Authors: Christina Crooks
Rough Play (5 page)
He paused, hands up innocently. His obedience didn’t fool her. Charlotte watched him with suspicion. “First, answers. Then maybe play.” Had she just said that? She had. A sinking, melting sensation heated her more than her coat.
“I’ll help you.” He moved closer again. She supposed he had to, to be heard over the music. Probably. “I’m taking your coat.” Fear dueled with want as he leaned in. He tugged at the bulky, concealing coat. The fabric slid slowly down her arms and swung free from her body. She shivered, though she wasn’t cold.
He folded it neatly over one arm. He glanced at her body with appreciation. She saw his chest rise and fall in one deep, savoring breath. She wanted its broad expanse pressed against her. She wanted him. As if he knew it, he blinked lazily and brushed a stray hair back over her shoulder. His thumb grazed her neck and she trembled pleasurably. He stepped closer again.
Her body knew what it wanted.
Too bad for it. Her brain had to overrule her body, she decided, placing a flat palm against his chest.
For a wonder, he respected it. “Yes?”
“I thought we were going downstairs to look around and talk. About Gail. You have to help me find her.”
“Have to.” It wasn’t a question. He seemed amused. “I will help you. For a price.”
She shoved against him. It was like shoving against a cement wall. A warm, muscular cement wall. She spoke coldly. “You misunderstand me.”
“I understand that when I touch you, you tremble like a warm, hungry little baby bird. Your body melts against me, then stiffens up, shivering. Afraid. Fighting against itself. Even your hand is vibrating.” She snatched her hand away, but it didn’t stop the honeyed torrent of his words. “All that heat and need. You have the kind of tension I know just how to work into an explosion.” The way he looked at her made her breath catch in her throat.
She kept her head. She kept her hand to herself. “I’m not interested.”
“Liar.” He appeared willing to allow it, though. He even shrugged. “No means no, here. Unless negotiated otherwise.”
She looked at him.
“It’s true.” He looked back at her, curious. “You really haven’t been to a club like this before. I wonder what’s made you so suspicious. Who took advantage of your submissive nature?”
His proximity intimidated, but she stiffened her spine and didn’t back away. “I am
not
submissive. And, for your information, I won’t be coming back here.”
not
submissive. And, for your information, I won’t be coming back here.”
“What a loss for everyone.” He reached out, hesitated a moment. “Tell me yes.”
“Okay. I mean no! I mean—”
He laughed too quietly to hear above the music, but she saw it. He grasped her arm. Not hard, but firm enough to make a point. Her body thrummed with a need she thought was gone forever. Fear rode hard on it, an immediate and irrational urge to free herself immediately in any way she could, to run—just so she could have the ecstasy of him capturing her. Claiming her.
She concentrated on taking deep breaths.
When she dared to look at him again, his gaze was soft as a caress. “I see,” he murmured. He released her. He spoke with gentleness. “Who was he?”
“My ex-husband.” She blinked, felt the surging bass of the music drive into her bones, trying to drive away the anxiety if only she’d let it.
She refused to let it. “It’s complicated. The divorce was cordial and we’ve stayed friends. We share custody of my dog. Everything’s worked out fine. Why the hell am I telling you this?” The words had just popped out of her mouth.
“Because I truly want to know. Because your instinct tells you to trust me, to give yourself to me. Because you want to know me intimately.” He smiled, confident.
“You’re assuming entirely too much, buddy.” With an effort, she wrenched her gaze away, though his words continued to tie her into pleasurable knots inside. “I know nothing about you,” she murmured.
Somehow he heard her. “It’s early yet.”
“Much too early for trust.” She found she could think more clearly and speak more loudly when not meeting his gaze. Annoying. Unacceptable. She bore down, looked at him squarely. “Would you trust me? Trust me to lock you up so I can ask you some questions? I imagine there’s some sort of torture room for that around here.”
She expected him to take it as the hypothetical, smart-ass comment it was, but he just looked at her with kindly tolerance. “If it would make you feel better.”
She felt her eyebrows lift in surprise, but nodded. “Okay. It’d make me feel better.”
He laughed, a sound that heated her further. As he led her down one of the recessed stairways, she had to remind herself she didn’t want him for anything except answers. He had zero hold on her, regardless of what he seemed to think. She’d make sure of it.
For someone who wasn’t traditionally good-looking, he was awfully arrogant. True, he exuded an easygoing charisma, effortless intelligence, a wicked level of flirting ability, and a masculinity that licked out at her.
It wasn’t just her who reacted to him, either. Women and men going up and down the stairs turned to watch him pass as if he radiated a vitality that drew their gaze like a magnet. Greetings were exchanged. He seemed to know everyone, have his eye on everything. Made sense, if he owned the place. Maybe he only managed the place. Not that it mattered one way or the other to her.
The music and noise of the first floor faded further as they descended.
Though the comparative quiet eased the music’s assault on her ears, the bass still felt like gentle kicks to the diaphragm. Sexually suggestive rather than insistent. She realized she could hear her own feet thumping lightly on the steps, and Martin’s boots, too.
Was that the crack of a whip?
She forced her legs to keep moving.
In the low-lit room they entered, four unfamiliar pieces of dungeon furniture, each positioned under small white and colored lights, claimed nearly half the space. And just in case anyone made the mistake of thinking the furniture was meant for casual lounging, the thick red ropes of velvet kept onlookers and passersby from penetrating into the dedicated play spaces.
Stadium-style seating lined one wall. All seats were filled.
Small vinyl booths and a bar took up a full corner of the large dungeon room, but Charlotte barely glanced at it.
She looked at the performance behind the velvet ropes.
A sadist spanked his victim. The middle-aged woman being assaulted tilted her ample but attractive ass up from a padded bench. The rose and thorns tattoo on her lower back was well displayed as she jiggled and gasped under the severe, twohanded ministrations of the tall, velvet-clad sadist. After a series of spanks, the man gripped a reddened cheek, digging in his long nails for a vicious clawing. He smiled as the woman yelled her pain. Then she wiggled and bucked her ass up for more.
Charlotte saw another performance. A nude young woman, clearly a bottom and blessed with a model’s bone structure and thin, perfect build, was buckled onto a large, glossy black T. The dominatrix behind her, an athletic woman with black hair and a leather corset showcasing the muscles of her strong arms, lovingly wrapped a wide, black piece of nylon material over the top half of the bottom’s gorgeous head, knotting it in back. The girl held herself as still as a mannequin, as if she was aware of her beauty and the mesmerizing effect of anticipating the poised stillness erupting into abused, galvanized movements.
Over the nylon, the dominatrix slid a snug and silky-looking black sleep mask. She adjusted it. She arranged the beauty’s long hair to drape over one shoulder, revealing a creamy white bare back. Charlotte suspected it wouldn’t remain that creamy white for very long.
Charlotte stared, hypnotized, until she felt Martin’s hand graze hers in a light touch. She was supposed to follow.
But she had to pause again in front of the nude man hanging wrapped in ropes. The asymmetrical position of his body looked as random as if he’d fought the rope only to find himself more tightly bound in a less comfortable pose.
Two men whipped him. One wore a grin as he wielded a crop with no unneeded movement, not even enough to disturb the pale brown ponytail reaching down to his mid-back. He tapped the instrument with easy patience, repeating on one reddening spot of the trussed one’s bare thigh. When the whipper paused, reached into a large pocket of his utility kilt to extract two clothespins, his grin widened until he looked a little like a kid on Christmas.
The older black man on his opposite side noticed the pause. He stopped flicking the single-tail whip against the bound one’s back. Charlotte held her breath as the kilt-wearer brought the first clothespin to one distended nipple of the nude man’s gleaming chest. He stroked the nipple as if it were a tiny pearl, rolling the nipple between two fingers. Making it ready. The man shook his head as much as the ropes allowed, the shaven skin of his face gleaming with tears. “No, no, no . . .” he begged. The sadist paused, as if savoring the moment. Then he snapped the first clothespin onto a nipple.
The victim screamed, then panted, his eyes round and shocked. When the second clothespin snapped closed, his body jackknifed within the ropes like some caught fish. He let loose a growling moan. Of pleasure?
“Okay, wow,” Charlotte said, staring. She ignored the hot surge of desire at the raw sadism on display. She similarly ignored the sympathetic twinges in her own nipples. This was hardcore. “Is he . . . is that man . . . ?” She turned to Martin. “Clothespins can be really tight. He could be seriously hurt.”
Martin watched her. Charlotte suddenly realized he’d been watching her the entire time rather than the man in the ropes. “Things are safer than they appear. At least one DM—dungeon monitor—always keeps an eye on things. Also, Kam there is an expert with ropes, and the tension on those clothespins have of course been loosened. Only slightly, admittedly. Looks like they’re still pinchy enough to command one’s full attention. Wouldn’t you agree?” Martin smiled at her with a speculating look that went right to the heart of her psyche.
Charlotte quickly changed the subject.
“This place . . . how big is it? That bar upstairs, does it serve alcohol?”
He looked at her intently for a moment. “Thought you didn’t want a tour. But since you ask, the bar serves beer and wine. There are five dungeon spaces down here, connected by unfinished tunnels made of concrete, wood, and bracings of roughened metal. Four spaces are fully functional. Three have adjacent private play spaces. Upstairs there’s a bar, a dance floor, and even a small bath and shower area reserved for patrons who pay a premium for the privilege. The oldest dungeon space is more for historical display, except for special occasions. The tunnels have been around for more than a century, but they’re safety-upgraded in case you’re worried. Would you like a drink?”
She digested all the info. “Not right now. Thanks.”
“Would you like a tour after all? You seem intrigued.”
“I am,” she admitted. After all Cory’s talk about these sorts of places, she’d envisioned a meat market of oversexed men dressed in leather and groping anything female as if entitled. A porn-shop vibe. A décor of latex, cheap bondage gear, and sticky blow-up dolls.
Subspace was bigger. Weirder. Cooler.
Classier.
If whips and chains and dedicated dungeon furniture could be considered classier. The décor and equipment here actually seemed to fit the description. So did the people, to her surprise.
She wondered what Gail had thought of it all.
The reminder of how she’d been distracted from her purpose made her round on Martin. “Will one of the other dungeon spaces you mentioned be less distracting?”
“You’re distracted? Interesting.”
“Stop analyzing me.” She said it with a smile.
“No.” He didn’t smile back.
The shifting colored light played on faint smoke at the mouth of the tunnel at the far end of the room. He led her to it, through it, the narrow passage rough-hewn as if left close to its original excavated state. But when she touched the wall, her fingertips slid along hard plastic resin rather than real rock and earth. “Nice,” she commented, but Martin was already through the tunnel.
She followed, emerging into a darker, narrower room. Its ceiling soared far above. On the ceiling, stars twinkled. She saw a ball similar to a disco ball perched high over the dungeon equipment. It created celestial pinpoints.
“Star room.” Martin looked around. “It’s an accurate representation of the night sky. Some submissives say subspace feels like flying into space.” Martin nodded to someone. “A smaller room. Less furniture.” He looked at her. “Less distraction.”
She barely noticed the stars, or his words. She’d recognized one piece of furniture behind its velvet rope, a large X with tie points.
Cory had owned one of those.
“Less distraction? Okay. Please fasten yourself to the St. Andrew’s Cross, there.” She pointed to the X. Unlike the painted black T-cross in the first room, this one was raw, unfinished wood.
She remembered rough wood under her palms. She remembered splinters, and bruises, and pain that was sometimes pleasure. She crossed her arms over her chest.
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