Текст книги "Dangerously Bound"
Автор книги: Eden Bradley
Соавторы: Eden Bradley
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“I’m not that much of a talker.”
“Yeah. I just need to know your head is in the right place.”
“I’ll get it there by the end of the week.”
“Which is why I’m calling. Look, Mick, we both went through the Dominant’s mentor program at The Bastille. Are you now so experienced—or so damn macho—that you’ve forgotten it’s okay to ask for help?”
He ran a hand over his goatee. “Of course not. But I can handle this on my own.”
“It’s Allie we’re talking about, Mick. Which makes this different from any other woman you’ve played, and you fucking know it.”
“I do fucking know it, all right?” he exploded. He pushed his chair back from the old wooden door he’d made into his desk and stood up to pace. “Fuck, Jamie. Sorry. But I do know. I understand this will be a challenge. And believe me, I was not too happy with you—or with her—at first. But now . . . I’ve had some time to mull it over and I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you I’m looking forward to it. To playing her. To the challenge of it.”
“But you believe you can absolutely maintain with her?”
“I wouldn’t go near her if I didn’t think so.” A small lie—it burned on his tongue. “Yes. Of course I can maintain control, with her or anyone.”
There was a long pause on the other end. Then Jamie said, “It’s not that I don’t have confidence in you as a Dominant, buddy. But this is different.”
“Why all the dire warnings about something that was your idea?”
“It was her idea. And I’m making a point. If you’re in denial about this stuff—”
“I’m not,” he interrupted.
“If you were, it could be dangerous,” Jamie finished.
“What we do is always dangerous.”
“Agreed. And it’s exactly why the ‘dire warnings’ aren’t warnings as much as a reality check.”
“Duly noted.”
He was getting annoyed with Jamie, even though he knew he was right. The things they did at the dungeon—or at home, in some cases—were dangerous. Physically. Sometimes emotionally. He was always careful with the women he played. He would be even more careful with Allie.
“Okay. Since I’m still responsible for her as her mediator, we’ll check in again on Thursday or Friday and see how you’re doing.”
“Yeah. Fine,” Mick agreed grudgingly.
“Fine. I’m heading to the gym around seven tomorrow night. Meet for a workout? We don’t have to talk about this.”
Despite his boxing workout that morning and the martial arts training he had scheduled that evening, he wouldn’t mind working with some weights with Jamie. It would calm him down. He hoped. “Sure.”
“See you then.”
They hung up and Mick tossed his phone onto the desk. His body was flooded with adrenaline, as it was every time he thought about Allie. Which was most of the time since she’d come back to the city. Adrenaline or a hard-on that wouldn’t stop no matter how many times he came. In bed, in the shower, at his desk.
He was growing hard even now just thinking about her for three damn seconds.
Allie.
He pressed on his aching cock through his jeans.
Control.
But he couldn’t get her face out of his mind. Her beautiful, lithe body.
He remembered what her naked breasts looked like, the hardening nipples a dark, dusky pink. So succulent under his fingertips, his tongue.
His cock grew rigid. He reached for his zipper. His cell went off again.
“God fucking damn it.”
He pulled in a quick breath before he picked it up and looked at the screen. A business call. He had to switch gears. Get his focus on work.
“Reid here.”
Twenty minutes later he hung up, having negotiated a job for the coming Monday. Which meant he’d be gone soon after playing with Allie, unavailable to do aftercare should she experience a delayed subdrop, those moments—or days, sometimes—when a bottom’s brain “dropped” after being high on the endorphins and seratonin that often flooded them during play. They could go through depression, feelings of emptiness, tears. And as the Top who took them there, it was his responsibility to see them through any aftereffects. If Allie was prone to subdrop, if Jamie wasn’t around to help out with her while he was out of town, then Friday night would be off.
He didn’t fucking want Jamie to do her aftercare.
But since Allie was new to the New Orleans scene, she might not have any other local kink friends yet, so Jamie would be it. Not that he was threatened by his best friend.
Damn it. He’d have to speak with Allie.
He dialed her number. It went to voice mail.
“Hey, it’s Mick. Something’s come up and we need to talk about Friday. Call me.”
He hung up. He hadn’t meant to sound so short.
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw.
Almost unbearable even to hear her voice on her outgoing message.
He dropped his phone on his desk once more and began to pace again. But his office—the second bedroom in his flat—was too small to contain the thrumming energy running through his body. He went into the living room and was drawn, as he so often was when he had something to figure out, to the windows overlooking the narrow street.
It was quiet down there, no people, no cars. Just the row of close-set buildings, stucco and brick and softly painted wood, some with the intricate wrought iron balconies and gates New Orleans was known for. He tried to allow the familiar scenery to lull him, but he was crawling out of his skin.
Maybe he should go for another quick run. Either that or get into a scalding hot shower and fist his hand around his throbbing cock until he came again.
“Because twice already this morning apparently wasn’t enough,” he muttered. Then, when his cell phone went off again in the other room, “Whoever you are, I do not want to talk to you.”
He stalked into his office and grabbed the phone.
Allie.
Well, that statement had been bullshit.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” It was that smooth, purely female voice of hers. More mature now than when they’d met in high school, but still the same Allie he’d always known. Sweet.
Not as sweet as he’d imagined, or they wouldn’t be having this conversation.
“Mick? You there?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I was working on something when you called.”
When had he turned into such a liar?
“Oh. I’m sorry to interrupt, but your message sounded important.”
“Yeah. We need to talk about Friday.”
“Don’t tell me you’re backing out on me,” she said, warning in her voice, which he wouldn’t have put up with from any other submissive. There was something else beneath the bravado. Disappointment?
“Not necessarily,” he said. “I’ll run the scenario by you, then we can talk it out.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve had a job come up in Atlanta. A small venue concert, but it’s for someone I’ve worked with for years, so I didn’t want to turn it down. It means I’ll be gone on Monday.”
“I . . . don’t understand what that has to do with Friday. Do you need to leave that soon?”
“No, I’ll leave early Monday. But it means I won’t be available again until Thursday. I haven’t checked with Jamie to make sure he’ll be around—I wanted to talk with you first. In case you need someone here for subdrop. I know we haven’t discussed this yet. I’d planned to talk through your aftercare needs later this week.”
“My aftercare needs are pretty basic—some water, a snack if my blood sugar is low, a blanket. I’m relaxed and happy after play if the connection is good. I’ve never felt subdrop, although I’ve sat with friends through it.”
“You’re certain?”
“I’m certain. Usually I’m a little giddy and dreamy the night I play, then the next day I’m a bit tired if I haven’t slept enough. Or, those times when I’ve played a whole weekend with someone, the energy just keeps going until the play is over—the endorphins, the adrenaline. The rush. Then I just sleep it off.”
He didn’t want to think about her playing with anyone else. He couldn’t stand it.
“Tell me what you usually feel like a few days after.” He had to ask. It was his responsibility, and responsibility was something he never took lightly.
“A few days after I just feel like myself. Sometimes a little happy and floaty still, but that’s a good thing. And sometimes I’m sore, of course. Loving my marks.”
Lord, he’d love to be the one to mark her. To welt that fragile-looking skin. To put bruises there. Teeth marks.
He got hard again in such a hot, sudden rush he had to swallow down a gasping breath.
He adjusted himself through his jeans, and his own hand against the iron-hard erection beneath the denim had him shivering.
Control.
“Okay,” he said. “But I’m checking in with Jamie anyway to make sure you aren’t left alone if you need someone.”
“That’s fine. I know I can go to Jamie, anyway. And I always have Marie Dawn, of course.”
“Do you know anyone else here yet?” he asked. “I don’t know that she’d know what to do.”
“I’ve talked with a few people online, but I haven’t met anyone in person yet. So, no—no one close. But I’ll be fine, Mick.”
“Just covering the bases. That’s part of my job here, Allie. Or haven’t you played with anyone who goes by those standards?”
“Of course I have! Mick, I’m not ‘kindergarten playing’ at kink any more than you are. The people I’ve played with are the real thing. Check my damn references.”
Oh, he loved the fire in her. But her sharp-tongued reply was deserved.
He blew out a breath. “That was an asinine thing for me to say.”
“It was. But I’m glad to see you can admit it when you’re wrong.”
“I can. Just know those times are rare.”
She laughed. “God, you are such a Dom.”
“Am I supposed to be insulted?” But he couldn’t help the slow grin that quirked the corners of his mouth.
“Nope. Probably not.”
He lowered his tone. “Don’t think for a minute that I am anything but dominant, Allie.”
“Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure you won’t let me forget.”
“You’ve got that right.”
“Okay, so, Friday night at eight, appropriately dressed and in the appropriate frame of mind,” she said, her tone shifting. He could tell by the breathiness in her voice she was switching gears, edging into her submissive role the slightest bit. He liked it.
What would she be like to play? To have her submit to him? Feisty or not, she would submit. He’d see to it that she did. He didn’t need a service sub in order to feel that yielding.
His groin tightened.
“We need to discuss sexual contact,” he told her.
“Oh. Of course.”
“Right now my limit is no sex.”
There was a long pause. “No sex?”
It was going to kill him, but if he was going to hang on to any shred of control, there had to be some line drawn in the sand.
“I feel fine with some contact and, frankly, in getting you off—I wouldn’t leave anyone high and dry. But we’re not going to get that involved.”
There was another pause. “I understand.”
“Do you? It’s us, Allie. The contact has to reflect how complicated this is.”
“It doesn’t have to be, Mick,” she said quietly.
“You know it does. It just is, and we can’t pretend this is something it’s not. We are not two people who’ve just met or have had nothing more than friendship between them. Safe, Sane and Consensual also means being realistic.”
“Okay. I get it. I honestly wouldn’t choose to impose those limits, but if that’s where you stand . . .”
“It is.”
“All right,” she agreed.
Thank the Lord. He wasn’t sure how long he’d have been able to hold out against any real argument.
“Since I have you, is there anything else you’d like to discuss before we play?” he asked. “Any questions for me?”
“I think we’ve covered everything for now. I understand some things change, and will expect that we can renegotiate as needed—outside of scene time, of course.”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I’ll check in with you that night before we start to see if you feel differently about anything, to see how you’re feeling physically.”
“You’re very thorough,” she said.
“I am.”
“You’ve always been a perfectionist, though, haven’t you? I remember even in high school you’d polish your motorcycle for hours, making sure every inch of chrome gleamed. I liked hanging out in the garage with you, watching you work. Listening to music.”
He didn’t want to think about the damn motorcycle. Not now, not ever. He moved back into the living room, stared out the window without really seeing anything.
It wasn’t the bike that had ruined his life—it was his own bad judgment. But Allie referencing their past . . . those had been good days, and he couldn’t find it in himself to focus on the bad part that had come later—either with the bike or with her. Not now, with her voice soft in his ear.
“The music was great,” he admitted, “except for your strange fascination with Nickelback.”
“What? I still love them,” she defended. “His voice is amazing.”
“You’ll never convince me of that.”
“Do you remember our song, Mick?” she asked, her voice going soft.
He didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to think about him and Allie together back then.
After a few silent moments she said, “‘Drive’ by Incubus. I . . . still listen to it sometimes.”
“Great song,” he said gruffly, his breath catching in his throat.
Damn it.
“Allie, if we’re going to play at the club, maybe we’d better set some ground rules for this stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Trying to bring back the past. That was a long time ago.”
“Okay . . .” She drew the last syllable out, and he could hear the hurt in her voice. But he had to lay down some boundaries or things were going to get messy.
Hell, they already were messy. This whole thing was messy. But he wouldn’t go back on his word. Maybe a night of play and they’d both have it out of their systems.
Yeah, right.
And then she’d go on to play with some other Dom at his home club, and he’d fucking want to kill the guy.
“Mick?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re right. We should stay focused on the present. Not get caught up in history.”
“Glad you see it my way.”
“You always are,” she muttered.
“I heard that.”
She laughed, breaking the tension. And knowing Allie, that had been her purpose.
“I’ll see you Friday,” he told her. “We should both talk to Jamie, just in case.”
“I’ll do that.”
“And give Marie Dawn a heads-up.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He could hear the capital S in the way she said it, that breathiness again. His cock twitched.
“Friday at eight. Don’t be late.”
“I wouldn’t think of it.”
“And Allie?”
“Yes?”
“Be prepared for me to smack some of that sass out of you.”
“I’ll count on it.”
They hung up and the view through the window came into focus. He braced himself with one hand on the frame.
She would be perfect. She always had been, always would be. But at The Bastille . . .
He groaned.
He knew he was damn good at what he did. He’d had years of practice, was confident in his abilities. But this one girl just threw him off his game. He’d find a way to overcome it. He’d have to. For his own sake as well as hers. He’d have to really watch himself with her.
Allie was definitely back in town, and was under his skin already.
CHAPTER Four
FRIDAY EVENING CAME, and Allie was trying to remind herself of what she’d told Mick—that her needs were simple. But there was nothing simple about the way she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
She’d had a long lunch with her mother, catching up on news of family and old friends, local politics and concerns about the bakery’s neighborhood, but Mick had been firmly in the back of her mind the entire time. Enough that her mother had asked her several times what she’d been daydreaming about. Allie had thought she’d managed to skirt the question, but by the end of lunch her mother’s appraising gaze told her nothing had escaped her, and Allie realized hiding her obsession with Mick—she didn’t currently know what else to call it—wasn’t going to be simple at all when it came to her family.
She breathed out a sigh as she checked her reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door for the tenth time, looking for a bit of mussed hair, a smudge in her makeup. She liked the way her simple black knit dress fit her—short and tight across her hips, but blousy on top, with a wide neckline that fell off one shoulder.
There was nothing simple about the way her heart was beating, as if a train were chugging through her chest. There was nothing simple about the way fear had set in the day before, the way it had grown all day until she was nearly bursting with it. But there was one thing that was simple.
Her need for him was simple. Primal. Primitive.
The need was like fire in her veins, burning her up inside, making her nipples hard beneath the filmy black mesh of her bra. She was wet simply thinking about the evening ahead, about Mick touching her, finally, after all these years. She could remember the feel of his rough hands on her body . . .
She put her own hand over her chest, trying to calm her racing heartbeat, but she knew nothing would help other than getting to The Bastille, having Mick put her in his ropes, and silencing her fears and need with subspace.
She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. Seven forty-five.
Somehow she could not stand the next fifteen minutes. She dug in her purse and found her cell phone, dialed Marie Dawn’s number.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Allie, I thought tonight was the big playdate?”
“It is. He’ll be here in a few minutes. Just . . . tell me I’m doing the right thing.”
“Oh, chérie, only you can know what’s right. But . . . you’ve been convinced this was what you had to do until now. What’s changed?” her friend asked.
“It’s more real. This is when I’ll know . . . when we’ll know . . . if there’s anything there between us. If he’ll . . . have me. And God, I hate to sound so pathetic. I felt so strong going into this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Allie, we both know I don’t really get this BDSM stuff, so feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but could part of it be that subspace thing you told me about?” Marie Dawn asked. “You did say he specifically asked you to think of him and what’ll happen tonight while you were getting ready, and you’ve explained to me how the getting ready part is like a little ritual . . . Well, do you think you’re hitting subspace at all? Could it be making you feel more raw? This evening is important for you. I don’t know if you’ve ever played with anyone where there was this heavy an emotional load going into it. That’s got to affect you.”
“No. I mean, yes—you’re absolutely right.”
She was. If Allie took a moment to step back and detach from her nerves, she could see it clearly. She was starting to drop into subspace already, simply knowing it was Mick who would play her tonight. And that meant a certain level of vulnerability, with much more to come.
“It’s all the strain of . . . hope, I guess. Hope that’s had nearly eleven years to build. Hope that built in the time between him leaving me in high school and that one night we had when I was twenty years old.”
“That’s a lot for anyone to deal with. Under these circumstances where, from what you’ve told me, you have to have a large element of trust . . . I can’t even imagine what that has to do to your head.”
“That’s it exactly. Although the psychology of it, the mind-fuck, is also what makes it so damn thrilling.”
Marie Dawn laughed. “Better you than me, chérie. I’d rather get my thrills in a fast car or skiing down a mountain.”
Allie couldn’t help but smile. “What can I say? We kinky folks are a strange bunch.”
“Yes, you are, but I love you anyway.”
“Love you, too. Oh, God, there’s the door.”
“Lunch tomorrow—don’t forget!”
“I won’t. Must go!”
“Bye!”
She tucked her phone back into her small black purse and went to answer the door, pausing to check her reflection in the hall mirror. She set her purse down on the narrow table beneath the mirror, freeing her hands to quickly smooth her hair, her dress. She inhaled, murmured to herself, “This is it,” and opened the front door.
He looked enormous in the doorway of the old house. Big and handsome and radiating authority. He was dressed in dark jeans, a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled at the cuffs, a dark undershirt beneath it. Around his neck was a leather thong with a silver cross hanging from it. Simple. Utterly masculine, like everything else about him.
“You letting me in, Allie?”
“Oh. Yes, come in.”
She opened the screen door, and he took it from her and swung it wide. Then he charged in—it was more sudden and forceful than merely walking—and he was on her. One hand went to her shoulder and held on just tight enough for her to understand he was taking over already. The other took one of her wrists and pinned it behind her back as he pushed her up against the wall. She could feel the heat of his breath on her face. Could see the glittering gray depths of his eyes, the pupils wide and dark. He leaned in and a lock of his hair tickled her forehead. And all she could do was take in slow, gasping breaths, her body and her mind giving over to his command immediately, her muscles going slack.
“That’s it,” he said so softly she could barely hear him over the blood pounding in her ears. “You go down nice and easy, like silk under the water. I like it, Allie. I do.”
He tightened his hold on her wrist and shoulder, gave her a small, hard jerk. Her heart hammered. Her nipples went tight. Her knees went weak.
“Yeah, just give it over to me, princess. I can feel it, you know. The way your limbs have gone all soft. Weak against me. And if I wanted to I could slip my thigh right between yours. Like this.”
He did as he said, the strong muscles of his thighs parting hers. So close to the need blossoming between them, but not touching her.
She moaned.
“I can hear the way you’re breathing,” he went on. “The small catch in your throat that tells me everything I need to know. You’re going down already. Aren’t you?”
She did not want to give up all control to him. Not this soon. Not without her having some hold on the situation. To go into it this fast . . . her head was spinning.
“Tell me,” he demanded.
She tried to push against him, to push him away, but it only brought her aching mound into contact with his thigh.
“Mick, stop.”
He eased back an inch or two.
“Stop is not the usual safe word, Allie, you know that. But tell me, are you safe-wording out? If you are, I’ll let you go right now.”
She drew in a few panting breaths, desire and confusion twining together deep in her body, her mind.
“I . . . no.”
“No what?”
“No, I’m not using my safe word.”
He drew her in against his body, his hands gripping both wrists behind her back now. She could feel every rock-hard plane and muscle: abs, chest, shoulder, and his thigh pressing between hers, making her hot and wet. The cross he wore around his neck dug into her flesh, but she welcomed it.
He lowered his head, his mouth a hairsbreadth from hers. She tilted her face, needing to be kissed—that need was scorching her. But he only held her there, inhaled her breath, then another, and another, until she sank into the rhythm of it. Her limbs relaxed into his hold on her. Safe. Familiar.
Mick.
This was Mick. Finally. He wouldn’t hurt her. Not in any way she didn’t want him to.
“Good girl,” he whispered against her mouth, and her knees nearly buckled.
He held her tight, just breathing with her—it was the only sound in the room. She raised her gaze to his, found his eyes dark and stormy, but with desire or some other emotion she couldn’t tell. All she knew was that his eyes looked right into her, through her, in the way they always had, yet even more intense with all the life he must have lived in the intervening years.
“Tell me what you’re feeling,” he said. Commanded.
“I . . . I’m warm all over,” she answered quietly. “Loose but filled with tension at the same time.”
“What’s the tension about?”
“Being with you. Knowing we’ll play tonight. That we already are. Needing you to kiss me, Mick.”
She felt his chest heave as he drew in a long breath. His hold on her didn’t change. She waited.
The angle of his chin shifted. His mouth drew closer to hers. Held there. She didn’t dare do what she so desperately wanted to—to lift up on her toes, tilt her chin, claim his lips.
His grip on her wrists tightened painfully, his gray eyes going dark. She didn’t care. She waited while she measured the sharper cadence in his breath, the gleam of stark desire in his eyes. Felt glad to see it there, to know he needed her in the same way she needed him.
Why wouldn’t he kiss her?
Unbearable.
He twisted his crushing grip, twisting the skin until it pinched, and she gasped. She lifted her chin, the need too powerful, but he moved away just enough to avoid her seeking lips.
No!
But she remained silent. Waiting. Just as she’d been taught. She would wait for him. Be good for him. Please him.
“We’ll go now,” he told her, releasing her so quickly she almost fell. He caught her with an arm around her waist, stood silently while she regained her balance, asked, “You good?” and waited for her affirmative nod before letting her go.
Her mind was emptying already, beginning to float as he put her purse into her hands and led her onto the porch, closed the door behind them.
The change in air brought her back to the surface a bit, but not too much. New Orleans air was always a bit magical, after all. The night was soft and sultry, like scented oil in a warm bath. Like she knew his skin felt at the small of his back.
Mick wrapped his palm around her waist and led her down the stairs, careful of her in her high heels, the black pinup-style stilettos with the peep toe and the small velvet bow she’d worn just for him. He led her to his big black truck parked at the curb, the sleek paint shining in the moonlight. He helped her up onto the high seat, buckled her in with careful hands and closed the door before going around to the driver’s side and getting in.
The drive to the club didn’t take long from her house in the lower Garden District to the Warehouse District, just south of the French Quarter. There was some jazz playing on the stereo, just loud enough to fill the silence. But it was comfortable that they didn’t talk. Natural. Meditative.
They turned onto Magazine Street and passed a few blocks of warehouses—some of them actually used for that purpose, some housing galleries or nightclubs. Mick pulled into a parking lot and came around to help her step down from the truck.
The big warehouse in front of them didn’t look any different from the others on the block, except for the red light over the doorway. Mick led her up to it, and they went up the short flight of stairs. He nodded to the doorman, a wall of a man in a leather vest, before opening the door and ushering her inside.
She blinked in the bright light. They were in a small room filled up by a large antique desk. Behind it sat a small woman in her sixties, Allie would guess, who watched them over a pair of blue-framed bifocals worn low on her nose.
“Evening, Mick,” she said. “You must be Allesandra. Welcome to The Bastille. I’m Pixie—we chatted online.”
“Yes, we did.”
“You’ve already read and agreed to the house rules and sent in your paperwork, including your membership card from your club in San Francisco, so all I need is a copy of your ID and you’re good to go.”
Allie fumbled in her purse for a moment, found her ID and passed it to Pixie, who disappeared through a door for a few moments, then gave it back to her.
“Enjoy your evening. Cell phones off, dears.”
“Of course, Pixie,” Mick said, pulling his out of his pocket and smiling at the tiny woman as he shut it off. “Allie, give me yours.”
She handed it to him, and he powered it down before returning it to her.
A small part of her mind was screaming at her that she wasn’t behaving normally, and another part was reminding her this was the way things happened when a Dom shows up at your house and practically brings you to your knees before taking you to a haven for kinky people who were just like you were, even in all the myriad variety of kinks and personalities. She breathed a long, sweet sigh of relief as Mick took her through a door and into the club.
The lighting was dim, shades of red and purple, with a few spots of soft amber gleaming from the lamps set here and there at the cleaning stations, supplied with bottles of antibacterial spray and paper towels, small first-aid kits and bottled water. But she could see that inside The Bastille looked like anything but a warehouse. The walls were finished in a highly lacquered black, with heavy wooden posts polished to a high sheen every few feet. She could see the eyebolts, some with the occasional lengths of chain attached, set into the wood. Placed around the edges of the room were couches and chairs and ottomans upholstered in red velvet, large tables in carved wood, everything oversized and luxurious and slightly ornate in what she thought of as Bohemian gypsy style. Here and there, high on the walls, were paintings of naked women in seductive and often wanton poses, some bound in rope or chains or leather straps, corseted or cuffed. There were people in the room in the same state of undress, many bound, corseted. Wanton.
She immediately felt a sense of home.
Beside her Mick whispered in her ear, “What do you think of our little club?”
“It’s beautiful. And it’s not little at all.”
“There are private and semiprivate rooms, the themed rooms. The school room. The Victorian boudoir. The medieval torture chamber. The medical room. Do you see the curtained areas off to the sides? Those are aftercare rooms, full of pillows. And in the back there’s the kitchen and an outdoor patio. But I’ll give you the tour another time. I don’t want to break this space inside your head too much. I like where you’re at.”
She turned to him. “Do you?”
He stroked the underside of her chin with his finger. “I do. I think we’re going to play very well together. Come.”
He took her hand and led her across the floor of the main room. The music was a low throb of ambient tones as they passed a row of spanking benches: two floating, padded tables suspended from the ceiling by heavy chains. They moved past an enormous wooden frame in the middle of the room. A woman was bound in heavy leather cuffs, her arms stretched over her head and attached to the frame by carabiners clipped to hooks set into the wood. She wondered vaguely where he might be taking her, but that sinking sensation was beginning to ground her in the moment, in her body, and she was content for now to simply follow him.
