Private Party, Public Performance
9
H er pulse was racing, and her body was hot all over when she reached the third floor—and it wasn’t from sprinting up the stairs. When Gage closed the distance between them and took the cuffs off, his scent hit her like a psychedelic drug. She knew nothing about LSD, but guessed it was similarly mind altering.
Aunt Josie’s voice kept replaying in her head: “Be careful what you wish for, sweetie.” She was getting what she had long fantasized about, and it scared her shitless. There was no turning back now—her education was getting a jumpstart, thanks to Dimitri. Access to a private party so soon! It would be a boon if she got to witness an actual scene.
She wandered down the wide corridor, noticing the Latin names in decorative brass script above each entrance. Each door was upholstered in dark green leather, accented with lacquered strips of wood and black iron rails. They looked just like the old steamer trunk she had discovered as a young girl in Aunt Josie’s house.
Brynne remembered that first summer she spent with her aunt on Skye. Josephine Lamond was a trailblazer in her time. She never married, but she had countless male friends and admirers. She was Brynne’s idol. Josie wrote racy historical romances. The covers featured beautiful heroines held possessively in the arms of a larger-than-life hero in tight white breeches. She was an overly curious twelve-year-old and almost fell off a ladder attempting to get to the top shelf of the bookcase. However, her grandest discovery came a few years later when she found the trunk in the closet under the stairs.
She tried the lock multiple times, knowing there had to be something interesting inside. When her aunt went to town on Saturday afternoons, she searched every corner of the little cottage. It took weeks to unearth the skeleton key taped to the back of a picture frame. Brynne would never forget the strange feelings that came over her when she found the magazines. The black-and-white photographs from the 1950s featured the famous pinup queen, Bettie Page…in vintage lingerie and bondage. They were her first exposure to that world, and they left an indelible mark.
Garrick came up from behind, startling her. “So, Dimitri is at it again?”
“I’m afraid so. Did Gage fill you in?”
“I didn’t get any details. He just said we needed to move you from the lounge and reduce the chances of a brawl breaking out.”
“It got tense, but I calmed him down. At least he didn’t hit the guy who overstepped, so it wasn’t too bad.”
Garrick’s eyes narrowed. “It’s our job to prevent things from escalating. If Gage thought there was the chance of an issue, I trust his instincts. They are never wrong.” His voice was low and harsh. “It was the right call to take you out of the room.”
She regretted making light of it. “Sorry, Garrick.” Jesus. Was the Russian that dangerous? “I appreciate it, I do. And I hope Bettie isn’t upset that I’m taking the private party.”
Garrick’s tone was short. “She’ll understand. Now, let me explain what you will and won’t do while in that room.”
Ten minutes later, Brynne’s stomach was doing flips. She didn’t want to ruin this opportunity by forgetting the rules. If she did well, there could be other chances to work up here and watch people doing scenes.
When she entered the room, she fought to keep her eyes on the floor and recited Garrick’s last instructions in her head. “Don’t stare at anyone; practice being invisible. Your job is to be demure, discreet, and don’t speak unless spoken to.”
She smiled at the security dude stationed inside. He gave her a curt nod and shut the door without making a sound. Brynne scanned the large dining table to check whose glasses needed refilling when her gaze landed on the centerpiece and froze.
Positioned in the middle of the table was a naked human sculpture. Brynne forgot everything as she drank in the sight of the naked woman secured to a raised leather platform. Her arms were fastened over her head with black leather wrist cuffs attached to rings embedded in the table.
Brynne’s palms dampened when she saw how they’d restrained her. Each leg was bent at the knee and held by a wide leather strap binding ankle to thigh. The woman’s skin glistened with oil. A black satin blindfold covered her eyes, and she held a small apple in her mouth, cradled by her ruby red lips.
Brynne realized she was being anything but invisible and tore her gaze away from the mesmerizing sight. She hurried to the portable bar cart in the corner. Bettie had stocked up the liquors and mixes and there was a long table against the back wall with a selection of red and white wines.
The man at the head of the table was obviously their host. All but two guests listened raptly as he told them a story about a stakeout. His mustache was neatly trimmed, and he kept his salt-and-pepper hair shaved close to his scalp. Brynne noticed the way he commanded the room. She took her time studying the guests and wondered how the eclectic group became friends.
They ranged in age from late thirties to late fifties. She recalled Gage mentioning Scotland Yard, but most of these guys did not look like they worked in law enforcement. One was clad in black leather and two others were dressed like models for GQ .
She kept stealing glances at the woman on the table. Guests nibbled from an array of fruit decorating her body. Someone had placed plump raspberries on each nipple and the juices from strawberries and watermelon left traces on her polished skin.
A tall, striking man came over to the bar. He wore his jet-black hair tied back, accentuating his high cheekbones and dark-brown eyes.
“What happened to Bettie?” His accent was distinctly Italian. He eyeballed her name tag and added, “Tinkerbell?”
Brynne smiled. “She was called away, and they asked me to cover.” It wasn’t a total lie; she just hoped the switch didn’t disappoint them.
His eyes probed, causing her pulse to flutter. “Are you a submissive, Bella?”
“No. I mean yes, but not the way you mean.” She lowered her voice. “I’m here to tend bar, not perform any other duties for the party.” She felt her face heating as he studied her.
“I see. That is a shame.” He chuckled and said, “Let’s see how well you make a Manhattan.”
“Certainly, sir. Straight up or on the rocks?”
“Rocks.”
She prepared the cocktail, having learned how to perfect it for her father, who preferred it with Canadian rye. After placing it on the bar, she grinned playfully. “Please tell me you are a purist and prefer cherries over a lemon peel?”
“Si, cherries. Grazie,” he said, his eyes glinting.
She added two sour marasca cherries on a stir stick and presented the drink. “I hope you like it.”
He took a sip and hummed in delight. “You’re an excellent mixologist, Tinker-bella.” He winked and returned to his seat near the end of the table.
It was then that she noticed the other submissive on display at the other end of the room. Her hand flew to her mouth in shock. How had she missed seeing the man with a stunning body mounted on a St. Andrew’s Cross? His position meant the guest of honor could admire his beautiful form throughout dinner. A leather hood hid most of his face but left his mouth visible. His body was perfection, well-muscled without an ounce of excess, made more tempting by his spread-eagled position. His skin was glistening with oil too, accentuating every curve of muscle. The cuffs held him taut, and his erection was bulging, trying to escape the leather pouch covering it.
Brynne’s mouth dried, and she felt suddenly warm. The guest of honor rose to speak to his guests and jolted her out of her trance. “Thank you all for coming tonight to celebrate with me. Our first course will appear soon, but I want to play a little game before it arrives.”
Murmurs sounded around the room as they waited for him to continue. He pulled a purple velvet pouch off the table and passed it to the first person to his left. “Pull one card out and pass the bag along.”
Their excitement was palpable as each person took a playing card out of the bag.
“Each card represents either a punishment or a reward for our two slaves: Achilles and Helen of Troy. Depending on which card you draw, you get to mete out one or the other. If you have a spade, you’ll punish our handsome stallion on the wall. A diamond means he gets a reward. And if you draw a heart, you will give Helen pleasure, but a club means distress or teasing without release.”
The woman on the table shivered, and her wrist cuffs rattled the rings on the table. Brynne’s pulsed picked up its pace, and she squeezed her legs together in sympathy. Or was it envy?
The gentleman who ordered the Manhattan waved his card in the air. “John, if we want to trade, is that possible?”
John nodded. “That would be acceptable, Massimo—if someone wants to swap with you.”
“Molto bene.” He stood and addressed the group. “I have a spade but would like to trade for a heart. Who is interested in switching?”
The man opposite him rose and said, “Deal!” The man in black leather had been stealing glances at Achilles every few minutes. He looked pleased with the switch. Everyone else seemed satisfied with their cards.
John walked to a tall cabinet in the corner near the cross and opened the doors to reveal a wide selection of implements. Brynne sucked in a breath when she saw the floggers, clamps, restraints, and sex toys of various colors and sizes. He turned to the group. “Who has the highest spade?”
A tall, slim man with glasses rose, flashed the Queen of Spades, and walked to the open cabinet.
“Choose your instrument of pain, Oscar. You have the honor of going first.”
Oscar took his time perusing the shelves and chose a flogger in blood-red leather. He turned to the table and waved his choice for everyone to see.
Massimo clapped his hands. “Great choice Oscar, the deerskin is perfect to warm him up.”
The man restrained on the cross clenched his fists when he heard what the item was. She watched the rise and fall of his chest, feeling acute anticipation. Oscar stood beside him and trailed a hand over his chest, grazing his nipples.
“Now, now, Oscar, yours is a punishment card. You must refrain from caressing Achilles; the one holding a diamond gets to do that.”
Oscar bristled at being reprimanded, judging by the shift in his stance. He turned back to Achilles and mumbled something. With shocking quickness, the flogger landed across the spread-eagled man’s muscled thighs. He jumped in reaction and bit his lip, but no sound escaped. The flogger landed again, inches below his groin. Oscar increased the pace and intensity by landing several blows on his stomach and upper body, and the man jerked against the cross. A rosy blush spread across his chest and sleek flat abs. The captive held his composure without so much as a murmur.
“Thank you, Oscar. Nice work,” John said.
Oscar hung the flogger back on the hook and walked up to the bar. His eyes were black, his expression lit with excitement.
“What can I get you, sir?” Brynne kept her voice low.
“I’ll have a double bourbon on the rocks. Maker’s Mark, if you have it.”
“Yes, of course,” Brynne said, and poured the drink without delay. He nodded and turned without a word, returning to his seat.
“Who has the high diamond?” John asked. A handsome, sandy-haired man showed his card to the group and stood.
“Ben gets to raise the stakes, but remember, don’t let him come.”
Ben took off his beautifully cut suit jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. He nodded at John as he straightened his cufflinks. With a wink, he said, “Never fear. I know how to edge a slave.” Bypassing the cabinet, he went straight up to the cross and leaned in close. He whispered something to Achilles that was inaudible. Ben took his time, hands roaming over his glistening chest, circling, and then pinching his nipples to hardness. He ran a finger along the young man’s jaw, then tugged at his bottom lip. His fingers dipped inside his mouth.
“Wet them,” he said, in a deep Irish accent. The deep pitch of his voice skittered along Brynne’s nerves as she watched the sub do as he was told.
With newly damp fingers, he played with his nipples. His other hand grasped the pouch and squeezed, causing a groan to escape.
“Permission to bare Achilles’s sword ?”
John chuckled. “Permission granted.”
Ben wasted no time in undoing the snaps and pulling the leather away. He stepped to the side so everyone could see the beautiful erection jutting from his body. The head was dark with need. Cock tears had gathered at the seam. Brynne unconsciously licked her lips and could not look away. When John cleared his throat, she jumped up in surprise. Being so absorbed in the scene, she hadn’t noticed him standing next to the bar.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted, blushing to the roots of her hair.
He grinned at her, his eyes twinkling in amusement. “Perhaps I should punish you for your inattention.” He winked and added, “I’ll have a Hendrick’s and tonic.”
She swallowed, her eyes wide. “Excellent choice.”
“So, you’re the new girl everyone’s been talking about?”
Brynne winced. “Bad news travels fast.”
He chuckled. “You’re fresh meat, love. Don’t worry, the novelty will wear off soon enough.”
“I hope so,” she said, handing him the drink.
John raised his glass in her direction and sat back down. The scene unfolding at the other end of the room re-captured her attention. Ben was dragging a feather along the underside of the prisoner’s arms and down his torso, all the while massaging oil up and down the length of his prick. Brynne overheard Achilles’s sharp intake of breath and watched his taut body shudder as the Irishman continued to torment him.
John took control again. “Thank you, Ben. Now we’ll call upon the holder of the other spade to bring our gladiator back down to earth.”
“That’s me.” A man with ebony skin and mischief in his eyes rose from the table. He was well over six feet of lean muscle and sculpted cheekbones.
While he stood at the cabinet perusing the items, Brynne salivated over his perfect butt. What would he do to poor Achilles? It didn’t matter. She was already impatient for what might happen next.
She couldn’t see what he chose because he stood in front of the cross, his large frame blocking everyone’s view. When Achilles moaned low, her body shuddered in reaction to the obvious discomfort in his tone. The sounds in the room were subdued. Everyone was holding their breath, listening for signs of his resistance or surrender. Another distressed groan followed by the tinkle of a bell. Achilles sucked in his breath, and it was obvious his tormentor was fastening something between his legs. When he stepped aside, a collective sigh passed around the room. Brynne would give anything for a gin and tonic to wet her parched throat. She swallowed a gasp, seeing the clamps fastened to his nipples with small bells to signal his duress. The Black man had also wrapped several leather straps tightly around the base of his penis and balls. If Brynne thought his cock looked hungry before, it was positively ravenous now. She swallowed hard and reached for a bottle of water.
A buzz sounded, and the security guard moved to the door. He peered through the small window first and then allowed the three servers to enter. They made quick work of clearing empty dishes and then set down the salad course. Brynne circled the table with the wine and topped everyone up. Once she retreated, John raised his glass.
“A toast to Master Gage, who gave us this delicious 2001 Barolo.”
“Hear, hear!”
“Cheers,” the guests chimed in.
Everyone except John clinked glasses and dug into their salads. He dropped his napkin on his chair and walked in front of the captive, strung up for his amusement. He leaned in to Achilles, his mouth close to his ear as he unfastened the hooks holding the cuffs to the corners of the cross. Achilles nodded and dropped to his knees, the bells from his nipple clamps echoing off the paneled walls. John took a dining chair and placed it in the corner facing the room. From her vantage point at the other end, Brynne could see everything. Part of her wondered if John did that on purpose, and her pulse quickened. She reluctantly pried her gaze away and focused on wiping the bar, but couldn’t ignore the sounds coming from that corner. The unbuckling of a belt, the sound of a zipper, and the swish of trousers being drawn down. When Brynne looked back up, Achilles was kneeling between John’s legs with his cock cradled in his grasp.
“Tut, tut,” he said, his tone gruff. “No hands.” He drew the young man’s arms behind his back and clipped the cuffs together.
“These bells are a distraction.” He swiftly tossed the clamps to the floor. Achilles moaned as the blood rushed back to the tortured tips and he whispered his thanks.
“I’m sure you are glad to be rid of them. Now you can show me just how much.”
Achilles nodded, raised himself to a kneeling position, and opened his mouth. The hood covered his eyes, so he waited to be directed. John’s jaw clenched; his steely blue eyes glittered as he pulled the open mouth toward him. Achilles took the smooth round head into his mouth, tentatively at first, running his tongue over the crown, then down the sides, letting his saliva coat the stem. He took him into his mouth and descended slowly, propelling himself forward a little further each time. John closed his eyes and let his head fall back. Achilles coated the entire length of it with swirling strokes, sucking on the way up, licking on the way down. He increased the intensity, forcing himself down farther each time, and Brynne swore she heard the sound of it thudding against the back of his throat. John clenched his fists and began thrusting himself forward to meet every stroke. They were both oblivious to the onlookers.
Everyone had ceased eating. They stared, mesmerized by the erotic sounds of a cock being worshiped. John gripped the arms of the chair; he was getting close, swelling, and growing under Achilles’s proficient tongue. The next time he pushed himself down, the entire length disappeared into his throat. He remained there, and Brynne could see the tendons in his neck working, swallowing the head over and over.
John let out a keening cry of ecstasy, his legs twitching as every drop was wrung from his body. Only then did Achilles pull himself off to rest his forehead on the older man’s thigh. His chest rose and fell as he drew in deep breaths. To Brynne’s surprise, John started undoing the laces at the back of the hood. Once they were loosened, he stood and pulled Achilles to his feet in front of him. Yanking off the leather covering, he took his face in his hands and kissed him deeply. John’s large right hand concealed much of his face from Brynne, but a strange feeling of recognition dawned. They turned slightly from the table, so they were both shielded from prying eyes. She watched John take hold of the young man’s rock-hard prick. It wasn’t long before his manipulations brought Achilles to completion. Another all-encompassing kiss muffled his groans.
Then Brynne saw his profile properly, and she nearly fainted.