Chapter 21
Genevieve
The door shuts behind me with a soft snick as I step inside my playroom.
Soft, feminine laughter filters through the space like specks of auditory glitter.
Sloane sits across from Ford, both with bottles of water clutched in their hands.
They seem comfortable, familiar together, and I find that oddly unsettling.
One way or another, this needs to be our final lesson.
“Good evening,” I greet them, striding closer in my sky-high black stilettos. I didn’t bother changing for their lesson today since my role is simply bystander and instructor, not participant.
“Hello, Madam Allison,” Sloane purrs, her gaze dropping with her chin reverently.
The heat from Ford’s ocean-blue irises tracks me with an intensity that might cause my skin to steam if I don’t look away. Even as I shift my attention to Sloane, his gaze follows me. “We’re covering bondage today, but we’ll be sure to stay away from the cross, since that’s a soft limit of yours.”
“Actually,” Sloane begins, her voice timid and her fingers twisting in her lap. “If we’re doing bondage tonight, I’d… I think I’d like to try the cross.”
I follow her line of sight toward the St. Andrew’s cross on the opposite side of the room and ask, “Tell me why you’d like to try it.”
My voice has taken on a more authoritative tone without meaning to, the Domme in me surfacing as I grip tightly to control of the situation. I should be allowing Ford to take the lead here, to learn, but I’m not about to risk Sloane’s safety for anyone or anything.
He doesn’t know her like I do. Not yet anyway.
That thought shouldn’t bother me half as much as it does.
I arch an eyebrow, silently demanding that she communicate with me.
A moment later, her throat moves, and she sits up a little straighter.
“It’s something I’ve been wanting to try again, and I don’t have any other clients I think I’d feel comfortable trying this with.
I’ll be safe, especially since you’ll be here, too. ”
Sloane had a bad experience once with a Dom and a cross. While he became food for the crows, I know from experience that it takes more than death for some scars to heal. I can’t fault her for wanting to try things that you once enjoyed again.
Her reasoning tracks; something about Ford is disarming. He makes you want to do things you otherwise wouldn’t.
My fingers thread through her hair affectionately, and she leans into the touch as I dip my chin, my gaze flicking back to Ford. Ultimately, this is his scene, and Sloane is his sub. “Is pushing her limits on the cross something you’re comfortable with?”
Sloane gnaws on her bottom lip as she glances over at him. He nods. “We’ll take it slowly.”
She gifts him with a soft smile, getting to her feet, the straps of her lace top sliding down her shoulders as she begins to strip. My attention drifts over her head as she bends to shed her pants, expecting to find Ford’s eyes on her, but they aren’t. They’re squarely on me.
I open my mouth to say…something, anything, but Sloane chooses that moment to chirp, “I’m ready.”
Ford hauls himself to his feet, and I tell him, “This is your scene. I’ll be here if you need help as you navigate things.”
Giving them my back, I take the seat on the couch that Ford vacated, crossing my bare legs as I lean back, my skirt riding up.
The scent of tobacco and black pepper clings to the cushions.
Taking a steadying breath, I watch as the source of the heady aroma leads the petite submissive to the black X and positions her in the middle.
She moves to give him her back, but he carefully grasps her shoulders and turns her toward him. “Face me,” he commands, his voice strong and husky. I’d be willing to bet his low alto pitch, combined with his order, has Sloane damp between the legs. God knows I’m wet, even if I loathe to admit it.
Sloane takes a deep breath, her chest visibly rising, offering her wrists to be restrained within the padded leather cuffs. The structure is more or less self-explanatory, so I don’t feel it’s necessary to walk him through how to restrain her.
He tests the cuffs, checking to make sure she still has good blood flow, and I find myself impressed that I didn’t have to instruct him to do that myself.
Once he has her spread-eagle, he stands directly in front of her, presumably looking her in the eye, though I can’t see more than his back.
His voice booms through the space. “How does that feel?”
She tugs on the restraints, the soft sound of the chains rattling making my pussy clench. “Good. Thank you.”
His head bobs once before moving toward the armoire, and I hold my breath, waiting to see what he chooses. When his hand reemerges, he’s fisting a blindfold and dragon tongue, the braided leather clutched tightly as the pointed leather tails swish, and something else I can’t see.
Glancing in my direction, our eyes connect briefly before he turns around, the items dangling from his grasp ominously. As he reaches Sloane once more, he states, “Remind us both of your safe word.”
“Red or liar, Clark.”
He’s such a natural at this: carefully assessing her wellbeing and forcing her to communicate before establishing a natural escape route for her, should she need it. I recross my legs, attempting to quell the wanton throb between them.
He steps up to her, the tails brushing over her skin, and I wonder if goosebumps have spread across her skin the way they would if that were me. I’m tempted to go see, but I stay rooted to the seat.
Circling the cross, he moves directly behind her, his eyes drilling into mine as he dips his chin to her ear, asking loudly enough that I can clearly hear, “Are you going to be good for me?”
“Yes, Clark,” she squeaks. His eyes remain glued to mine, even as he gathers her hair in his hand and she whimpers.
My breaths are practically audible as my chest expands behind my lace top and blazer, my attention still captivated by searing blue eyes. “What are you to me?”
“Your property, your pain whore.”
I shift in my seat, squirming as if I can somehow escape the heat that’s radiating from my core with the force of a thousand suns.
I shouldn’t want that, not after what I’ve been through, but I do.
It’s been so long since I craved the feeling that accompanied those derogatory terms lost to time and foul mouths forever sewn shut.
I’d forgotten the spark of excitement they ignited.
“That’s right,” he tells her, still looking at me, and it’s so easy to imagine that he’s speaking to me instead. “My filthy toy.”
He winks at me, the expression playful and a death sentence for my hyperactive libido.
Ah, fuck. I can feel myself growing wetter, my body betraying my mind like the little slut she is around this man. My thighs rub together as I try in vain to seek unattainable relief.
Ford lifts the satin blindfold, covering Sloane’s eyes, but not thirty seconds later, she’s frantically shaking her head, a pained moan vibrating in her mouth.
I frown, my gaze immediately assessing her and why her voice might sound panicked.
Her chest expands too quickly, and I’m on my feet by the time Ford circles her.
The items in his hand are immediately discarded, tossed on the dresser as he steps in front of her, ripping the blindfold from her eyes. Her eyes are wild, likely unseeing.
I move toward them, ensuring that I stay back enough for Ford to remain in charge.
“Sloane, focus on me.” His voice is heavy with authority, and he bends slightly so they’re eye-to-eye, holding her attention, even while he moves to unfasten the cuffs. “Breathe.”
He coaches her through the next several measured inhales and exhales before unfastening her ankles. When she’s free, her body trembles, and she throws her arms around Ford’s shoulders. He stiffens but recovers quickly as he carries her over to the couch, dragging the blanket over her.
“Are you alright?” he asks after several minutes, his tone genuine. I lean against the bedpost, watching the two of them together as my insides curl with envy.
He navigated that situation flawlessly, ending the scene even before she could safe word. I’m confident she would have, but the panic seemed to have seized her before her mouth could form the word. I wouldn’t have handled that any differently myself.
She nods, her breathing now regulated. “I’m sorry.”
Ford frowns. “Do not apologize. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, not right now, maybe…later.” If this were a full-time Dom/sub dynamic, I’d be pressing my submissive for how they planned to navigate a triggered episode, but she’s not mine. Luckily, I know she has a standing appointment with a therapist—something I offer all my employees—every week.
“I ruined your lesson, though,” she comments, and Ford shakes his head. “Maybe Allison can fill in for me so you can get a feel for the cross.”
Two sets of eyes suddenly land on me, and my gaze widens as I shake my head.
But it’s too late.
Ford’s mouth has already spread into a lurid grin, his blue eyes glinting. “I think that’s a great idea.”
Eyes narrowing, I grind my teeth. “I don’t.”
“You wouldn’t have to submit, just fill in. Like a body double,” Sloane explains innocently, having no idea what door she’s just opened.
“No.” My voice is harsh and biting, brooking no argument.
Ford’s smirk highlights the sinful dimple tempting to be licked and kissed as it threatens to disarm me. “Please. It’d be great to be able to practice with the cross.”
Practice. Yeah, I’m sure.
This is the worst idea in the history of ideas. Nothing good can come of this for me, but still, the potential to submit is like an irresistible lure in the darkness. Death will await, and the journey will be delicious.
“Fine,” I relent for seemingly no good reason. “But I will not be undressing more than my blazer.”
I take off the jacket and drape it over the end of the large bed, my pulse skittering like mad.
Turning on my heel, I stalk toward the imposing black wooden X.
Over my shoulder, I can hear the two of them speaking, their voices low, but I can’t make out their exchange over the pounding of my heart in my ears.
Cursing myself for wearing a goddamn skirt and my most daring, low-cut bustier today, I turn and place my back against the junction of the cross, the painted wood cool against my slivers of exposed skin.
His shoulders are set, one corner of his mouth hitched slightly as he approaches me. “Are you ready to be strung up like a perfect little doll for me to play with?”
A perfect little doll. My pupils dilate, my greedy cunt squeezing around thin air, imploring me to stuff it full of cock. Traitor.
I hate that it’s both the term and the degradation that’s unraveling strands of my control. I grit my teeth against the urge to call him Sir and to beg him to strip me and whip me until I’m a sobbing mess. When I remain silent, he tilts his head to the side.
“Not a very submissive doll, are you? I asked you a question.”
My eyebrow quirks. “This is meant to be a demonstration, nothing more. My submission is not required.”
Another smirk pulls at his lips, and I hate the way his eyes fucking sparkle. It’s infuriating.
“Have it your way, then.” Leaning forward, he restrains my right wrist, buckling it into the black cuff. As he does, he dips his head and murmurs for only me to hear, “I bet I’ll have you begging by the end.”
My gasp catches in my throat, and I force myself to look away and take a deep breath, but the moment I inhale, I’m once again met with the exasperatingly intoxicating smell of black pepper and tobacco.
I have a sinking feeling that I’m going to regret this.