Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
On Saturday, Ben followed Mistress Anne up the Shadowlands spiral staircase, admiring the stiletto boots that barely showed under the rear of her black skirt. In the front, her skirt split almost to her crotch, giving tantalizing glimpses of her lightly tanned thighs.
Her black stretchy tank was his favorite—tight enough she went without a bra, and her cleavage was emphasized by the sheer black lace around the neckline. Her outfit looked even sexier now that she’d removed the gold-trimmed vest she’d worn as a dungeon monitor.
How did she manage to look like a wet dream and still deliver that gut-clenching sense of menace?
Even Ghost, who was manning the security guard desk tonight, had given her a respectful look.
Ben reached the top and followed her down a quiet hall. Downstairs was where all the action was, right? “Why upstairs?” he wondered under his breath. Did she not want to be seen with him? Aside from not being her normal choice, he wasn’t a particularly good slave either.
Although he hadn’t spoken loudly, she answered. “Because you shouldn’t have to deal with the discomfort of scening in public on top of the nasty things that I want to do to you.”
Jesus. His jeans were way too fucking uncomfortable now.
She stopped at a door and let him open it for her—a habit he liked. She might be magnificently dominant and one of the deadliest women he knew, but she enjoyed letting him behave like a gentleman.
Wasn’t there an old saying about the perfect woman being a lady in public and a whore in the bedroom?
Anne was a lady in public and a ballbuster—literally—in private.
With a smile, she trailed her hand over his bare chest as she walked past. “And, since I don’t indulge myself for all to see, the privacy is for me as well.”
Indulge. Refined language that meant he’d get to go down on her or fuck her.
A private room had advantages without a doubt.
He closed the door behind him and checked out the surroundings. Sure wasn’t the western room they’d used before, but more like the clichéd “harem” décor seen in old black-and-white movies.
Of course, the Shadowlands took the theme to a whole new level.
Opulent. Lavish. Darkly erotic.
Showcased in the center was a mahogany-fretworked canopy. Its golden draperies half-concealed a wide lounge.
Ben looked up. The ceiling was painted maroon and stenciled with elaborate designs. Under his bare feet was a silky Oriental carpet in golds and reds. Amazing. The whole room sang of carnal heat—and his blood was picking up the tune.
At the door, Anne turned a dial, dimming the brass-and-amber candelabra lights on the metal-trimmed dresser.
As Ben checked out the X-shaped St. Andrew’s cross in one corner, his image in the ornate mirror on the wall duplicated his movements. Great—he could watch himself getting his ass beat.
He eyed Anne. “So…am I the sultan or the eunuch, Ma’am?”
“Well, Benjamin, let’s check.” She reached between his legs, fondled his solid erection, and cupped his balls.
The surprise was a shot of hi-test octane to his spine.
“Mmm.” Her appreciative hum made his chest expand. “You’re definitely not a eunuch. I do believe all your equipment is functioning nicely.”
His blood pressure rose. If she kept stroking him like that, he’d show her every function he had.
Then she gave his testicles a toe-curling squeeze and moved away to set her toy bag on an ebonized-wood Moroccan chest. “Strip off the jeans, please, Benjamin. Then lie down on the chaise longue there.”
“No restraints, Ma’am?” He could try the bondage shit. He would. For her.
“Not this time.” As she pulled two floggers and a short, ugly black whip from her bag, her half-smile was…worrisome. “I don’t think you’ll move a muscle after I begin.”
His feet halted at that. In fact, his gas pedal was stuck on empty until she jerked her chin at the chaise.
Fuck, she was going to mess with him all right.
Yet, as he walked across the room and drew in slow, deep breaths, his mind eased into acceptance, sliding down into a quiet place that was both erotic as hell and almost meditative.
The combination was unsettling. She’d hurt him in a way that wasn’t…
quite…pain, dealing out sensations that’d transmuted inside him into something new. Something fucking carnal.
Sometimes the burn was that of an intense workout, one where his muscles were pumped and screaming to stop. He loved a good exercise rush—but working out never gave him a hard-on like this.
Or made him want to put his arms around the weights and kiss them senseless, to drive himself into—
“Ben.”
“Right. Sorry, Mistress.” Stripping didn’t take long since all he’d worn were jeans. He set them to one side and stretched out on the unusual furniture. Fairly comfortable. Wide enough for his shoulders. Even had an armrest on the right side.
A man had to wonder what’d happened to the second armrest.
At the St. Andrew’s cross, Anne was setting up her instruments of pain and pleasure. Then she dipped into her toy bag one more time, removing a pair of scissors, a towel, and a small brush and comb.
“You going to cut my hair?”
Both of her dimples showed. “That depends on your answer.”
He liked his hair, but… Man up, Haugen. “If my long hair bothers you, go ahead, Ma’am. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had short hair.”
Her laugh was low. “I wasn’t talking about the hair on your head, guard dog.”
Oh shit. He managed not to cover up his package. Barely. “You want to shave my dick?”
“Actually, yes.” Her smile widened. “You see, Benjamin”—she sat on the lounge beside him—“I object to having hair in my face, which means you lose out on nice long blowjobs, which I enjoy giving.”
She’d suck his dick? And like it? He inhaled slowly. “I thought Dominants weren’t into offering BJ’s.”
Puzzlement drew her brows together before she shook her head.
“I’m sorry, Ben. You’ve been part of the Shadowlands so long, I sometimes forget you’ve been stuck out in the entry.
You’re right to a degree. Some Doms believe going down on their submissive decreases their power.
” She took his hand and sucked on one finger.
His cock did a victory dance.
“Some Dommes think that, done right, the person giving head is the one in control.”
His cock sure as hell agreed. “Is that why you grab my hair when I go down on you? To make sure I know who’s in charge?”
“You’ve very perceptive.”
And he sure wasn’t missing the point of the discussion. She’d give him a blowjob if he lost his curlies. He looked at her soft lips…imagined them elsewhere…and couldn’t come up with the hint of an argument. “I’m in, Ma’am. Whatever you want.”
“Very good. Thank you, Ben.” She slapped his leg lightly. “Open up, now.”
As he spread his legs, he frowned. “No razor?”
“I’m content with trimmed hair, and we won’t risk irritated skin.” After putting a towel between his thighs, she picked up the dauntingly pointed scissors. “I trust you can keep from moving?”
He could feel his balls shriveling. “Oh yeah, Ma’am.”
As Anne cut his curly hair to an even half inch, her concentration—and competence—was damned reassuring.
After a minute, he relaxed, listened to the low, exotic Moroccan music, and drew in the sandalwood-scented air. Z didn’t miss a trick, did he?
Each time Anne moved his cock and balls with her soft hands, Ben felt like a pampered sultan being tended by one of his harem girls.
Of course, if he shared that with the Mistress, he’d end up a eunuch.
“There. You look lovely. And even bigger,” she said.
He glanced down. The shortening of the forest made his dick appear another inch or two longer. “Want to…ah…check your work, Ma’am? Make sure it’s short enough.”
Yeah, her laugh went right to his cock.
“Sorry, Benjamin, but you have to earn a blowjob. Tonight, if you take everything I give you, I’ll suck you most of the way off—and let you finish by taking me as roughly as you want.”
Totally his fantasy. His breath wedged in his chest. “That’s a hell of an incentive.”
She pointed to the St. Andrew’s cross. “Then get over there, grab the pegs, and hang on.”
As he crossed the room, his dick registered the added wind factor, but then his brain got caught up in other thoughts. Like she planned to beat on him. Hard.
Anticipation made his blood churn…and his mouth dry. His hands closed around the pegs, and he braced.
The first blows of her flogger were nothing as she teased the falls over his skin, tickling and stroking. Mild hand swats were a pleasant punctuation.
Then the strands hit more forcefully. Not a problem. He liked her thumpy floggers. They reminded him of a light artillery barrage.
But when she upped the game and started to really nail him, his shoulders and back and ass began to sting. His skin tightened, the sensation changing from a light to a nasty sunburn.
Yet, his cock persistently pointed toward the ceiling.
The entire room began to feel like the Grand Bazaar under a hot noon sun, and he broke out in a sweat.
“That was the easy stuff, Benjamin,” she said quietly. “Now your test begins.”
Easy? Fuck. He’d thought she’d be about ready to finish. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Bend and spread your cheeks.”
“What?” His glutes tensed, and he turned. Anal? “I told you I wouldn’t—”
“Your restriction was because”—she tilted her head and quoted him—“‘I don’t know you well enough for whips or anal shit.’ I’d say that’s changed.”
Well, hell.
She smiled slightly, reading his acceptance. “Your ass is mine, my tiger. But—if it helps, I’m not going to don a fake cock and pound you with it.”
“There’s a relief.”
His sarcasm got him a swift slap of the flogger, far too close to his balls.
He barely bit back a bark of concern. After a second, he bowed his head; he’d been out of line. “Sorry, Ma’am.”
She stepped nearer and put her palm on his cheek. “I know this worries you. But I’m going to use a small anal plug. We’ll talk about it afterward. If it’s truly a problem after you try it, I’ll respect your wishes.”