She stirred, and he saw the tiniest curve of her lips.
He stroked her hair, seeing the way the light glinted off it, dispelling the perception of complete black. Some strands were brown, some with a reddish tint. “You were afraid of having me on top of you, no?”
The instant tensing of her back muscles saddened him.
“Shhh.” He kept the slow movement of his hand, kissed the top of her head. “Now tell me.”
“Yes.” Her face pressed closer into the hollow of his shoulder as if she were a small animal needing shelter.
His arms tightened, reminding her that she had his protection. “Because of the way they took you?”
A tiny nod. “On my back or like a dog. Both…places.”
Anal and vaginal. “In your mouth?”
Her snort of derision held tears as well. “I bit him.” She tensed again. “And then he used…he…”
Raoul’s jaw tightened until his teeth ground together. Of course. The asshole had strapped her in a device to hold her mouth open while he face-fucked her. Cabrón. “He is unworthy to call himself a man.” Her shoulder muscles relaxed under his slow, careful massage. “If you might recall from your…excursion…into my toy cabinet, I do not own such a thing.”
“Oh.” More muscles went loose. Her breathing slowed, a small waft of warmth on his skin.
“But, although I like being inside you here”—he wiggled the soft remainder of his erection, and her responsive pussy clenched, pushing him all the way out. He grinned at her tiny sound of loss—“we might also have fun with my cock here.” He squeezed an ass cheek, making her jump. “Will you trust me to take you carefully, Kimberly?”
This was why he’d decided to speak of such matters now—to prepare her for the next step while her body resonated with an orgasm, and while his so terrifying dick was soft and melting between her legs after having brought her only pleasure.
“I—” She sighed. “Okay.”
He gave her the tiny growl he knew she’d recognize.
“Okay, Sir.” A pause. “Master.”
Satisfaction was a gentle evening rain, and headier than the wine they’d had earlier. “And?”
“I know.” Her voice was husky. “You’ll want my mouth too.”
He snorted. “Only if you promise not to bite.”
Her lips curved again, more this time. “Yes, Master.”
Chapter Nine
The next morning, Kim went down to the beach. The gulls cried overhead, and gray-brown willets foraged in the shallows. The tide was coming in, the waves slowly reclaiming the sand as she was reclaiming more of her life.
I had sex. She grinned at the sun. Its rays warmed her skin, and she bubbled with life, feeling as if she’d taken a huge step forward.
Heck, she had. She shook her head, unbraiding her hair so the wind could ruffle it with salty fingers. Master R liked her hair. Liked her skin. Said she was lovely, and his face held no untruth.
She rolled her eyes. He was her master. Why would he bother lying? It wasn’t as if he had to talk her into bed, right?
He liked her. He’d taken more care with making sure she was satisfied than anyone ever had. And then at the very end, he hadn’t stopped—he’d made her serve his own satisfaction, and that had been as fulfilling as getting off herself.
She headed for the Adirondack chair. Weathered white with age, it ruled over its section of sand like a beach throne. She dropped onto it, then squeaked. A little sore maybe?
God, she’d gotten off so thoroughly she still quaked inside. And she wanted to do it again. Wanted those strong hands on her, to feel his biceps bunching into concrete when he lifted her, to trace the ridges on his stomach. This morning, when he’d washed her—more intimately than ever before—he told her she was filling out and he liked her soft ass sized for his big hands.
He scared her and excited her and made her want him.
Want him. As the sun disappeared behind a cloud and shadows slid over the sand, a chill raised goose bumps on her arms. Life wasn’t all sun and pretty waves. The clouds came, storms drowned ships, and people moved on.
You realize he’s just doing his job, right? Don’t go all teenage-girl gaga over him. Her inner cynic’s interjection was like a cold dip in the water. And was right, unfortunately.
Master R liked her, but he was in this to shut down the slavers, not to start up a relationship with a messed-up woman. He’d never talked about being together after this was over.
She watched a tiny hermit crab peek out of its stolen shell and retreat again, hiding in the secure spiral. “Yeah, me too, little guy,” she whispered. Don’t get too far from safety. Falling head over heels in love with Master R would be…pretty much…the worst thing she could do.
He wanted a slave.
She hated even the word.
So. Once they pulled this off, she’d go home to Savannah. To her real life.
* * * *
Christopher Greville leaned back in his office chair as his majordomo entered. “You rang for me, sir?”
“Dutton, when I was doing the accounts, I found a large deposit into the Owner’s account.
It matches what I paid for a certain slave.”
The majordomo’s swarthy face flushed. One of the more satisfying retainers Greville employed, he handled the household accounts, which included the purchase of slaves and any equipment needed for them, like the heavy dog kennel, the whips, and gags…
Greville smiled. The new slave had arrived two days ago, a big-breasted blonde with such an ear-piercing scream that he’d been forced to gag her the first day to preserve his ears. After he and his staff had played for a while, her voice had changed to a pleasingly hoarse sound.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Dutton said. “I forgot to mention it. After much stalling, the Overseer provided a refund for the black-haired slave. The one who—” He broke off.
The one who’d dared to attack her master. To stab him. Greville ran his fingers over his gray suit, feeling the lingering tenderness in his shoulder. The memory of pain as the knife punched through his skin still brought him up short on occasion. The little fuckhole had— “Refund.” “What refund? Dahmer gave you a refund for a dead slave?”
“Oh, she didn’t die, sir. She’d bled quite a bit but was still alive when we handed her over.” Dutton’s expression faltered into worry. “You did tell us to get rid of her, sir.”
Not dead. She’d stabbed him, and she wasn’t rotting in a grave? “I meant kill her. Fuck her to death or beat her to death.” His temper surged; he forced himself to stay seated. “She’s alive?”
Dutton’s face paled, and he took a step back. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize.”
Greville stared at him and then smiled coldly. “Of course you didn’t. I obviously wasn’t clear.” He nodded a dismissal and watched the majordomo quietly leave. Incompetent bastard. He’d be six feet down and feeding the worms before this week was out.
The fuckhole was alive. Greville turned to the computer and brought up the Association numbers shared with premium buyers. After using the code to get the right phone number for the current date, he punched it in.
“Yes.” Dahmer’s number. Dahmer was a typical flunky, but an efficient one. He’d definitely improved the quality of slaves in the Southeast quadrant.
“Greville. I just discovered I received a refund from you. When I questioned my staff, I found they hadn’t disposed of the merchandise—as should have been done—but had returned it to you.”
“That’s right.”
“Their actions were incorrect. Return the merchandise to me for proper handling.” He would cut pieces from her body—a finger, an ear, a toe—and see how long he could keep her alive. Maybe let her choose which part she’d sacrifice each day. But he’d take her tongue first. And her teeth. Make a real fuckhole.
“I can’t do that. It’s been resold.”
Greville’s jaw clenched, and his voice came out raw. “Buy it back.”
He’d hear her scream. See her eyes wide with agony, fighting to escape the pain, the dismemberment. See the light go out. “Do it.”
* * * *
The day for their trip to the Shadowlands finally arrived.
Pity eating like a worm in his heart, Raoul kept his little submissive busy with cooking and cleaning. In the afternoon, he’d given her final instructions on high protocol and how an owned slave should behave in public. They’d practiced until he was satisfied, and she’d felt comfortable.
“Time to leave, Kimberly,” he called. A minute later, he heard her footsteps on the stairs.
She looked adorable. The black dress laced tightly, pressing her breasts upward, her nipples barely hidden by a froth of white lace. The ruffles at the bottom came to the crease below her ass. The token white apron covered the front. Garters held up white fishnet stockings over
her lovely legs, and she wore high-heeled fetish shoes. He knew her pussy was bare, and he had the urge to toss her onto the table and take her from the rear.
Maybe he’d buy the costume from Z. But, no. She wasn’t his. The knowledge she’d be leaving soon didn’t sit well in his gut. “You look beautiful, cariño.”
An attempted smile was her response. He watched as she took the final few steps to stand in front of him. Body rigid. Cuffed wrists at her sides, hands fisted. Visibly fighting not to flee. It wasn’t him she feared. “Kimberly.”
“M-master?”
He sighed, hearing the return of the stuttered word. “Does the Overseer carry weapons?”
A blink of confusion. “No. I don’t think he’d want anything a slave might grab and use against him.”
“Will he have his guards at the Shadowlands?”
“You said only him.”
“Then, chica, if for some reason you couldn’t disable him—and you might do fairly well now—do you, by any stretch of the imagination, think he could beat me in a fight?”
“I—” Her gaze moved over him as if comparing their sizes, Raoul perhaps a couple of inches shorter, but far more muscular. A few lines eased from her face. “No. He couldn’t, could he?”
“No, I think not. So…we must suffer his presence and be polite, but cariño, no matter what happens, he will leave by himself, and you will still be with me.” Raoul tapped a finger on her chin. “I promise.”
Her lower lip quivered. When she tried to smile, her courage broke his heart. “Thanks. Master.”
He nodded. “Good. Now let’s get this done.” He picked up the black leather collar from the counter. The moment of revulsion and a memory of Alicia disappeared as he looked into Kimberly’s clear blue eyes. The disconcerting desire to have her kneel, to request his collar, to kiss it, was so strong his hands shook slightly.
No, this was merely part of the costume. Not real, Sandoval.
Her big eyes fixed on his face as he buckled the leather around her throat. Z had even provided a tiny gold padlock. Damn him. It snicked shut, the heady sound of submission much louder in his head than in reality.
As he stepped back, he saw her hands trembling. Apparently the collaring affected her differently. “Ah, gatita.” He tapped her nose, the teasing gesture enough to break her paralysis. He pressed the key into her cold little hand. “Your apron has a pocket. Put this inside it.” He leaned forward and whispered, “But don’t let Dahmer see it.”
Her fingers closed, and she gave him a jerky nod, and then slowly, a real smile appeared, like the sun from behind the clouds.
Alas, the smile didn’t last long, and the night drive to the Shadowlands seemed to drag as she became increasingly tense. All he could do was hold her hand and remind her of his presence.
In the parking lot, the headlights of Raoul’s car illuminated Dahmer. He stood beside his own vehicle, which was probably equipped with all the jammers that had frustrated the FBI. But the Feds would lie low now until the auction.
With an effort, Raoul pulled his emotions under control. He had a role to play: master of the slave who he would call girl and nothing else, reminding them both of their places.
He got out, nodding at Kimberly to follow. As he took his toy bag from the trunk, he worked a smile onto his face before turning. “Dahmer. Good to see you.”
“Thank you.” The man wore casual dom clothing. Black khakis, black T-shirt. He glanced up at the mansion. “Great place.”
“It is.” And you taint it with your presence. “Let’s go on in.”
Raoul headed for the building, glancing back once to check Kimberly. She followed a step behind him, eyes lowered, lovely in her silence and obedience. He could see the tiny tremor as she breathed. Hang in there, sumisita.
“No restraints or gags for your slave?”
“No need. She won’t try to run.” He gave Dahmer a cruel smile. “Not anymore.”
“Ah, yes. I heard about your methods of control. I’m surprised she healed so quickly.”
What methods? Raoul shrugged, not wanting to know. “I feed her well.”
“That’s a fine costume—although I’m surprised she’s not naked.”
“Only at home, not in public.” Raoul walked beside Dahmer up to the front of the Shadowlands. “I keep my toys to myself. But when we’re alone, I prefer naked—for the view, the access, and if disciplining is needed, it can be administered without any great effort.”
The Overseer barked a laugh. “You’re definitely experienced.” He stopped and looked around at the dimly lit grounds. “I like the isolation here.”
“No neighbors to complain about screaming.” Raoul turned his palm toward the ground, and Kimberly sank to her knees. “Very pretty, girl.”
She glanced up long enough to meet his eyes, his approval and acknowledgement lending her stability.
“You compliment her?”
“Of course.” Raoul told the man the absolute truth. “The mark of a true slave is her desire to please her master. If I don’t tell her when she’s done well, then how does she know to repeat it? She works hard to earn a ‘very good.’”
“I never thought of it that way. Then again, most buyers are into pain. They don’t care to train a slave for more than sex and screaming.”
“That’s a shame.”
With her legs feeling as spongy as a jellyfish, Kim was grateful Master R had ordered her to kneel. She felt safer with his legs shielding her. She stayed rigidly in position, taking slow breaths, trying to conquer the nausea and panic from seeing the Overseer, from hearing his horrible voice.
God, she’d known she’d be scared. But she hadn’t realized how her physical reactions— hands and legs shaking, cold sweat despite the muggy air—would somehow make her internal fear worse.
She sure hadn’t expected the anger that beat like a red-hot hammer against her chest. She stared at a white jagged-edged rock, the focus of a landscaped garden plot. Her fingers curled as she saw herself picking it up, slamming it down on the monster’s head. She tried to imagine how it would feel, the way he’d fall forward, the sound he’d make…
But then Master R would be furious she’d ruined everything, and—she sighed. He wouldn’t be furious, Kim. He’d be disappointed in her, and the thought of seeing unhappiness in his eyes calmed the storm inside her. Eventually the Overseer would get his due, but first they needed to save the others. Suck it up, wuss.
I want to go home . She pushed the longing away and concentrated on breathing. The smooth concrete was warm against her legs and Master R’s dark voice a calming touch on her fears. She kept her gaze down but her head angled so she’d see if he motioned for her to do something.
His tiny gesture had her standing before she even thought about it, and she realized the FBI agent had been correct. Anyone watching would notice how attuned she was to Master R.
The time she’d lived with him, being corrected, learning to watch for the unobtrusive movements he used to direct her—none of it had been wasted.
As they took the last few steps to the Shadowlands, she chanced a reprimand and glanced around quickly, remembering the other submissives’ intriguing stories.
The lights from the landscaping smoldered against the thick stone walls. The black ironwork on the doors and the heavy wall sconces didn’t help lighten the effect.
Neither did the huge security guard inside the door, whose brutish features would be more suited to a medieval torturer. He glanced at her, then the Overseer. “Good evening, sir,” he said, his voice a match for his size. “Are you lost?”
Master R moved into the room from behind them. “Not lost, Ben. These are my guests for tonight. I cleared it with Z.”
“Master Raoul.” The man’s pleased smile turned him from terrifying to something entirely different, like a dog so ugly and sweet it was cute. “It’s been a while since you were here.”
Master R ran a finger along Kim’s collar, brushing her skin. “I had someone keeping me at home.”
“’Bout time.” The pleased look she got from Ben made her smile, before she remembered her place. She dropped her gaze.
“Dahmer isn’t participating, but Z wants them both to sign the papers.” He glanced at the Overseer. “As a guest, you’re not required to show ID, but you’re not allowed to play either.”
“Very cautious,” Dahmer said. He glanced through the papers Ben handed him and signed with a scribble. Kim followed suit. The releases were much like other clubs’, although more thorough, especially in the list of infractions and various punishments.
She looked up to see Ben studying her. “Great costume—and you may keep your shoes on too.”
Master R told the Overseer, “The owner likes submissives barefoot or in blatant fuck-me stilettos.”
No club she’d been to had been quite so strict. Then again, she’d never been in an exclusive club like this one.
They stepped through the inside door and into chaos. Kim froze at the sounds of pain and screaming and the slaps of implements on bare flesh. Perfumes had no chance against the scents of leather and sweat and sex.