Domino (The Domino Trilogy) (38 page)

Indeed, the only way I was about to get through the long flight without having a panic attack was by indulging in a fantasy about him. A fantasy that I hoped would come true, if not in what little remained of this life, then maybe in the next.

****

I am alone in a red velvet room. Red velvet wallpaper on the walls, plush red carpeting on the floor, satin pillows piled high that are the the deep blush color of fragrant poppies. The ceiling is of pressed copper, a deep shiny russet with the pattern of lacy hearts imprinted in a repeating mantra over my head. The bed is mahogany with cedar trim, the wood’s natural rose hue in perfect harmony with the deeper reds of the floor, the walls, the luxurious red silk and satin hangings and coverlet on the huge four-poster bed, so tall that I must climb upon a stepstool upholstered in red velveteen to get inside and enjoy the richness of its smooth sheets against my naked skin.

Only I am not naked, not yet. I glance down at my fantasy body and take in my unusual garb. Black fishnet stockings with a red velvet seam up the back
, held up with black lace garters. Knee-high leather boots of shiny crimson leather that reflect the flickering firelight from the massive stone hearth opposite the bed. Atop it all is a leather merrywidow, black with red trim. On my face is a black velvet domino, trimmed with red maribou feathers. I run the tip of my tongue along my pouted lips, which are stained a deep red, the color of new blood.

In my left hand is a flat bamboo paddle, in my right a braided leather whip. For discipline.

I am not alone in this room. Lying on the bed awaiting my ministrations is a naked man. He is spread-eagled, each limb strapped to one of the bed’s four thick posts. On his face he too wears a domino, the same one he wore in my dream the night before on the truck.

Rostovich
. He is here with me, comforting me in this faraway place. Only this time, it is he who has submitted to me. I am the Dominant. I am the one inflicting pain, and he is the one receiving it. His whole body quivers with need. His ice-gray eyes beg for release, and for the moment, I deny him, holding my implements of pleasure and pain just out of his reach.

In this fantasy world, it matters not that I have no experience as a Dominant.
It matters not that I have virtually no experience even with sex. No, my innocence is an asset here. I am not limited by rules, conventions, taboos, ghosts of lovers past, the pain of past failures. I am limited only by my imagination, and it knows no bounds.

Here there are no
safewords, no consent agreements, and no fear. Here there is only me, my lover, and my implements of blissful torture.

I begin slowly and gently, setting the leather whip aside in favor of the bamboo paddle. It is light, yet still has sufficient heft to make a mark on even a tough, seasoned bondage-loving male’s skin. I whip it back and forth in the air above
Rostovich’s chest, not close enough to graze his body, but near enough that he can feel the breeze it makes in the air as I wave it back and forth, faster and faster, first by itself and then letting it land against my outraised palm with a delightful
thwack.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

Each cracking sound makes Rostovich’s body writhe in ecstasy and anticipation. His erection is huge, pointing skyward at the red velvet bed canopy, his scrotum held tight and tense against his sweat-covered body. He cannot speak, because he is gagged with a thick strip of leather that he tied on himself before this fantasy began. But his eyes beckon me, cajoling me to lay the paddle upon his skin hard enough to leave a trail behind---but I do not grant him his wish. No, I will hold him at bay for as long as I possibly can, because all of my pleasure comes from holding him captive, from making him wait. Only when he has reached the point of no return, quivering at my touch, moaning and groaning for mercy will I release him over the edge, and send myself over with him. For within his submission lies my own satisfaction.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
My palm has gone red and stinging; the sensation sets my blood afire. Now I am ready to share it with Rostovich.

I start with the soles of his feet.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
First on the left.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Then on the right. Instep and heel, heel and instep, then the same on the reverse side, until his toes curl and his ankles twist back and forth in pleasure. Then for his calves, which I decorate with a light trail of redness, and his knees, the back of which I caress with the hard edges of the paddle. My treatment sends him into a frenzy. He moans and writhes, and his erection expands even more than I ever thought possible. A drop of fluid emits from the tip of his cock, glistening there, teasing me, practically begging me to lick it and enjoy its salty taste.

My mouth has touched a cock only once before in my life, when I was a teenager on a prom date. My memories of it are poor and unsatisfying.

It is time to make new memories.

I paddle my way up the front of each of his legs, switching back and forth betwe
en them with every stroke, stepping my way along like a child climbing a tree. Only I am not a child. I am a woman, a powerful woman to whom this man has submitted his will.

When my paddle reaches his groin, I set it beside him on the bed. My leather whip still stands at the ready, but I will not use it yet. No, first I will tease him with my mouth. I will take him closer and closer to the edge, but I will not let him go. No, not yet.

I run my tongue slowly and lightly around the corners of my mouth, making sure Rostovich watches. I will draw this out as long as possible; I will wring from this act every drip of sensation. My tongue dances along my lips, once, twice, thrice, a perfect pirouette. I lower myself over his body, letting the tip of my tongue graze across the tip of his cock. I relish the salty flavor of the fluid resting there, savoring it slowly like I would a fine meal. Rostovich moans again, hoping for more.

And more is what I give him. I lap his whole cock, up and down and around the sides, culminating in another tongue pirouette at the head, the tip of my tongue
en pointe.
Then I close my mouth over it, stroking up and down with my mouth, lips, tongue. I deep-throat him, enjoying it just as much as he is. His hips rise and fall to meet my strokes, and I quicken my pace, faster faster faster, as he moves closer and closer to the edge.  I hear his breath quicken, feel the tension growing in his limbs underneath me. But I will not give him the satisfaction he so desires. Not yet. I must satisfy my own desires first.

I pull off of him, clamber off the bed, and stand back to take in the sight of him in his ecstasy and misery.
Ecstasy from the sensations I evoke in his body, misery because I deny him the climax he so desperately wants.

I take up the leather whip next. It is sturdy yet light; a piece of fine Italian craftsmanship. I sweep it back and forth in front of me, like a c
owboy would a lasso, testing it, cracking it against the legs of the four-poster bed.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

His body jerks with anticipation at every crack of the whip. He wants to feel its heady work against his skin, and not just the air. I tease him some more, cracking the whip again and again, even letting it wrap itself around and around one of the bedposts, its tip passing close to one of his restrained limbs. Close, but not close enough.

“
Mmmm,” I hear him say against the gag. “Meeemmms.” I can’t quite make out the word, but I know what he’s trying to say. I know because in his position, I would say the same. Because I
have
said the same.

Please.

“Your wish will be granted,” I say aloud, the first words I’ve spoken since we began. And I keep my promise. I raise the whip, then let it go, its end landing squarely in the middle of his chest.

Crack.

The whip does its own special dance across Rostovich’s body, leaving a lacy path of red in its wake. With every blow that lands on him, his cock swells, his muscles twitch, and his facial expressions grow ever more pained and primitive. He is mine, all mine, completely under my power now. I feel my own crotch go red-hot underneath my merrywidow, listen to the thump of my racing heart. I am dominant, he is my submissive. I have made him bend and beg under my will. The result is pleasure for the both of us, a kind of pleasure I never imagined possible.

Rostovich’s
chest heaves; he breathes like an overworked warhorse. His naked body glistens with sweat. The room smells of woodsmoke, fresh linen, sweat, musk---the heady scent of man. I long to smell that scent upon my own body.

I crack the whip against his body one final time, this time hard enough to leave a welt on his barrel-like chest. For a moment I’m frightened that I’ve gone too far, but he
beams me a satisfied smile around the edges of his gag. He relishes this pain, and wears the welt like a badge of honor.

At last, it is time.

I reach down between my legs, and unsnap the steel rivets that hold my leather merrywidow closed there. I wear nothing underneath, and my sex is swollen and glistening, awaiting the culmination of my desire. My clitoris buzzes as it is exposed to the open air. I can smell the scent of my sex mingling with the masculine aroma already in the air.

I climb on top of him, still wearing my stockings, boots, the
merrywidow with its loosened crotch. My domino still covers my face, giving me a bit of mystery that matches Rostovich’s own. We gaze at one another, only our eyes betraying how we feel. I lower myself onto his cock slowly, letting my body stretch to admit him in its own time.

Oh, so full. Oh, so thick. There is no feeling as good as this. None.

We begin to move. I control the strokes, and his hips rise and fall in perfect counterpoint. He can move but little though, for he is still restrained. My own hips buck twice as hard as a result. I arch backward, forcing him to penetrate me as deep as he possibly can. The tip of his cock bangs hard against my deepest recesses, sending me into a frenzy. I quicken my pace, rocking forward and back, forward and back, until I hear myself cry out and the whole world splits apart.
 

****

“Ahem. Ms. Delaney.”

Someone shook me hard by the left shoulder. I opened my eyes and stared into the flinty, bloodshot gaze of Viktor
Bluschencko. He’d changed into a fresh shirt, but obviously hadn’t brushed his teeth in a hen’s age. With his fleshy face pressed so close to my own, I could smell a mix of caviar, vodka, and decaying teeth on his breath. He might have a Learjet and an international criminal network at his disposal, but my money said he didn’t have a dentist.

I rubbed my eyes and looked around, wondering how long I’d been out. I thought I’d just been resting my eyes, but judging by the stiffness in my limbs and neck I must have slept for quite a while. I noticed that no light came in from the plane’s windows; wherever we were, it was dark.

“We’ve landed in Sevastopol, Ms. Delaney. Our adventure begins. Or rather, yours does.”

My adventure. Funny, I thought we were discussing my ongoing captivity
. My inner self wanted to roast Bluschencko on a spit. But I kept those thoughts to myself. I was on the other side of the world without so much as a passport, so it paid to be cautious. “I can’t wait,” I lied.

“Ah. Enthusiasm. I like that.” He nodded to one of his guards, the one with the Sig Sauer and the bandolier.  The guard was still masked, of course. Why wouldn’t he be? And somehow I figured we wouldn’t be going through customs. I’m sure
Bluschencko had his own version of customs, just like he had his own version of everything else. And from what I’d seen on CNN lately, the Ukraine didn’t have much in the way of a real government these days anyway. Their last democratically elected leader was in prison, and the one before that got poisoned with plutonium-laced vodka before being ousted in a coup.

We climbed down the Learjet steps to the
crumbling tarmac, escorted by the same two armed guards. I noticed the flight attendant was missing. Had she already disembarked? Or perhaps she’d displeased Bluschencko during the flight and wound up dead in the cargo hold? I surprised myself at just how readily I was willing to accept the macabre possibilities of living under Bluschencko’s rule. I wondered what had brought the attractive, calm flight attendant under his authority in the first place. Anyone could tell within five minutes of meeting him that the man was a psychopath; why would anyone get mixed up with him willingly?

Nobody greeted us on the tarmac
, other than an unmarked white cargo van that had seen better days. The engine was idling, but the windshield and driver’s side windows were tinted so dark you couldn’t identify the driver, or even see if there was one. No customs officials to stamp passports or inspect our bags, either. Just the battered van and a cracked asphalt tarmac surrounded by pine woods. There wasn’t even a control tower. I wondered how the pilot even managed to land.

“I thought we were going to Sevastopol,” I muttered, more to myself than to
Bluschencko.

“We are at my private compound,” he explained, then nodded to the unseen driver of the van. The rear passenger door opened
slowly on hydraulics. “Get in.”