” she said again. She had begun to tremble, but he could sense the steel of her resolve beneath the fear.
“Ten seconds to start,” he informed her. He moved his hand upward along her slender neck, stopping when his thumb and forefinger lodged firmly beneath her jaw on either side. He pressed hard and she drew in a sudden, sharp breath. He pressed harder still, aware now she could no longer breathe.
“Ten,” he began. “Nine, eight, seven…”
When he let her go, he slapped her cheek, a sudden, sharp smack that made her gasp and jerk her head back. Her eyes were glittering, her breathing ragged. When he put his hand between her legs, she was sopping wet.
Donovan felt himself slipping fully into Dom mode, the knowledge of his position and her reactions more powerful than any drug. He felt like a god, capable of anything, the world at his command. At the same time, he was keenly aware of the responsibility that went along with the power. It was like holding a precious jewel in his hands. He made a silent promise to keep his jewel safe and happy, while still giving her the submissive experience she craved.
“Fifteen,” he announced, again catching her throat with his big hand and squeezing. As he counted down this time, Jordan’s eyes started to roll back, and he interrupted his count to admonish, “Stay with me! We’re only just beginning.”
She complied, her focus returning to his face, her eyes locked on his. Again when he released her, he slapped her face, hard, and again she gasped and shuddered, her head jerking back.
“Twenty-five,” he intoned. He watched her carefully as he counted backwards. Her face reddened, her hands clenched at the chains. He held fast, certain she could get through this, his cock aching as he held his sub girl’s very life in his hands. Her eyes began to roll back and still he didn’t let go, though he didn’t call her to task, not wanting to stop the count. Her head fell back during the final several seconds, her hands going suddenly limp.
He let her go, once again slapping her cheek to revive her. This time she barely responded, her head still back. Moving closer, Donovan lifted her head. Her eyes were closed but she was breathing. It was not the panicked pant of someone in distress, but the slow, deep breathing of someone in an altered state.
She was flying.
Donovan placed his arms beneath Jordan�
Without opening her eyes she nodded, a ghost of a smile moving over her lips. Holding her in position, Donovan grabbed his cock with his other hand and guided its gooey tip to her cunt. She was ready for him, deliciously hot and wet, but he moved carefully, lifting her hips as he guided her onto his rock-hard shaft.
Though her head continued to loll and her eyes remained closed, her body reacted to his invasion, her cunt clamping hard on his cock, her nipples pointing with rosy-red perkiness in his direction. Donovan groaned, aware he was going to come within a few strokes. He thrust forward and back with his pelvis, while continuing to lift and lower her on his shaft.
“Jordan,” he groaned, the words torn from him as he began to come. “I love you.”
She began to shudder against him, a series of mini-climaxes that milked his cock, drawing every last bit of his seed from him. They stood like that, Jordan still impaled on Donovan’s cock, for several long moments afterward, until he came enough to himself to move.
Holding her, he eased his cock from the sweet stickiness of her cunt and set her gently on her feet. Reaching up, he quickly released her cuffs and caught her as she began to sink to the ground. He carried her to the couch and sat down with her still in his arms. She opened her eyes slowly and looked into his eyes, an impish smile lifting the corners of her mouth.
“You do, huh?”
It was the first time he’d said it to her. The first time either of them had said it, in fact. Indeed, he realized with something approaching shock, it was the first time he’d ever said it to anyone.
She tilted her head to regard him, her green eyes dancing as she waited for him to answer.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling back. “I do.”
~*~
They sat across the small table in a secluded corner of the dining room in celebration of their six month anniversary. Jordan felt sexy in her slinky red dress and matching heels. Donovan looked spectacular in a dark brown sport jacket over a pale blue cashmere sweater that accentuated the vivid blue of his eyes.
Their relationship, they’d agreed, had started the day she had arrived at his house, scared but determined to go through with the forty-eight hours that would change her life forever. Since then their lives had settled into a routine, though it was anything but dull.
They both continued to work by night at the club, and far from being a flash in the pan, Jordan had become well-established as the Mistress in residence, sharing the stage with the Master from time to time, though her focus remained on private sessions in the red room. She loved every minute of it, and her bank account loved it too. She was earning more than double what she’d earned as a loan officer, and having way more fun in the process.
At home they continued their exploration of an increasingly intense and committed D/s relationship, each day more powerful and passionate than the day before. Jordan knew there was nothing she would not do for this man she loved with all her heart. She embraced each new erotic challenge with as much courage as she possessed. Along with the thrilling bondage, whippings and breath play, Donovan had pierced her nipples and her labia, and they were discussing a tattoo or possibly even a brand she would take as his permanent mark of ownership. Jordan was eager to proceed, but Donovan wanted her to wait until she was absolutely sure.
Donovan had shared what he called his epiphany in the parking lot, but even if he hadn't told her, Jordan had sensed the seismic shift between them after that night. The wild horse had bolted for good, leaving in its place a mature and loving man who cherished her not only for her submission, but for her strength. And Jordan, in turn, had learned to trust the Master not only with her body, but with her heart and soul as well.
Tonight everything was perfect—the red wine, the candles, the thick white table cloth, the tinkling of the jazz piano in the corner of the restaurant, and, most importantly, the sexy, handsome man sitting just across from her, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“Okay,” she finally said, after the appetizers had been cleared and their wine glasses refilled. “You look like the cat that ate the canary. What’s going on?”
“Man, am I that obvious?” Donovan looked pained, but then he grinned. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a long, narrow white box wrapped in a blue satin ribbon. He pushed it across the table in Jordan’s direction.
She looked up at him, her heart twisting with joy in her chest.
“Go on,” he urged. “Open it.”
She tugged at the ribbon and it fell away. Lifting the lid of the box she saw a red velvet choker with a gold ring at its center resting in a bed of black satin. “Oh,” she said softly, lifting the choker into her hands.
“It’s a collar,” Donovan said. “Will you wear it for me?”
Jordan nodded, her eyes suddenly filling with tears. Donovan pushed back from his chair and moved to stand behind her. She bowed her head as he took the collar and placed it around her neck, slipping the clasp into place. Instead of returning to his seat, as she’d expected, he knelt beside her.
“There’s something else in the box,” he said. “Underneath the liner.”
Jordan reached for the box, pushing her fingers beneath the satin. They closed over a ring and she pulled it out. It was a simple gold band with a lustrous diamond sparkling at its center.
“There’s an inscription,” Donovan said, his tone eager and boyish. “Hold it to the candle and see.”
Jordan did as instructed, reading the words, “I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.” She turned to Donovan, speechless. He took the ring gently from her fingers and, still kneeling beside her, took her left hand in his.
He held the ring poised at her fingertip. “My slave girl, my beloved,” he said, grinning broadly, though she could see the nervousness in his eyes. “Will you marry me?”
She stared at him, the joy in her heart erupting into a happy laugh. “Master of my heart, my beloved, yes!”
No Way Out
Tricked by a Twisted Dom… Rescued by a True Master…
Eva’s dream job as a house submissive at Hawthorne Dungeon becomes a nightmare at the hands of a dangerous, devious Dom.
Jack dreams of finding a submissive to settle down with…someone willing to give him not only her body, but her heart and soul. Within days of joining a private BDSM club, strange, disturbing clues lead Jack to a discovery that shocks him to his core.
As Eva heals, she and Jack grow closer, but he can never demand the 24/7 submission he craves from a lover…even if that’s what she says she needs…
Previously titled: The Keyholder
Chapter 1
Nora watched with a smile as Jack McQuade took in the large, well-equipped BDSM dungeon with wide eyes. “So, how does this work again? You’re, what did you call it, a keyholder?”
Charles nodded. “That’s right. There are twelve keyholders right now, not counting Phillip Duncan.”
They all turned at the sound of someone clattering down the stairs and walking swiftly along the hallway. Jack raised his eyebrows in question.
“That’s probably Phillip now,” Charles said. “As Master Keyholder and caretaker since George Hawthorne died, he lives on the premises.”
The footsteps got louder and then the ajar dungeon door was thrust open. Phillip burst into the room, an expression of alarm on his face. He looked rapidly around, his expression adjusting as he took them in from angry confusion to calm welcome.
He definitely wasn’t her favorite person, but Nora couldn’t deny he was easy on the eyes, with his blond good looks and perfect body. Though it was ten o’clock on a Sunday morning, he was dressed impeccably in black linen pants, his tailored black silk jacket over a white silk shirt, in sharp contrast to Nora’s denim-jacketed, faded-jeans husband.
Charles moved toward him with a smile. “Hey there, Phillip. This is Jack, Jack McQuade, an old friend of mine. He’s just relocated to New York and is
“Charles,” Phillip replied smoothly, “what a pleasant”—he hesitated a fraction of a second—“surprise. I didn’t realize you had made an appointment.”
Charles offered an apologetic shrug. “Oh, about that. I guess I kind of forgot. We’re still getting used to the new ways.”
George Hawthorne had run the place a lot more casually, with the keyholder members coming and going without much coordination. Occasionally the results had been a little chaotic, but generally folks managed to handle things informally without too much problem.
Since the membership had brought in Phillip to manage the place, Nora had to admit things ran more smoothly, and he had done a lot to spruce up the place. Still, a persistent negative vibe regarding the man continued to flow around the edges of Nora’s consciousness. There was something false about him, something hidden.
Phillip’s mouth lifted into a smile, though his eyes didn’t join in. “No problem. It’s still early and no one else is on the schedule. I just”—he hesitated, his eyes flickering toward the ceiling and then the door—“I like to keep track. The neighborhood. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course,” agreed Charles, though Nora silently bristled at the subtle jab at the old neighborhood. The three-story brownstone that housed Hawthorne Dungeon was located in a somewhat shabby section of Brooklyn that once might have been considered less than desirable, but over the past several years was definitely becoming re-gentrified.
The first floor looked like any other on the block, complete with kitchen, dining room and living area. No casual stopper-by would have any idea of what was on the second floor. The founder, a longtime active member of the New York City BDSM scene, had converted the bedrooms into dungeons, each with its own theme. The main dungeon was actually comprised of what had once been the master bedroom, as well as a second bedroom—the adjoining walls removed to make a spacious dungeon large enough to accommodate twenty or more players at a time. In the basement, he’d built a BDSM water playroom, which included a state-of-the-art submersion tank and a fully equipped medical playroom.