Fulfilling Her Fantasy (10 page)

She lifted her chin, squared
her shoulders, and made her way over to the small stage near the front steps,
where a crowd of people had already gathered. The coffee cup was still in her
left hand, and she looked around for a dustbin, but couldn't see one. Hoping
there'd be one in her room, she slid it into her handbag for the time being, moved
to stand behind the chairs and waited for whatever was about to happen, her
eyes still scanning the crowd for a sign of her friend.

Once everyone had been given
their welcome packs and made their way over to the stage, a woman appeared and
gave a brief lecture on the rules and regulations of the Castle, reiterating
the universal safeword, 'onion', and reminding everyone that under no
circumstances were gags to be used in any play session, unless a special permit
had been applied for and granted.
So everyone
will hear me scream,
Sylvia thought wryly. On the other hand, she wasn't a
huge fan of gags anyway. Being forced to pull a face like the colourful Koi in
the moat whilst drooling all over her own chest was not the sort of humiliation
she enjoyed.

"There you are!"

"Oh Rosa, thank
God!" Sylvia flung herself at her friend, hugging her for a long time.
"Let me look at you! Gosh, you're as beautiful as ever!"

"As are you." Rosa
grinned mischievously. "Silver."

"Oh crap, yes, I almost
forgot."

"I'm sticking close to
my real name for this. I'll be Rosie."

"How adorable!"
Sylvia exclaimed. "It suits you."

"Did they give you
everything? Did you get your welcome pack?"

"Right here, I
guess." Sylvia gestured to the large manila envelope sticking out of her
bag.

"And your ribbon? Isn't
it a gorgeous idea? For the subbies who are being auctioned to wear black
velvet ribbons so everyone knows they're up for sale ahead of time?"

"I... um... I'm not
sure. It might be in this one." Sylvia fumbled for the smaller envelope
and opened it. "Yes, here it is."

"Excellent. Have you
decided what you're going to wear? I'm going all out. Well, at least that's the
plan, but I really haven't decided yet. Do you want me to give you a
tour?" Rosie's excitement was infectious.

"Slow down, I've only
had one coffee, and I don't think it's even noon yet," Sylvia said,
half-laughing in protest. "You know I can't function until I've had at
least three cups and it's mid-afternoon, at least. Which reminds me, is there a
dustbin around here anywhere?"

"A dustbin?"
Rosie's dark blonde eyebrows drew together in confusion.

"Ugh, are we starting
this already? A trash can! I mean, really, we do speak the same language.
Apparently."

Rosie giggled. "Sure,
there are several inside. I'll show you once we get there. But first, have you
got your bracelet? It should be in your welcome pack. Put it on now and do not
take it off. Not even in the shower. Remember?"

Sylvia frowned as she drew
the black bracelet out of the larger envelope. "Black. How boring. Why
don't I have a pretty pink one, like you?"

"Because you're not in
the ageplay program. But really, the dungeon? Don't you have any other
fantasies?"

"Well, yeah, but I
figured that would pretty much cover most of them. Otherwise I'd hardly be able
to lift my arm for the riot of rainbow colours all the way up to my
elbow." Sylvia winked.

"Can I take your
comment to mean that you're no longer scared, and are instead looking forward
to this adventure, as you should be?"

"I'm sure the nerves
will come rushing back. But in the meantime, look at this place! It's just
gorgeous! You're so lucky to work here."

"It's definitely not
the worst place in the world," Rosie agreed, linking her arm through
Sylvia's. "And everyone's incredibly friendly. You really won't find a
safer place to play, anywhere. Now tell me, what are you going to wear
tonight?"

"I really don't know. I
brought a little black dress..." Sylvia looked around. "Oh, shit. I
left my suitcase on the bus! Bugger. I got caught up with everyone else when
they came off the bus and was just swept along by the crowd—"

"Don't stress."
Rosie patted her arm soothingly. "The porters get your luggage from the
bus and take it to your room for you. No doubt your suitcase is already waiting
there, all ready for you to unpack."

"Really?"

"Really. This place is
a well-oiled machine. Master Marshall knows his stuff."

"Wow." Sylvia
allowed her friend to lead her up the front steps and into the castle. It was
even more enormous than it had appeared from the outside, and she soon realised
that not a single detail had been forgotten. Grecian pillars and the marble
floor gave the foyer an opulent, luxurious feel, and there was a hotel
reception, gift shop, spa, candy shop, and even an art gallery. There were
people everywhere, all wearing the most amazing clothes; from sleek and sexy
black leather to neon-coloured Furry costumes, and everything in between.
"This place is bloody huge, and there are so many people! I'll never find
my way around."

"Trust me, you will.
It's always overwhelming when you first arrive, especially since the foyer is
usually so busy," Rosa said, reassuringly.

"So what do I do first?
Is there a map in here?" Sylvia yanked the bigger envelope from her bag.

"I'll take you to your
room so you can make sure your suitcase has been brought in. Do you have the
number of the suite you were assigned just now, and the key card for it?"

"I have no idea."
Sylvia pulled yet another form out of the large manila envelope and gave it to
Rosa. "Can you make sense of that?"

"I certainly can. Let
me lead the way. Although we should really get to Wardrobe first. If anyone
catches you out of costume in here, you'll find out just how out of practice
your butt is, sooner rather than later."

Sylvia grinned at her
friend, knowing that they were thinking the same thing—that Rosa's words
were more tempting than terrifying.

The vivacious, petite blonde
continued. "I'm up on the third floor where the employees have rooms. They
are off limits to guests but I assure you, you're going to love your guest
suite. The showers are amazing."

After a brief tour of the
facilities on the way to Sylvia's new, temporary residence, Rosa gave her a
quick hug and promised to find her again at the Meet and Greet. Sylvia watched
her friend skip away, smiling to herself as she slotted the card into the door
lock. She was already feeling calmer for having seen Rosa.

* * * * *

The first thing Sylvia
noticed when she entered her guest chamber was the enormous four poster bed,
which dominated the room. Then the hooks and rings on it caught her eye, and
her mouth went dry. A vivid image rose unbidden to her mind, of her, bound
naked and helpless on the deep violet sheets, writhing in agony—or was it
ecstasy—underneath a strong, gorgeous man. Swallowing hard, she turned
her back on the bed and opened the door to the ensuite. An enormous shower,
complete with spa tub, took up almost the entire space, leaving only enough
room for the toilet, sink, cupboard and mirror.

She was about to go back into the
bedroom when she caught sight of herself. Despite her surroundings, despite
what she was about to do, she still looked the same; her hair pulled back in a
ponytail, her oversized jumper hiding her curves, her cheeks still slightly
flushed from the explicit image the bed had aroused in her. Any of her friends
from the outside world would recognise her immediately. Rosa had.

Sylvia frowned at her reflection and
tried to imagine how she would be perceived at the forthcoming auction. The
people she had seen, as Rosa had led her to her room on the second floor, had
been so... exotic. Bawdy, beautiful costumes, lots of skin, amazing bodies.
She'd seen a couple of slave girls, a young woman in an incredibly sexy cat
costume, and one or two ladies in full medieval gowns complete with corset. She
herself hadn't worn a corset in ages.

"You look dowdy," she told
herself sternly. For the first time since she'd found out about and signed up
for it, she was struck with a different type of trepidation about the auction.
What if no-one bid on her? She wasn't sure which was worse; having to spend the
entire time with a troll, or spending it alone because no-one there found her
attractive enough to part with their cash, even if it was for a good cause.

Pulling the sweater back so it
outlined her body, Sylvia ran a critical eye over what she saw. Her waist was
slim enough, but her hips were entirely too wide and round, as were her thighs.
She didn't even want to think about her butt. Stephen hadn't wanted her
anymore. Why should anyone else?

Closing her eyes, she turned away
from the mirror before she broke down.
Get
a grip on yourself—you're overreacting. Of course you look dowdy right
now; you got ready in a hurry this morning and besides, you spent the last two
days in aeroplanes and airports. You're probably jet lagged, and you've still
only had one cup of coffee. Once you've gone to that Wardrobe place and been
kitted out, no doubt you'll look and feel much better,
she scolded herself
. Now put your big girl panties on and deal
with it!

Taking a deep breath, she marched
back to the bed without looking at it, and reached for the welcome pack which
was still sticking out of her handbag. To her immense relief, she found a map,
and saw that the Wardrobe was on the same floor as her room. With a quick
glance around to ensure that her suitcase had indeed been delivered by a
porter, and to her relief it had, she lifted her chin defiantly, picked up the
key, and left the room. It was time for Sylvia to become Silver...

Available
Jan. 24
^th
, 2014 on Amazon, Barnes & Noble & Blushing Books
as part of the “Master’s of the Castle” Box Set, “When The Gavel Falls”

By Darling Adams

Free Preview

Chapter One

"That
bitch!" David shouted, slamming a fist down on the stainless steel prep
counter so hard he made everything on it pop into the air.

"I
know," Jerry, his sous-chef, said in commiseration.

Jerry
had just brought him the latest
Windy
City Eats
magazine, which carried a scathing review of their new
restaurant, and, in particular, of him and his skills as both a chef and a
restaurant owner.

David
read aloud, "Megalomaniac Chef David Dean Marone has opened a second
restaurant near the waterfront. As if appearing on the Food Channel and already
having a restaurant (Marone's) named after himself wasn't enough, this one,
too, takes his name—David Dean's." He skipped ahead. "Overall,
David Dean's is much like its owner/chef; arrogant and pretentious. No wine on
the menu is under forty dollars, and while our red was decent, it was served
too warm, something that shouldn't
happen at a restaurant that purports to take pains in sourcing and handling
only the highest quality food products
.
Of course the food is what you would expect from an
award-winning chef like Marone, but I found it at times cloying." He
jumped to the end. "
The
service is haughty rather than humble. If you want to be looked down at for not
having designer shoes and a matching handbag, this is the place to go. Three
stars for food. One and a half for service, one for atmosphere."

He
slapped the magazine down again. "That woman seriously needs to get
laid."

"Honestly,
a review like this will only help us," Jerry reasoned. "The phone has
been ringing off the hook for reservations, and I don't have a single table
free for five weeks."

David
rubbed his face. "Yeah, but where does she get off?" He turned to
look at his right-hand man. "Is this true?"

Jerry
hid a grin. "Look, boss. Your confidence is what made you the most
successful restaurateur in Chicago. No-one here is complaining about you, and
none of our customers are complaining about the atmosphere. The exclusive feel
is why they want to see and be seen here."

David
drew a breath in through his nose and exhaled, trying to relax the tension in
his shoulders. His upcoming vacation could not be better scheduled. He looked
down at the magazine review again. Portia Sands, Critic at Large.

"I
went to school with her," he said, pointing at the byline.

"Oh
yeah? Is that why she has a bone to pick?"

He
snorted. "I have no idea. I never did anything to her. I wouldn't even
remember her if she didn't have a name straight out of a Shakespeare
play."

"Was
this in college?"

"No,
the Culinary Institute. She and I were the only two who had graduated college
first. Most people there were younger—nineteen or twenty. She acted
snotty about the program—I think she found the classes below her
education level. You know; it was vocational training, as opposed to a graduate
degree."

"So
now she writes scathing reviews about the people in her class? Lame."

David
relaxed, calmer now that he had aired his anger.

"Maybe
she had a crush on you and you failed to notice."

He
gave a short bark of laughter. "I think it's the opposite. I asked her out
once, just for coffee, but she pulled the old arriving with a gaggle of friends
thing. Nothing shows indifference better than bringing all your girlfriends on
a date with you."

Jerry
laughed. "Didn't want to get stuck alone with you, eh? That's rough. She
really is a stuck-up bitch, isn't she?"'

David
laughed, the gossip eroding his bad mood. "Just frigid, I think. Probably,
underneath it all, she's just dying to get nailed, but she can't let herself
go." Something teased the back of his mind… as though he'd had a
conversation like that with her, all those years ago. Not able to retrieve it,
he let it go. She wasn't worth any more brain space.

The
thought of sex lured his mind to his New Year's holiday. Once a year he took a
trip to the Castle, a BDSM fantasy locale in the middle of Nowhere, Ohio. A
real Scottish castle, transported and reconstructed brick by brick, the
vacation spot indulged every sort of fetish, and provided the opportunity for
him to play Dom to eager subs.

It
was something his local BDSM group could probably provide as well, but his
workaholism interrupted any potential playtime in the city. For him, a getaway
was a necessity—and sexual fantasy fulfillment was just the kind of
recharge he needed. While he didn't play often, he'd been on the scene for
almost twenty years, and sexual dominance had been hard-wired in him since
puberty. He also prided himself on being able to read a sub well enough that
he'd never had one call her safeword, and he always received repeat invitations
to play.

"Hey
boss," Carrie, his house manager called out, coming in early, as usual.
Most of his staff hung out even when they were off-shift; David Dean's or his
first restaurant, Marone's, becoming their social outlet as much as their place
of employment.

There
was an addictiveness to the food industry—the rush from busy shifts, the
instant gratification of cash in the pocket at the end of the night. They'd
become a tight-knit group, like a family, with all the same in-fighting and
love, dependence and dependability, drama and more drama. He adored them
all—his mad, mad family.

"This
review is bullshit," she said, throwing
Windy City Eats
down, her eyes flashing. "I can't believe that
bitch. If she ever shows her face in this restaurant again, I will serve her
warm red wine with rabbit turds floating in it."

He
burst into laughter. "Thank you, Carrie, I appreciate that. Don't worry,
Jerry says the phone's been ringing off the hook for reservations. All that
review did was solidify David Dean's position as the place to see and be seen
in Chicago."

Carrie
relaxed, taking her cues from him, as always. "You're not upset?"

He
smiled. "Only for a minute. I'm over it now. In fact, I think I'll send
her a note thanking her."

"Just
don't invite her back, because I'm serious about the rabbit turds. You know I
have a pet bunny, right?"

He
laughed again. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave the bunny turds at
home, Carrie, even though she does deserve them."

Carrie
grinned. "Okay, boss. But I have them if you need them."

"I'll
keep that in mind. Now, you both know I'm going away for New Year's."

"Yep,"
Carrie said.

"Jerry
is in charge, but I expect you to run things smoothly out here, because he
might be needed in the kitchen."

"Yep,
no problem. I can handle it."

"I
know you can."

"Where
are you going? Any place fun?"

"Ohio,
actually. And it will definitely be fun." He said no more and Carrie was
too well-mannered to pry.

"Well,
it's a good time to get away, what with the review and all."

"I
can't wait," he said, Portia Sands already forgotten as he contemplated
all the sexy women with whom he would get to play.

#

Portia
took another sip of her ginger spice latte. She and her friend Tina stood
outside the coffee shop, watching the people get off the bus that had just
pulled in from the Castle. Just the sight of it made her want to chuck her
beverage in the trash and run for the rental car. What the hell was she doing
here?

She'd
been on the BDSM scene for a little more than two years—ever since her
divorce from Fred, when she'd finally admitted to herself that the reason she'd
never wanted to have sex with him was because she didn't like slow and tender.
She regretted not learning that one important fact about herself earlier,
because it probably could have saved her marriage. After ten years of her
perceived frigidity, her husband had thrown in the towel. Her inability to
conceive may have helped his decision—no children to keep things
together. The doctors had never found anything wrong with either of them, but
she always felt as though Fred blamed her for it.

But
she couldn't hate Fred for calling it quits. She wouldn't have wanted to be
married to herself, either. The years of trying everything—spending their
entire savings on one in vitro treatment after the next—only to wallow in
failures, had left her more than a little bitter. The divorce had been a
wake-up call.

She
discovered yoga. And BDSM. She'd learned more about herself in the past two
years than she had in the entire first thirty-seven years of her life. What a
fucking waste.

She
pulled out the crumpled letter accepting her as a slave for the New Year's Eve
auction. She'd read and re-read it a dozen times. Her questionnaire, with her
interests and hard limits, would be passed on to the Dom who bought her. Her
safeword would always be honored. So why did she feel like the coffee was
shooting through her digestive system like the metal ball in a pinball machine?
Because knowing she was a submissive who likes it rough was one thing;
volunteering to sell herself in a charity slave auction quite another. What the
hell did she know about being a slave? For three nights and two days, no less.

This
was going to be a total disaster.

"Look
how happy everyone looks getting off," Tina chirped, with her
characteristic optimism.

Portia
saw nothing of the kind. Some people looked relaxed; some exhausted. Some
actually looked like they were going to cry, but that probably didn't mean
they'd had a terrible time. She'd felt like crying at the end of a BDSM party
before.

Tina
had talked her into volunteering to be a slave along with her because it gave
them a chance to experience the Castle for free, when normally a three night
stay like this would cost upwards of four thousand dollars. It had been on her
wish list to attend ever since she'd first heard of the place. The idea of
showing up and being someone else—leaving her entire, uptight, barren
journalist life behind and just living out her fantasies—made her ache
with wanting.

But
now the reality of it had her chewing the inside of her cheek. She'd never
scened with any man for more than a few hours—how could she possibly be
one man's slave for seventy-two? What if she didn't like him? What if he played
too rough? Well, of course she knew she'd have a safeword, but still... she didn't
want to fail at this. Failure was the one thing she avoided at all costs.

A
car pulled up and two good-looking men got out, looking confident in the way
Dominants always do. Her heart rate picked up speed just thinking about all the
alpha men she'd be rubbing elbows—and other parts—with very soon.

"Mmm,
mmm. They look yummy," Tina remarked out of the side of her mouth, not
turning away from the men.

"Tell
me about it. Oh
shit!
" Portia
said, dropping the coffee cup, which promptly lost its lid and splattered
creamy liquid all over her boots. "Oh no. Oh God. This is bad," she
said, turning away from the men and pulling up the collar of her coat.

"What?
What is it?"

"David
Dean Marone. Owner of David Dean's, the five-star restaurant I just ripped
apart in last week's
Windy City Eats
."

"Uh
oh. Does he know what you look like?"

"I
don't know. He might. We went to culinary school together, but that was almost
twenty years ago. He is notoriously self-absorbed, he probably would never
remember me."

"Good.
Then just play it cool. Dropping coffee all over our boots is not cool."

"Sorry,"
she muttered, bending to pick up the cup. "I'll get some napkins."

"Don't.
Just chill out. Everything's going to be fine."

Easy
for her to say.

"Come
on, let's get on the bus," Portia said between clenched teeth.

"Okay,"
Tina said, grabbing the handle of her rolling suitcase.

The
two of them marched forward while she held her breath, trying to look as though
she owned the place.

This
New Year's was going to suck. Big time.

The
bus driver checked off their names and took their bags. They found a seat in
the back. It was like junior high all over again—the cool kids seeking
out seats where they could stake out their own space.

Portia
slouched in her seat and pretended to check her email on her phone, stealing
glances at each person who climbed on the bus. Lots of other excited
submissives, coming alone, like them. A handful of couples. And three Doms.
David Marone and his friend, and one other guy.

David
looked right at her when he climbed on, but his gaze traveled to Tina and then
around the bus to the other women with nothing more than an assessing gaze.

She
exhaled. He didn't recognize her. If he had, he surely would have stalked over
and given her a piece of his mind because her article hadn't just been
negative—it had been scathing. And she'd hit below the belt, attacking
David Dean as a human being, not just as a chef.