Masters at Arms (15 page)

Marc knocked and spoke through the door,
“Marc D’Alessio!” No answer. He knocked again and heard a woman’s
voice inviting him to come in. He inserted the key into the lock,
turned down the handle, and pushed the door open, motioning for
Sandro to precede him.

A couple of steps into the cabin, Sandro came
to a dead stop. “Damn!”

Damn was right. Why did he have to have a
major freaking problem on his last night? Marc nudged his brother
further into the cabin so he could begin to assess the
situation.

Oh, shit.
On the floor, beside the
overstuffed loveseat, knelt a middle-aged woman with brassy red
hair and fake boobs, clenching a purple-handled riding crop between
her teeth—naked as the day she was born. She also had the nip-tucks
to keep everything firmly in place, despite her age.

The woman looked confused as her gaze shifted
from Marc to Sandro, then settled on Marc, probably because he was
the taller of the two. Her hand reached up to take the crop out of
her mouth and asked, “Which one of you is Master Marco?”

Shit. His reputation had preceded him.

Sandro looked at him and grinned. “Is there
something you forgot to train me to take over for you, bro?”

Brat.

Marc recalled that week nine years ago when
Master Marco had been born. Seventeen, restless, and horny as hell.
Then a sexy, bored cougar he’d given ski lessons to took him under
her wing at night for some private lessons of her own design. By
the time the week had ended, he knew more about bondage and
discipline than any under-aged kid ought to know. The euphoric
feeling of control and power he’d achieved in Dom space had him
hooked for life.

In the beginning, the diversion kept him from
going stark-raving mad from boredom. Of course, he’d never taken
money from the women. They were paying enough to stay at the lodge.
He was just…an added amenity.

He’d also drawn the line at having
intercourse with them. He had friends with benefits for that,
although most of them weren’t interested in exploring their kinky
sides. Until Melissa. So, Master Marco provided a select few
in-the-know resort patrons with whatever level of bondage,
discipline, and sado-masochistic kink they chose. He preferred
bondage and discipline best, though.

When he met Melissa, he thought he’d found
himself the perfect submissive. He’d grown tired of catering to
bored, rich older women. Most were anything but submissive. Hell,
they’d called all the shots. Having them top him from the bottom
was about as sexy as stale wine.

But, shit, he had loved turning their asses
crimson red with his firm hand or whatever implement from his toy
bag they preferred.

But that was then.

Melissa had topped from the bottom, as well.
What was he doing to attract such quasi-submissive women? Maybe he
needed to take Dom lessons.

He sighed. “I’m sorry, but Master Marco
doesn’t work here any longer.”

Marc politely extricated himself from the
indelicate situation and advised Sandro to forget what he’d seen.
Master Marco had now officially been eliminated from the amenities
offered at the resort.

Someday he’d like to explore the lifestyle
with a woman interested in true submission. As he walked back to
the lobby, Marc wondered if he’d ever find such a woman—one he
could train himself. One who didn’t have a plastic face and a pair
of matching plastic boobs.

Focus, man.

First, he had a four-year enlistment in the
Navy to fulfill. Maybe in that time he’d become a man he could live
with.

* * *

Five months later, May 2004, Camp Pendleton,
California

Marc fell back on the rack, too tired to
remove his boots. Every muscle in his body ached—some he’d never
become acquainted with before. What the hell had he gotten himself
into? If he’d known becoming a Navy Hospital Corpsman might land
him in the Marines, he’d never have signed the damned papers.
Everyone knew that training with the Marine Corps was more intense
than any other regular military branch. He could vouch personally
that his Great Lakes boot-camp experience was the bunny slope
compared to this.

He heard the rack next to him squeak and
looked over to see Orlando. The man had just been through the same
maneuvers and exercises and looked ready to go dancing. Shit. Marc
had no idea how soft he’d gotten at that cushy desk job.

Orlando looked unhappy, as usual. Never saw
someone with a more depressing outlook on life. Maybe he could
engage the kid in some conversation. At least Marc’s jaw muscles
were still in working order.

“So, what got you into the Marines?”

Orlando looked around as if perhaps Marc had
been talking to someone else, then his gaze zeroed in on him. “Lost
my job.”

“What did you do?”

“Bus boy.” He said it as if Marc would look
down on him or something. Damn, the kid sure had a boulder of
resentment on his shoulder.

“That’s hard work.”

“It was a living. While I had it,
anyway.”

Clearly, this conversation was going nowhere
fast. “So, where you from?”

“Just down the coast. Eden Gardens at Solana
Beach.”

Again, he looked as if Marc would make some
judgment call. He had no freaking clue what Eden Gardens was like,
but it sure sounded nice. When he didn’t ask where Marc was from,
he just decided to volunteer the info. “I’m from Aspen, Colorado,
by way of the Lombardy region of Italy.”

“Mmm.” Orlando removed his boots and began
polishing the suede on one of them.

Shit
. What the hell could he do to get
a response out of the guy? Marc turned onto his side with a groan
and propped his head in the palm of his hand. “So, have you ever
tied a woman to her bed?”

Orlando’s hand came to a stop and he looked
up from his boot. Got his attention, at least.

“Once or twice.”

Yeah, right
. He’d remember if it were
once…or twice. But there was a look in his eye that Marc couldn’t
quite decipher.

“I don’t get off on that shit.”

“Then you must not be doing it right. Nothing
sweeter than the surrender of a submissive woman in
restraints.”

“Not if she doesn’t want to be in them.”

“Well, no shit. I’m talking safe, sane, and
consensual, good old-fashioned bondage and discipline between
consenting adults.”

“I had a girlfriend once who was into pain,
but I left her. I could never hurt a woman.”

“Even if she needed the pain to get off?”

Orlando got a faraway look in his eyes, his
hands remaining still, holding the boot and brush. “There was this
girl last fall who got herself into a really bad BDSM scene.
Fucking pissed me off when I found her. She sure as hell wasn’t
enjoying it.” Orlando shook his head. “No thanks.”

“Why didn’t she say her safe word?”

“I’m not sure she didn’t. She was with two
guys she barely knew. Not very good at keeping herself safe, I
guess.” He looked as if he were a million miles away again. Then
slowly he began polishing the boot.

“Some people don’t take enough time to
establish trust. Can’t have a power exchange if there isn’t a firm
foundation in trust.”

When Orlando silently continued working at
the grime on his boot, Marc eased back onto the rack. If he could
move, he’d do the same with his boots. Tomorrow morning, he’d have
to get up and go through this pain all over again. If he survived
reconnaissance training, it would be a miracle.

Gino had gone through Recon Marine training,
too. Marc had a new respect for him after a week with this Marine
unit. Funny how Marc had tried so hard to avoid going into the
Marines—then had wound up in the same damned unit Gino had served
in.

Gino hadn’t said much about what he was
doing. He’d been sent to Kandahar in the early days of the war to
help establish the base there. If Marc made it through training, he
wanted to talk with Master Sergeant Montague about the firefight
that had taken Gino’s life. The details they’d been given were
pretty sketchy.

But there weren’t a lot of opportunities for
a corpsman to chat up the Top. Not that he’d ever dare to call the
master sergeant a “Top” to his face without permission. Did the man
like the common nickname or not?

After months of medical training, including
A-School, Marc just hoped he’d be able to save the lives of the men
and women in this unit when the time came.
Dio
, he didn’t
want to screw up. They would count on him to be there when they
needed him.

Oh, shit
. What had ever possessed him
to enlist? He’d never carried responsibility like this before in
his entire fucking life.

* * *

Two months later, July 2004, Camp Pendleton,
California

Iraq. Marc knew it was coming, but knowing
they’d be shipping out to a duty station in Fallujah in a week sure
made him want to do a few things before he left. The no-porn,
no-sex, no-alcohol rules were going to kill him. He needed to blow
off some steam while he still could.

Orlando walked into the barracks and dropped
Marc’s mail on the rack at Marc’s feet. Looked like he’d taken the
fetish magazine Marc’s little brother, Sandro, had subscribed him
to out of the wrapper for a peek.

Marc smiled. “Get into a Tee and khakis.
We’re going out.”

“Where to?”

“Little place up the coast. You’re going to
love it.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I do. You need an education.”

“More training?”

“Something like that.”

Twenty minutes later, they were on the 5 in
Marc’s vintage cherry-red Porsche 911 Carrera, top down, and
heading for Los Angeles. He figured that would be far enough off
base for them not to run into anyone who would report them up the
chain of command. At least he knew they wouldn’t find by-the-book
Master Sergeant Montague there. The man had to be about the
grimmest, meanest hard-ass Marc had ever met.

He’d never found an opportunity to ask his
top sergeant about Gino. He knew Montague was involved in the
firefight that killed his brother, though. Montague had written a
letter to Marc’s parents soon after telling them of his regret
about Gino’s death.

Marc had read the short letter many times
after his brother’s death, trying to glean some clue as to what had
happened. But there weren’t many details there. Mostly he’d just
shared how honorably Gino had served his unit. Probably just a form
letter he sent to all families of the fallen. Maybe someday the two
of them would talk about that fatal day in Afghanistan. But it
wouldn’t be anytime soon.

As the sports car’s engine purred, his thumb
stroked the underside of the steering wheel. He realized how much
he was going to miss his baby. Sandro had agreed to fly out to San
Diego later this week to drive her home—agreed a little too
enthusiastically for Marc’s taste. He hoped he’d get back from
Fallujah before the kid blew the engine.

“Nice ride!” Orlando shouted over the wind
blowing around them.

“Thanks. What do you drive?”

“Harley.”

Shit! This kid has chick-magnet potential,
after all
.

“Had to sell it to make rent last year,
though.”

“Crap. That had to suck.”

“Yeah. I’m currently a man without wheels—but
I guess it won’t matter much after next week.”

Marc hoped there would be at least one woman
with a military fetish at the club tonight. With their “Marines”
emblazoned camo T-shirts and their high-and-tight haircuts, it was
obvious. Marc wore his Navy uniform and insignia on formal
occasions, but damn it, he’d earned the title of Marine, as well,
during his Recon Marine training and was proud to proclaim it.

He also hoped they had Dom gear available.
He’d left his toy bag in Aspen. Wouldn’t be surprised if Sandro was
trying out his gear, too, the way he’d become so fascinated by the
whole Master Marco fiasco. He shook his head.

“So, where we going again?”

“A little club I heard about.”

“What kind of club?”

“Fetish.”

“Man, I told you I’m not into inflicting pain
on
chicas
.”

“No problem. I’ll take care of that part.
We’re tag-teaming. You’ll be the master in charge of pleasure. You
do know how to please a woman, don’t you, Orlando?” Marc grinned
over at him.

The kid sat up straighter in the leather
seat. “Well, hell, yeah.”

Marc’s smile widened. He’d known bringing
Orlando’s machismo into question would rile him up. Being Italian,
Marc knew all about machismo. He’d been weaned on it.

“This place is fairly strict—no penetration
except oral, no alcohol other than beer and wine. I know the owner,
though. A Navy vet. Jerry served in Vietnam. He’ll make sure we
deploy with enough carnal memories to last us for eight months of
lonely nights in Iraq. I called and he said he’d find us a fem-sub
interested in a threesome.” Marc’s only hard limit over the phone
was that she not be Italian.

“I’ve never…”

“Hell, Orlando, we’re headed to a fucking war
zone. What better time to try a threesome than now?”

Less than two hours later, they were seated
in the social area of the club having beers with the petite redhead
Jerry had sent over to get acquainted. Bianca seemed to have a
thing for Orlando’s forearm. She kept tracing her sharp red
fingernail along its length, then she’d bat her eyes at Orlando,
who for some god-damned reason couldn’t quite make eye contact with
her.

Come on, kid. She’s interested in you, for
Christ’s sake.

She sighed and looked at Marc. “So, what kind
of kink are you boys into?”

Marc brushed a burnished lock of hair back
from her forehead to get a better look at her green eyes. “Whatever
kind of kink you need, pet.”

Her pupils dilated. Marc smiled.