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Authors: Kate Kinsey

BOOK: Red
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Chapter 7
I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naive or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.
—A
NAIS
N
IN
 
 
 
 
C
herry couldn’t stop crying. It was humiliating, being out of control like this.
“Cherry, baby, look at me,” Paul said. “Please, just look at me.”
She lifted her head from the pillow and blinked at him. She could only imagine how awful she looked, all red-eyed and snot-nosed . . .
“It’s okay, baby-girl,” he said, rubbing her back. “It’s really okay.”
“You m-m-ust be so disappointed in me,” she croaked, burrowing into the pillow again. “I’m s-so sorry . . .”
She had come to Paul looking for comfort, for the only thing that ever made the wheels in her head stop turning. Sex kept her completely, utterly in the moment. No future, no past. Just that single moment.
“No, baby, no!” He pulled her to him. “I mean, I am disappointed that I got the room for nothing, but it’s okay—”
“I really, really wanted to.” She wiped her nose on the corner of the pillowcase. “I want so much to enjoy it again, all of it—”
She hadn’t been sure she was ready; in fact, just the idea of someone touching her made her feel a little queasy. But she was getting desperate. She had hoped, if not for pleasure, then just for a cathartic release of stress that might let her sleep. For a connection to some other person. For reassurance that Kerberos hadn’t ruined her completely.
She trusted Paul, she really did. But the first tiny swat of his hand on her ass—hardly more than a pat, really—set panic galloping through her body. She couldn’t breathe.
Next thing she knew, she was curled up in a fetal position, wailing like a crazy woman.
She could hardly stand for him to touch her now. All she wanted was to get her clothes on and get out of this crappy little hotel room.
“Please forgive me, sir,” she murmured, getting up.
Paul sighed and stretched out on the bed, his cock still semi-rigid.
“I
told
you it’s okay. I’m not mad at you.”
Suddenly she wanted to throw something at him. He wasn’t mad at
her
? Then why was he whining about the wasted expense of the room?
She was mad at Paul, mad at herself, but especially mad at
him
. He had ruined everything. It had been hard enough getting her own head around the things she wanted, but now she was confused again. She felt guilty and ashamed.
She grabbed her bra from the floor, looking around for the rest of her clothes. Where were her panties, damn it?
He was flipping through static on the television mounted on the wall. Suddenly, the sounds of moans and sweaty flesh slapping together filled the room.
“Want a cookie?” He held out an Oreo without tearing his eyes from the screen.
She shook her head. She gave up looking for the panties and simply stepped into her jeans.
“Come on, baby-girl,” Paul coaxed. “The sugar will do you good. Have a few cookies, a soda . . . and maybe a little blow job—”
“I don’t want a fuckin’ cookie,” she snapped, pulling on her blouse. “And I don’t want to blow you, either.”
Paul blinked at her, still chewing.
“Hey, I just thought it might be less stressful for you, help you loosen up,” he mumbled through a mouthful of cookies. “Jesus, Cherry! I can’t help if I still have a hard-on—”
She grabbed her bag and opened the door.
He was already dialing the phone before the door slammed behind her.
“Robyn, baby-girl?” he said into the phone. “Today is your lucky day.”
 
What was it about rope, Robyn thought, that even the loose slip of it over her bare skin made her nipples hard?
Even as a kid, she’d liked being tied up. When the neighborhood kids played cowboys and Indians, she always made sure she was an Indian.
She sure as hell was an Indian, now. She almost giggled at the thought, but the ropes pulled tighter, and her breath caught in her throat.
“You all right?” he whispered, lips brushing her ear.
“A little tighter. Please.”
The ropes grew taut again, pulling wrists and ankles tight against the mattress.
The blindfold—cool, slick satin—blocked out everything but the sound of his voice and the feeling of his hands on her body.
Paul’s gentle fingertips traced from cheek to throat to the first curve of her breasts, lightly brushing her hard little nipples.
She moaned and arched her back. Wanting his fingers to linger, but knowing that the teasing had just begun. He knew her so well, the location of every nerve ending wired directly to her cunt.
She was already wet, but when his lips followed the trail left by his fingertips, her cunt flooded with moisture.
“My sweet, sweet little pet,” he whispered. “All mine for the taking.”
She felt something new now, not flesh, but something sharp and prickling, run across her skin. For a moment, she was confused, even a little frightened. Then she nearly laughed.
It was the rose he had brought her. He said he’d had to look in three florist shops to find one that still had its long, sharp thorns.
He ran the stem up and down her body, lightly in some spots, and harder in others. How much of her young life had she already wasted, not knowing that flesh was capable of so many sensations?
He switched from the stem to the bud itself. Such softness, tickling over her breasts, her stomach. He slapped her breasts lightly with the rose petals.
“Maybe I should turn you over. Spank you with this rose. Would you like that?”
She nodded, smiling widely.
Instead, his tongue flicked against one nipple, then the other, then back again. When his teeth nipped ever so gently, she felt her clit swell and harden into an ache.
She was panting now, wanting to writhe but unable to twitch even a single muscle. Being tied down like this, it was heaven and hell together. Being eagle-spread, arms and legs stretched taut, seemed to take all the growing tension in her body and drive it mercilessly down between her legs. Focusing it all into a tiny, shining bullet of need.
His fingers dipped between her thighs, rubbing her pussy lips, then spreading them wide.
Oh, God!
His tongue slid across her clit and the dizzying rush of wanting arched her back again, this time violently enough to make the ropes cut into her wrists.
“Not yet, pet,” he whispered again, this time with a hint of glee. “I don’t think you really want it yet.”
“I do, I do,” she insisted hoarsely. “Please . . .”
His tongue moved down to the place on her hip where the skin was still tender.
“Does it still hurt, precious?” he cooed. “Your pretty little tattoo?”
“Yes, sir,” she breathed. “Thank you, sir.”
She had wanted to have his initials branded into her, but Paul had convinced her that branding was something she had yet to earn.
Instead, he had taken her to Ace’s Ink and held her hand as the emblem, small and perfect in simple black, was pricked into the meat of her left hip.
“It’s beautiful. You are beautiful. Let me kiss it better.”
His lips pressed against the sore spot as his hands caressed her thighs.
Then she felt the bed bounce, and his tongue was moving between her toes. This time she jerked, only to have the ropes hold her fast. Helpless. Vulnerable.
“Oh, oh—that tickles! Please, no—”
The giggles left her panting, breathless.
But
no
was not a safeword.
No
was not stop.
Red
was stop. And she was nowhere near
red
.
Her squirming only made the ropes tighter. Her cunt wetter. Her need spiked like a flame in gasoline.
“Please . . .” She was begging now. “Please, sir . . .”
“I know, I know. You want to cum, don’t you? Naughty little girl.”
His fingers slid easily into her, soft at first, then deeper, harder.
“Yes, please—Finger-fuck me! Finger-fuck me like the dirty little girl I am!”
“You
are
a nasty little girl. Your pussy is so hot, so wet.”
Fingers retreated, just enough to spread her lips wide. He knew how she liked it. She loved how his palms held her hips hard down on the bed.
His mouth was on her now, sucking and licking her juices. His tongue danced around her clit in teasing, torturing circles.
“Please—”
Nearly a wail now. Desperation rising.
“Tell me you want it,” he said, voice muffled. Even the vibration of his lips drove her mad.
“I want to cum, please . . . Please let me cum!”
“Let you cum? Don’t you mean
make
you cum?”
“Yes . . .
Please
!”
She was so close, teetering on the brink of it, trying to hold back. Tears ran down her cheeks, she wanted it so badly.
“Wait.”
Fingers now massaged her clit, driving her closer to the abyss. She felt herself slipping, unable to stop.
“
Please
! Oh, God, sir, please,
please make me cum
!”
He drove his fingers hard into her again as he sucked on her clit. She was blind with pleasure so sharp and sweet it cut her in two.
“Cum, then. Cum for me, pet.”
Finally, finally! The blazing surrender to it, to him. The orgasm rolled over her, and over her again. And just when she thought she could go no higher, her body straining against the rope, again it came.
She was crying, laughing. Hysterical with the release. Giddy as he unfastened the ropes and drew her to his chest.
“That’s my good girl,” he whispered.
This was completion. This made her whole. His arms around her, his lips on hers, gently, as he smoothed her wild hair with fingers that smelled of her musk. She nuzzled against his chest, running her tongue through the hair that curled there.
Now, it was her turn to worship him.
And she would do it eagerly, with desire and gratitude and a love so enormous she felt she would burst with it.
 
He opened another six-pack of Oreos, and fed them to her, one by one.
“No, no more,” Robyn said, turning her head from the last cookie.
“Come on. Do it for me. I want to make sure your blood sugar doesn’t drop. You had a big afternoon.”
She sighed like a reluctant child, then smiled dutifully and took the cookie into her mouth. She sat crunching, cross-legged and naked, on the bed.
“What about you?” she mumbled, still chewing. “Don’t tops need aftercare, too?”
“
You
are my aftercare. Just seeing you smile like this.” He grinned. “Besides, I’m stopping at the nearest drive-thru on my way home. I’m talking super-sized combo meal. I’m starving after the workout you put me through.”
“Me?” she squealed, rising to her knees only to fall on top of him with kittenish slaps. “You ravished me!”
“And you loved it!”
“Yes. I did. I did. I’m so glad you called.”
“I’m glad my meeting got canceled. You know I wish I could spend more time with you . . . and that sweet ass of yours.”
She giggled.
“I gotta run.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Don’t forget to put away the rope properly. No stuffing it in your bag.”
She nodded. He’d shown her how to weave it into a thick braid that kept it from tangling, and also made it easy to uncoil.
“Just drop the key at the front desk. I’ll call you in a couple of hours to check on you.”
“Yes, sir.”
She tried to put the brakes on her heart, to stop the drop she felt as he said good-bye . . . and went back to his wife.
Chapter 8
To the uneducated, being a Dominant or Master sounds like an excuse for getting your own way in a relationship. But that’s not the case at all. A true Dominant understands his or her responsibilities: to protect, to nurture, to cherish that which belongs to him. It is very much like the ancient concept of chivalry.
—J
ACK
L
EVINSON
,
The True Dominant
 
 
 
 
M
arla had taken two Valium with a glass of Merlot to numb herself enough to get through the visitation, but obviously it hadn’t been enough. When she spied the woman in the royal blue dress, outrage broke through the haze, the grief, the agonizing emptiness that she’d been dragging around since Roger’s death.
The gall of that woman. The goddamned, utter gall—
She told the kids that she was going to the ladies’ room, then circled back to the foyer of the funeral home to approach the woman from the rear. She simply had to hope no one saw her.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” Marla asked through gritted teeth.
“Marla, honey!” Cassandra Lee gave Marla a sad little smile and stepped toward her with open arms.
“You can’t be here,” Marla whispered, stepping back. “My children and my family—”
Cassandra was somewhere in her fifties, a petite woman with soft, round curves. In her too-tight satin dress, she made Marla think of a well-upholstered chair. Her face, doughy and pale, bore too much makeup, though it was carefully applied. Her blond hair was pulled back from her face with some sort of gaudy, jeweled clip, and then fell in a wild explosion of over-processed frizz passing for curls.
“How could I not come and pay my respects?” Cassandra’s voice was wounded and her eyes blinked back tears.
Marla knew the crocodile tears as well as she knew the tacky jangle of the half-dozen bracelets on each of Cassandra’s wrists.
“I appreciate your sympathy.” Marla bit down hard on her fury; to confront Cassandra would only be asking for it. Cassandra
thrived
on drama.
“I just wanted you to know,” Cassandra’s lips quivered, “if there’s anything I can do for you—”
“Thank you. But it’s not the time or place—”
“Well, you haven’t returned any of my phone calls or e-mails.” Cassandra straightened her shoulders. “I thought you of all people wouldn’t turn your back on me.”
Oh, Christ, here it comes
. Her husband was dead, and all this woman could think about was her own petty problems. Marla didn’t trust herself to speak, but Cassandra didn’t notice.
“I understand loss more than most people,” Cassandra whispered confidentially, putting her arm around Marla’s waist. “I lost my husband and my club, and all those people I thought were my friends—”
“Yes, Cassandra,” Marla murmured grimly, stepping away from Cassandra’s embrace. The woman’s touch made her skin crawl. “I know you’ve had a hard time.”
She saw her daughter looking at her from the other side of the room, and wondered how she would explain this pathetic, out-of-place stranger. She had to get Cassandra out of here.
“I really hate to bring this up now,” Cassandra said, drawing close again and patting Marla’s arm. “But I do need to talk to you about, well, our
arrangement
.”
“What?” Marla blinked, genuinely bewildered.
“Roger and I talked last week. Didn’t he tell you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Well, Roger was going to lend me a little money,” Cassandra whispered. Then she smiled, this time almost flirtatiously. “Enough to get my club going again—”
Marla felt her blood pounding in her ears, and for a moment she didn’t know if she was going to faint or punch Cassandra in the face.
She no longer cared about creating a scene. She grabbed Cassandra by the upper arm, fiercely enjoying the feel of her nails biting into the woman’s flesh, and marched her toward the door.
“I knew you were a lying, manipulative bitch—” Marla hissed. “But to come here now and try to get money from me—”
“Owww, Marla, you’re hurting me!”
“To pretend that Roger promised you anything! That even you could stoop so low—”
Cassandra stumbled as Marla shoved her through the double doors into the parking lot.
“But you’ve got to help me!” Cassandra whispered urgently. Tears stood in her eyes, and her cheeks were splotched a sickly red. “After all I’ve done for you and this community! I’ve sacrificed everything!”
“You didn’t sacrifice shit,” Marla snarled. “Your slut-hound husband left you because you are fuckin’
insane
, and you lost the club because you mismanaged funds and
shit
on everybody—”
“No! It wasn’t my fault! All I’ve ever done is try to keep the community together and help—”
Cassandra was approaching hysteria, as she did whenever someone confronted her with reality. How many times had Marla listened to her bullshit?
“Leave now.” Marla’s voice was icy, but her hands were shaking. “Or I will call the police.”
“I’ve lost everything! My husband, my club—everything!” Cassandra was babbling now. “I’ve even lost my best client to that bitch!”
Suddenly, Marla wanted to laugh. So Cassandra had lost her trust fund baby, had she? He had been Cassandra’s pride and joy, the one she had said would set her up in a new club, one that would put the Inferno to shame.
If another dominatrix had him now, more power to her, Marla thought. Even cute little rich boys deserved a better mistress than Cassandra Lee.
She watched as Cassandra tottered to her battered Volvo. She watched as the woman sat there, head bowed and dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, before starting it up.
Marla knew it was all part of her act. Cassandra played the victim so well.
I hope she burns in hell, Marla thought.
Then she began to cry.

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