Chapter 13
Juniper
I’m barefoot on the cool white tiles, and my translucent red dress falls beyond ankle-length, the ragged cloth swishing along the floor as I walk.
This twisted silk concoction is luxurious, elegant, and revealing.
I imagine it as a wedding dress for a decadent, well-off bride on her umpteenth marriage.
Beneath, I wear white lace underwear and I know, with great certainty, that they plan on stripping me eventually.
Two men in dark suits guard the entry to the hall the CNC Fraternity has reserved, and as we pass through the doorway, I see a third enormous guard on the other side, with the obligatory earpiece and a black silk shirt and dark pants.
His hands are clasped together at his front, his dark brown hair is shaven, and he is so rectangular in shape his neck is almost nonexistent.
He scans me from top to bottom, and I sense not one iota of sexual interest. To him, I’m a security risk, at worst. At best, a submissive woman being led in by my Dominants.
Tomás holds the end of the leash that swings from my red collar.
Aaron treads to my right in casual steel-gray shirt and long pants, and he carries a black leather bag.
Tomás has opted for a red shirt that matches my dress.
Blood won’t show on that or my dress. I dearly hope they don’t intend anything that sadistic.
If they are, I will steel myself and endure.
Then, I imagine one of my men carefully threading a needle into my skin, and I shiver as I imagine blood trailing down my stomach, my breasts. Without warning, arousal slithers in, like a hidden snake. I wince. My mind is getting fucked over by being exposed to an abundance of kink.
And I cannot escape this hall without them knowing.
That’s my plan, so far. Steel myself. Brilliant. Not. I am so screwed.
This hall is an enormous long rectangle, running to left and right and paralleling the rear of the main resort.
All along the opposite side glass doors have been concertinaed open, allowing a glimpse of a covered outdoor entertainment area with tables, chairs, and sofas, and white columns at intervals, as well as a distant view over the ocean.
It’s early morning, the breeze is warm, and a few outdoor tables are occupied, though I can’t see much over the heads of the people currently fucking and fellating, and trying out their favorite piece of wicked debauchery on other humans.
In here, it’s a kinky paradise, I guess.
One or two hundred are in here. The cries, moan,s and conversations carry in an undercurrent.
Immense screens along the walls show some of what is happening—the crudest, lewdest, or perhaps most artistic kinks.
A man and two women cosplay half-naked, dueling with swords, as if to vie for possession of a naked woman.
She’s tied to a pole with intricate ropework that winds about her like vines.
When one of them mock dies, the others swarm him and tie him and drag him to another pole.
Whips are uncurled. Swords go into places they shouldn’t. I blink and move on.
The woman dressed as a cat is here, being spit roasted by her owner and another man, with a camera zooming in on her at ass and mouth, all of it is being streamed to a screen.
We pass someone tied upside down in a rope harness. They spin slowly, strung from a thick rope attached to the two-story ceiling. A pulsating dildo projects upward from between their legs.
On a square of black sofas, an orgy is happening. I smile, writing my own Google review: kinda boring.
A mural on the left wall has a man and a woman tied to it, gagged, legs and arms spread, like zigzag art exhibits. The stripes on their skin are whip strikes. A woman in a black pantsuit moves from one to the other delivering fresh lines of red.
A central stage, a hundred yards away, is studded with St Andrew’s crosses, currently empty.
I drag my feet and halt at a scene where a man is binding a woman, face-up, to a table with barbed wire, and though it seems done with minimum force, she bleeds from scratches.
When he kneels and starts to lick her pussy, she writhes and squeaks.
I stare. I’m almost feeling the barbs digging in and scraping along my skin, the licking softness of his tongue.
I hear his laugh, then her pitiful moans as she arches toward him. My throat tightens.
“Close your mouth, Miss Juniper,” Loxland says dryly.
I do so and follow the tug of the leash.
This room with its montage of sex and sadism is affecting me in ways I never imagined.
Then a man goes through a door to my left, on the wall that holds the main entry doors. A private room, I assume. He closes the white door. A millisecond later, I recognize him. That was Baxter, Nathan’s friend.
I need to know what he’s doing here. Or, even better, I need to see his dick. Is it scarred? I should be checking them all. No one will see that as strange here? Surely? I purse my lips.
Fuck, I pray I’m right because I start scanning dicks. How do I get Tomás and Mr. Loxland to head toward that room?
“Perverted people, as usual.” Mr. Loxland has stopped and drops the unzipped black bag to the floor, standing before me with his feet planted. Unhurriedly, he assesses my body until he reaches my face, then holds out his hand, palm up.
In his other hand he clasps a looped red rope that must have come from the bag. That’s shibari rope. My stomach flip-flops from nerves, and heat teases my insides like an uncoiling snake. This is it. This is where I become one of the exhibits in this hall.
I thought I could be blasé, but this is unsettling. No one will see me. They’re all doing their own thing.
“Your hand, Juniper.”
I hesitate, staring at his palm, aware of his eyes dwelling on me. How gray those are. I don’t think I’ve noticed their color before.
Though his mouth barely moves, I think he’s amused by my hesitation. And a little concerned or annoyed, judging by the creasing of his forehead.
Still, he waits.
I don’t know why I’m afraid to put my hand in his.
Perhaps it’s because every other time he simply forced me.
I exhale then place my hand in his. He closes his fingers, shifts his warm grip upward to encircle my wrist with those long fingers then a cinched-in loop of rope. From the strength of his grip, I can tell I’d have little hope of pulling free. My heart stutters.
He’s tied me up before.
Yet I swallow as he slowly loops the rope, again, shuffles the loops closer, and knots them into a bracelet. Then he again holds out his palm.
He wants my other hand. I swallow and give it to him. The heat from his skin, the pressure, the knowledge I just gave him a part of myself to restrain how he wants to, it’s like taking my first taste of a full-bodied wine.
Intoxicating. Electrifying, even.
I feel a clarity all the way down to my soul, or whatever part of me is the essential me.
Is this what it’s like to really give yourself over to someone and to trust them?
Except he’s the last man I should trust. Don’t forget that.
I inhale shakily as he creates knot after knot and snugs them down so they sit perfectly right, locking my wrists together.
“Such cute little wrists and fingers.” His voice is quiet but deep.
Am I little or cute? I have never considered myself as being that.
He plays with the tips of my fingers, and the world stills.
With the last knot snugged tight, he’s left with a length of rope he can use to keep me with him. He unclips the leash, leans in to speak into my ear. His breath chases across my skin and his hand rests about my neck as he casually thumbs along my jaw.
“Mine, now. Aren’t you?”
“Ours,” Tomás points out, as he wraps his arms about me from behind. “I have a present for you too.”
The rope was a present. With his forearms barred across my middle and below my breasts, heat shimmies from my clit to my nipples.
I grow wetter in an instant.
And the rope dents my skin and holds me.
“A present, Tomás? Go for it. You mean the pretty jewelry? I’ll keep her still for you. Very still.”
What are they up to?
They swap places, with Loxland turning me and enveloping me, only he feeds his arms beneath mine and locks my shoulders to him, while Tomás goes to his knees before me.
The resemblance to a mock wedding proposal has brought eyes on us, and I suck in my bottom lip, somewhat alarmed at the added attention.
A lot alarmed at what Tomás might be planning to do to me.
As he rucks up the light fabric to above my legs to bare my panties, I can only watch. He ties the captured dress at waist level.
Then he searches in a pocket. What he retrieves from it shines and swings as he brings it higher to show me.
“A small token. A pretty thing to show off a part of you and my lust for you.” He almost purrs as he says that—a rough nasty purr—and he meanders a finger down the arrow of hair on my mound to halt atop my clit. “Stand still. This will only take a second. Do not move.”
I tense, a little lost, though I have an inkling.
The jewelry has a clamp at the end.
My eyes widen as I see the tiny jaws open and the small swinging chain that links it to a tiny golden crocodile. Then…he kisses my clit. My toes scrunch on the floor.
While I gasp a startled breath, he takes my rather aroused clit in finger and thumb and attaches the fucking thing to it.
I can see where it is going and so I freeze in both horror and anticipation.
The pain hits, and I shriek, and I’m watching the crocodile swing off my clit, tick tock tick. And I’m fascinated by his rapt attention, by how I love the stroke of his hand down the front of my thigh, by how my clit throbs in time to my heart. By how my inner muscles have squeezed inward.
The pain ebbs and settles for a firm, biting pressure.
“Not so bad, see? I only did the hood. I’ll take it off soon.” He lowers his mouth and kisses my clit again, then sucks it into his mouth.
At my squeak, Aaron chuckles behind me.