Marked for Surrender (5 page)

"So?” she asked. “It's no less than you both deserve.” The game had to be played, and the criminals had to pay regardless of her doubts. There were people watching.

She stepped back from Christophe, Zevon's shouts filling her ears. Without hesitation, she retrieved a shockstick and ignored Christophe's “No, Mistress” and jammed the thing into Zevon's hip.

Zevon's shouts shut off abruptly, and his entire body tensed. Then he convulsed and slumped in the restraints. Andia had a myriad of emotions slam through her. Doubt, arousal, regret that she caused pain without a purpose, confusion at Zevon's reactions, and most of all, a need to figure these two men out before she had to take more drastic measures.

Under cover of putting the harness on Zevon, she whispered to the weakened man. “Surrender to me, Zevon Maco. You can trust me."

The desperate, deeply pained expression in his look when he raised his head tore at her heart. “He is innocent. Innocent,” he mumbled, then dropped his head again.

The silence in the room was eerie and filled with unspoken words. Both men, restrained against the wall, harnesses on their cocks, naked, and helpless, were on their way to the destruction she had planned for them.

And Andia wanted nothing more than to comfort them both.

"You will remain restrained until I order your release. When you are released, you will piss and shit on my command. If you don't, you will be harnessed, and you cannot piss through the harness. If you shit while you're restrained, I will make you clean it up.” Somehow the usual words held no comfort for her, the ritual giving her nothing. “You will eat off the floor like the animals you both are."

Neither man responded. She wasn't even sure they heard her. Tears were on Christophe's cheeks, his face a mask of pain and sadness. Zevon seemed lost, unresponsive.

She had to play her part. “Do you understand?” she snapped.

"Yes, Mistress,” both men answered.

"Good,” she purred. “Welcome to the conclave, slaves."

She turned on her heel and ignored the niggling doubt in her stomach.

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Fucked-up. He was completely fucked-up. Zevon tried to breathe, tried to focus. This was what he'd waited for, what he'd longed for. How could he be aroused, so needy? For a woman whose only thought was to break him, punish him?

His throat was clogged with repressed emotion. Christophe's surrender to her had been beautiful, absolutely incredible. The only other time he'd seen Christophe drop that fast into subspace was with him.

"Zevon?” His lover's voice was filled with fear for him. That shockstick shot should have killed his arousal, made him angry. And if it had been random violence, then he would have been pissed. But her hand, her discipline, only made him fall into an abyss he'd only glimpsed.

"You're...turned-on,” Christophe said in wonder.

When he heard the words out loud, Zevon knew he was in big trouble. What the hell was he going to do? He couldn't talk about it, address it. He couldn't even say it was a surprise.

Pain had always been his kink, his secret turn-on. It was something Christophe couldn't do, and Zevon had never asked him to administer. Maybe that's why he'd ended up taking a beating in prison before his trial. Hell, the guards had wanted to kill him, and the harder they pushed it, the more relief Zevon felt. It was sick.

Once, in the distant past, he'd played sub to a man who took a cane to him. Best fuck he'd ever had other than Christophe's. How could he both need the lash of a whip and the submission of his lover? He shook his head. As much as Christophe hid his submissive tendencies, Zevon hid his need for whipping, for clamps on his tender skin, for stripes on his back.

This woman was going to break him wide open.

"Zevon—"

He stopped Christophe's question with one direct look. He flicked a glance to the camera, and Christophe followed the line of sight. He frowned, his handsome face wrinkled with worry.

"I'm all right, Chris.” He swallowed, then took a deep breath. “I'm fine."

Christophe's fingers flexed in the restraints, and Zevon focused on him. Did he have any idea how fucking amazing he looked hanging from those cuffs, his muscles clenched and the curve of his ass against the wall? And his submission to the Mistress had been...incredible.

He had to get out of here. His very soul might depend on it. Around and around, his thoughts spun. Time passed but had no meaning, and Christophe dozed.

Zevon's arms ached. He knew when the restraints were released, he'd be helpless, his limbs numb and strained. Fuck. The worst part wasn't that he couldn't escape, but that he wasn't sure he wanted to escape.

The door slid open. How long had it been? Hours? Days? He didn't know anymore. She was here. That was all that mattered.

Her boots clicked on the floor, but he still couldn't see her. The light shone in his eyes, the shadows hiding her. Zevon heard Christophe's breath catch, and his own was short gasps. She had them right where she wanted them.

When she stepped into the light, he noted she'd changed her clothes. The black silk drape was gone, replaced by black leather that clung to every curve and gleamed in the artificial light. In her left hand was a crop, and it was clearly more than a prop.

The scent of leather and a light perfume filled his nose as she slid closer to him. She flicked the straps on the cock harness, and Zevon gritted his teeth against the pain from blood rushing back into his dick. He squeezed his hands into fists. To distract himself, he tried to read her face, but she turned away to unhook Christophe's harness.

Zevon hadn't managed to breathe through the pain from the harness's removal when she pressed a button on the wall to her left. The restraints clicked open. Helpless, Zevon dropped to the floor and couldn't hold his body weight up with his arms or legs. On his belly, he resisted the urge to get up, knowing his strength was gone.

Christophe rolled until his head was near Zevon's. “Z—"

The crop swished through the air and caught Christophe across his shoulders. “I did not give you permission to move or to speak,” their Mistress snapped.

She reached out her booted foot and jammed her heel into Christophe's shoulder, the one closest to Zevon. What happened next surprised Zevon as much as it surprised her and Christophe.

Zevon reached up, pain ripping through his sore arm, his muscles shaking uncontrollably, and gripped her ankle. He jerked her heel away from Christophe's flesh, and then he lifted his head to press his lips to her foot.

She froze, the crop at rest, the end tickling his scalp. This was what he'd longed for. To bend to the will of a female dominant,
this
female dominant. What a fucking joke. He had to be falsely accused of a crime to find the answer to the empty hole in his chest.

He opened his eyes, and the sight before him only made his cock harder. Christophe pressed his lips to the other side of her boot, their fingers meeting under her heel, tangling.

"Don't touch me,” she said in a hard, cold tone.

Shit. He had overstepped his boundary. Her heel cut into his shoulder, and she shoved him away from her. He attempted to rise, but she stepped on his back, pressing him to the floor.

"Don't you move,” she whispered.

"Mistress—” Christophe scooted closer, but she glanced at him and he froze.

"You will not interfere.” She held Zevon down with her boot and held Christophe with her voice. “Say it,” she snapped.

Christophe met Zevon's gaze. Silently Zevon pleaded with his lover to let it go, let her punish him. Christophe jerked his eyes to look at her face. “I will not interfere, Mistress."

Good boy. Zevon almost sagged in relief.

She bent down until her mouth was near his ear. “Trust me."

His hands flexed involuntarily, and he wondered why she'd said those words. Was it part of her process, to gain the trust of her prisoners and then betray them? Or worse?

But what could he do? He raised his head and met her scrutiny. “Yes, Mistress."

The way her irises darkened, a sign she liked when he called her “Mistress,” and the way her tongue flicked out to lick her lips, he knew she wasn't acting. She wanted him.

She kept her heel on his back, the stiletto heel digging into his skin, pressure keeping him prone. When the crop hit his ass, he jumped, not anticipating the blow.

One. Two. Three. The sting rippled through him, and his body jerked with every strike. Four. Five. Six. The pain was like a wave washing over him. Seven, eight, nine. Stars, his ass burned. She wasn't holding anything back.
Breathe in, breathe out
. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. She'd broken the skin, and blood trickled down his thigh. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

Her hand wrapped in his hair and yanked his head back. “Scream for me, you bastard,” she said and peppered him with three more blows.

He gasped and met her stare. “No.” He knew that would spur her to give him more. So close. Stars! What number? How many? He felt like his skin was being ripped from his flesh. The sound of the crop swishing through the air, the snap of the crop against his ass, the incredible pain all combined to overload his senses.

Pain. Need.

Fuck.

He humped the floor, his ass meeting her crop now, needing more, wanting it all. Full strength she struck him, her other hand still twined in his hair. “Don't you dare come,” she snarled.

An animalistic growl escaped and rumbled in his throat. Suddenly, she stopped. He started to rise slowly, but she jerked his sore arms over his head and quickly snapped them with cuffs.

He would have rolled away, but he was spent, his cock hard as iron, his mind fuzzy. She glanced at the vid stream and reached down to press a control on her ankle.

"Get over here,” she said to Christophe.

Christophe rose slowly, and she stopped him. “Crawl,” she snapped.

His arms shook, but he shuffled across the floor to her. She pointed to Zevon's feet. “Hold them down. Don't you dare let him move."

One glance at Zevon and Christophe slid into position. The woman stood over Zevon, straddling him. Then she flipped him onto his back. He hissed from the pain. Shit! It stung. Every stripe pressed against the floor throbbed with pain, and his cock leaked precum.

Then his attention moved to her. The sound of the zipper of her leather outfit seemed loud, even louder than Zevon's harsh breaths. Slowly, torturously, she lowered the zipper a little bit at a time.

Beneath her clothes, she wore a half-cup bra, her nipples dusky and erect. Her underwear was crotchless. He moaned, and Christophe flexed his fingers on Zevon's legs. She left her boots on.

With the crop, she lifted his balls, then turned to contemplate Christophe. “While I fuck him, you lick him."

Zevon stared up at her, his cock hard, his back throbbing with pain. When Christophe's hot breath blasted Zevon's inner thigh, he gasped, almost unable to breathe.

Mistress Andia came down on his erect cock hard and fast. “Don't come, slave. This is my cock. I decide when you'll come. If you come, I'll punish you with the harness for a week."

The sensation of her cunt almost sent Zevon over the edge. How long had it been since he'd been clamped down on like this by a woman's flesh? Three years. The hot grip of her muscles, the way her breasts jutted forward, the line of her neck as she threw back her head all warred with his unfathomable need to obey her.

But when Christophe's tongue flicked over his anus, along the stretch of muscle that led to his balls, until he ached with need, he thrust inside her.

She lashed him with the crop across his chest. “Be still,” she demanded.

The sting of the crop was a perfect counterpoint for the erotic torment of her pussy and Christophe's wicked tongue. He moved again, shifting slightly to hit her channel at a different angle. She struck him again, her gaze holding his. Her inner muscles squeezed his cock.

The three of them began a rhythm of Zevon's thrust, Mistress Andia's strike with the crop, and Christophe's hungry mouth.

The pain from the crop helped Zevon stay focused on pleasuring her rather than himself. But when she bent down, her soft hair brushing his forehead, her hips tilting to take him deep, he growled. How could he hold back?

She moved faster, dragging her inner walls against his flesh until the only thought in his mind was to spurt inside her. Stars, he wanted to touch her, to drag his mouth over her skin and grip the soft flesh of her ass as he pounded her. He turned his head and pressed his lips to her arm.

Her orgasm rippled over his dick and washed him with warmth. He gritted his teeth. He was a dom, used to controlling his release. It came into play now as he strove to please her, to obey her. He leaned up, straining his back and neck, to flick his tongue over the hard point of her nipple through the scratchy material of her bra. Then he sucked on her flesh, reveling in the taste and feel of her.

She gasped and gripped his head with both her hands. Christophe's tongue thrust inside Zevon, making his balls tighten. He was going to lose it.

He broke his hold on Mistress Andia's breast and pleaded. “Mistress, please. I can't—"

"You may come, but you keep those eyes open and on me.” She gripped his head with her right hand and made him focus on her.

He exploded, his balls drawing up, a shout ripping from his throat. It went on and on, his release taking every ounce of resistance out of him.

"Clean him,” she demanded, and Zevon's hazy mind realized she'd ordered Christophe to take care of him.

Christophe's mouth closed over Zevon's cock, sucking, licking. Zevon groaned. Stars, it felt good. Why the hell would this Mistress give them pleasure? Christophe licked him clean, and Zevon thought he might die from sensory overload.

Then Mistress Andia hooked a chain through his cuffs, attached it to a ring in the floor, and restrained him so he couldn't move.

All he could do was watch.

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The taste of Zevon's skin mixed with Mistress Andia's cum was the most potent thing Christophe had ever had on his tongue. Now she studied him intently. Anxiety and anticipation ripped through him. It was always like this for him. The stern expression, the aggressive stance of her body language, and the energy between them drove him to surrender. The fear he might disappoint and the longing to be dominated danced within his belly, creating a fission of need and nervousness.