Betrayed by Love (2 page)

Ten spikes, tips blunted like a fencer’s blade but each over an inch long, were forced against his soft skin as she fastened the strap. When she stepped back, everyone could clearly see the silver spikes pressed into his flesh, held in place by the wide leather circle. A terrible cry echoed through the room as she released her hold on his cock and balls, allowing them to take the full impact of the device.

The savagery of the item was beautiful and terrible. The sub’s eyes were on the horizon, the cane still in his teeth. His breath whistled around the piece of rattan.

She took the cane. “Look down, slave. See what I have done for you.”

The man dropped his head to his chest, a sob coming from between his teeth at the sight of his tortured cock.

“Where does it hurt, slave? Tell me.”

“My… My cock. I can feel the spikes, digging in, they’re sharp. And my balls, oh God—my balls. It… It…hurts.”

“I want it to hurt. I want you to hurt.”

God help her, she wanted to make him suffer, as if his pain could erase her own.

“Yes, Mistress.” The words were a plea.

“We are near the end now, slave.” A welt to the outside of his thigh, right ass cheek, left shoulder.

“Do you think you have pleased me? Do you? Have you considered the possibility that you haven’t? What if none of this will ever be enough? What if all the lashings, the debasement, will not bring you low enough for me?” More welts, now to the other ass cheek, thigh and the soft flesh covering his left triceps.

The words poured from her soul, reflecting back the blackness within her.

“God, please…”

“God cannot help you. I’m afraid he never comes here.” Her right hand cruelly twisted one nipple. “But you have a secret, don’t you, slave? A deep secret. It is not God who could rescue you, but someone else. Someone in this room.”

His eyes moved over her shoulder to someone behind her.

She wanted to hurt him, but she also wanted to save him, to see him find comfort and love after the pain of what she was doing to him. There had been no one to save her, but this sub would be rescued.

Savannah looked over her shoulder. A tense-looking woman sat in the chair closest to the stage, her eyes roving over every inch of the sub.

“That’s right. She loves you still, and so you are safe, forever safe.” Stepping close, Savannah whispered into his ear, “And I hate you for that.”

Reaching down, she grabbed the leather strap and lifted, the spikes digging into his balls. He screamed, not merely a cry but a true scream. Around the room people jumped, some of the Doms moving as if they would interfere, but no one did.

“Beg me for more!”

The words were ragged, raw, his vocal cords strained. “Please—please—please Mistress, use me…more…more…more, ah God, it hurts.”

She pinched a fold in the leather, drawing the spikes on the sides in. Another scream followed.

“Beg.”

“Please, Mistress, more, I beg you, more, more, more. Use me, use me, use me.”

“Offer yourself up.”

“My…my body…is yours.”

“And what of your soul, your mind, your heart? Can you feel me there too, pressing, hurting, squeezing?”

“Yes… I will never, never, never forget…forget.”

“And you will never be the same.”

With a vicious twist, she released the leather so the strap fell away, the spikes pulling from the groves they had dug in his flesh. The returning blood caused pain so deep he threw his body back, his mouth open but no sound emerging.

He was brought back as she viciously caned his ass, then spanked and squeezed his cock with her gloved hand. He swelled at her touch, rising hard and fast so that his dick nearly touched his belly.

Despite the pain he was wildly aroused, to the point he would have let Savannah do anything to him. It was time to pull back.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Little mental health breaks are good,” she told Michelle.

Michelle looked up from her painting but, uncharacteristically, didn’t comment. She knew from past experience that Savannah wouldn’t talk about where she’d gone or what she’d done while away.

“So you’re finished with all the pieces?” Michelle asked instead.

“I think that’s the last one,” Savannah said. She went to her sketch area, a bright corner of the painting studio, and picked up the sketch she’d done for the series. The pot she’d just thrown was commissioned. An office building in DC was redecorating the lobby and the space she’d been commissioned to fill was an odd one—a long, narrow ledge twenty feet above the reception desk in the three-story open lobby.

Savannah had designed a series of thrown vases. The shapes and heights varied, so that when the pots were placed in a line the profiles would flow smoothly from one to the other, the colors moving from cream to turquoise, dark blue in the center, and fading to kelly and pastel green.

The drawing she held showed a sketch of the completed idea. When the piece was complete, this signed drawing, which she’d hand-carried to the interior designer’s office in DC, would be framed and hung in the lobby.

Though she’d thrown the last pot, she was far from truly done. She had to fire that pot, finish glazing and second-firing several others, and box them up and drive them the almost six hundred miles from Savannah, Georgia, to DC.

“Are you sad it’s done?” Michelle asked. She’d risen from her easel and was cleaning her hands with a cloth.

“A little,” she said, setting down the drawing. “But there’s always another project.”

“When are you going to Chicago?”

“Next week. The sketches are ready. I’m really looking forward to this one, so I hope they like the drawing.” Savannah flipped to a sketch she’d done in charcoal. It was a pair of lovers wrapped around each other, bodies contorted to the point of surrealism. She’d drawn inspiration from Rodin’s marble sculptures for the positioning. The building she was designing it for had an entirely black marble lobby. When the interior designer contacted her, he said the client wanted something visceral that would cause controversy and draw reactions.

For Savannah there was nothing more visceral and emotional than love, or the illusion of it.

If the client liked the piece she’d sculpt it larger-than-life size, from clay and plaster, then have it cast in bronze or copper to complement the black marble of the lobby. The fifty-thousand-dollar price tag, plus five grand for materials, was very attractive. It was an expansive project, one she desperately wanted, as most of her commissioned pieces were not nearly as evocative and interesting as this.

* * * * *

Roman tapped the edge of his headset, which was buzzing discreetly, indicating an incoming call. “Roman,” he said smoothly.

“Roman, it’s Peter. I just wanted to check we’re still on for lunch tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Roman said, leaning back in his chair. Normally he would expect his secretary to confirm these details, but Peter was a solid business acquaintance. Almost a friend.

“Good, good. It will be nice to see your sunny, smiling face,” Peter said.

Roman let out a bark of laughter, one side of his mouth twitching in what passed for a smile. “Tomorrow then. No business talk. I promise.”

“No, no business talk. Not as long as you insist on buying those disgusting residential properties.”

“Tomorrow,” Roman said, not willing to honor Peter’s lame joke with a second laugh. One was enough for this conversation.

He tapped his headset again and ended the call. He actually was looking forward to lunch tomorrow. Peter owned a commercial design firm. For years he’d been Roman’s go-to man for renovating office spaces bought as part of his real estate development firm.

Appearances could be everything in business, and companies were willing to pay top dollar to rent or purchase buildings that were state of the art and beautiful. Roman and Peter were both tapping into this, though in different ways.

It was five o’clock and Roman’s secretary, a thin blond man, ducked into the office to see if there was anything Roman needed. There wasn’t, and his secretary ducked out again.

Around him his office went quiet. He ran his empire from a small set of rooms in one of the first commercial buildings he’d bought in Chicago. No penthouse suites here—he reserved those for the rent-paying clients. His office was on the fifth floor, with a view of the building next door.

There were showcases spaced in other buildings he used, but this was a place for work, the place he was the most comfortable.

As the lights in the outer office clicked off and the sunlight faded, Roman turned on his desk lamp and kept working.

* * * * *

So much for getting away from the humidity.

Savannah shrugged out of her tailored jacket, throwing it over her arm. It had been a muggy July day in Savannah, the air so thick you could practically eat it, and Chicago seemed to be no different.

She passed a tourist stand offering the Ferris Bueller tour of Chicago and headed toward the short man with a heavy mustache who carried a placard with “Savannah Jones” written on it in blocky letters.

“Hello,” she said. “I’m Savannah.”

He smiled wide. “Hello there, Ms. Jones. Great accent.”

Savannah offered him a brief smile, inwardly amused. Apparently Yankees really did love a Southern accent.

He led her to a Lincoln Town Car, air-conditioned to near arctic cool. Savannah was instantly grateful she’d accepted the designer’s offer of a ride. She hadn’t let him buy her plane ticket, though a business-class ticket would have been nice rather than the on-sale coach one she’d bought herself, but she wasn’t comfortable owing the designer that much.

The driver’s jacket had a company logo on the pocket from a rental service so he wasn’t a personal employee of the firm. No need to pump him for information.

Her driver had tucked Savannah’s small carry-on bag into the trunk, but she had her portfolio with her. She flipped it open, the charcoal sketches protected by plastic sheets. She rehearsed her description of the creative process, including snippets about Rodin and his influence, the impact of metal sculpture and the details of the production process as the driver made his way through Chicago.

Details and factoids about the art and the artist were usually as valuable to the designer and client as the piece itself. They wanted to be able to walk through their impressive building, point at a piece and tell people, “You know, the artist, whom I met, drew her inspiration from Rodin…”

Forty minutes later she was seated at a conference table with Peter, the designer. He was on the third page of the folio and Savannah was already sure she’d gotten the job. He had some pictures of the renovation of the lobby of the building, which was nearly finished. Her piece was perfect for the space.

Peter reached the end of the book, flipped back to the first page, and smiled. “I love it.”

Savannah gave him a slight smile in return. “Thank you. After looking at the photos, I really think the piece is going to enhance the space.”

Peter checked his watch. “My client was planning to join us. If you don’t mind I’d like to give him a few minutes.”

“That’s fine by me,” she said.

“If you’ll excuse me.”

Peter left the room, presumably to check in with his client. Aware of the large glass wall at her back, Savannah didn’t relax in her chair. The deal wasn’t final, but she was damn sure she was going to get the job. She tipped her head to look at her sketch, not with a business eye, but an artistic one.

The man was down on one knee, bent forward to kiss the woman, who lay on her back, draped over a rock. Her body was arched, her breasts in distinct profile. One of the man’s hands was on her hip, the other rested on his thigh, a dagger clenched in his hand.

The woman’s arms lay against the base of the piece, alongside the rock she was draped over. Her hands were contorted and flexed, her wrists wrapped in chain, which melded into the stone under her. And yet the woman’s face was turned toward the man, her face a study of longing and desire.

These details were as clear in Savannah’s eyes as if she’d taken a photo of models posing, but in reality they were only hinted at. The proportions of the man and woman were off. The man’s back was too broad, his hands too large. The woman’s arms were too long, her features—heavy and almost coarse—were clearly visible while the man’s were limited to a nose and the indentation where eyes should be. The dagger was only a suggestion of shape, seeming to be part of the leg unless viewers knew what they were looking for, and the chain, which grew less distinct the farther it got from her wrists, seemed to be part of the rocky base on which she lay.

Savannah looked away, out the window, and fought to swallow the dark, painful feelings that rose within her.
Not now, not here.
There was no outlet for her terrible rage in this brightly lit office space.

She’d sketched this piece, conceived it, just before she “went away” as Michelle called it. She’d been in one of her dark moments, unable to escape her ghosts as she knelt on the floor of her studio, hands clenching her head as she screamed. She’d screamed until she was hoarse, then she’d sketched, coal-dusted hands flying over white paper, dirtying it with the darkness inside her.