Authors: Christina Crooks
Rough Play (8 page)
Gail looked up at him slowly, horrified.
He smiled down. “Yes. Others. You’ll have to try harder next time if you want to hold my attention. Much harder.”
The words popped out of her mouth before she could censor them. “I’m better off without your attention.”
“Then I’ll simply have to make the alternative worse. Enjoy your evening. I’ll return when it suits me. Maybe in an hour. Maybe in a week.” That diabolically charming grin again. “Eventually you’ll beg to be my slave. You’ll beg for my collar. And you’ll beg for my brand.
“Think on it. In the meantime, I have to go look for something important I’ve misplaced. Good-bye for now, slave.”
His steady gaze was the last thing she saw when he closed the door. She jumped when the latch clicked shut.
His eyes floated in her mind long after his departure. The eyes that horrified her now despite their beauty. How could he have fooled her so completely? For all her intellect, all her justifiable pride in her education and selectiveness, she’d been stupid. As dumb as the bitch he’d called her. She’d wanted to believe, but look where it had gotten her.
Her jaw hurt where his fist had connected. She shifted. Her moist cotton slacks peeled away from her inner thighs, leaving an unpleasant coolness.
At least she didn’t need to use the bucket anymore.
Gail started to laugh. Quickly it turned to wild tears. She wiped at her face furiously, miserably.
She had only one hope. She whispered it, plaintive. “Charlotte, get me the hell out of here.”
6
C
harlotte marched away from Martin, but her steps faltered when she saw Rollie again.
harlotte marched away from Martin, but her steps faltered when she saw Rollie again.
Across the sparse crowd of this dungeon’s room, behind their own rope partition, Amethyst allowed Rollie to beat her.
Maybe Rollie had seen Gail. Charlotte debated the wisdom of interrupting him at his play.
No question, Amethyst allowed the beating rather than endured it. The rise and fall of Rollie’s thin arm with the flogger showed his exertion. It made the sequins on his colorful coat flash like the stars on the ceiling. Rollie seemed to give the exercise every bit of his strength, but Amethyst all but yawned.
The blond woman glanced back over her shoulder at Rollie, her gaze contemptuous.
It brought Charlotte up cold. That expression triggered a familiar response.
Rollie paused and scowled at Amethyst, clearly not liking the way she was looking at him.
Was her expression similar to Martin’s? To Cory’s? No. It was something else.
It was the X-rated visions. One began to play in Charlotte’s mind.
Charlotte swayed as her normal vision faded. She lifted her hand to feel for a faux-rock wall, then noticed too late this one wasn’t faux at all as a sharp chunk of granite did its best to cut her palm.
She couldn’t care less. The movie played: Rollie sitting naked in a chair, pale legs spread, his erect cock and vulnerable balls the subject of Amethyst’s sadistic attention. Colored pins zippered his scrotum in an alternating red/green pattern. As she carefully threaded another tiny, sharp pin through the loose skin at the base of his shaft, Rollie yelled. It didn’t sound like a horrified yell, or a complaining one. Just a yell, meant to express his reaction.
Amethyst smiled slyly in response, running a fingernail down the ladder of pins, laughing at his whimpering response.
“Charlotte? Charlotte!”
Martin’s voice. Charlotte shook herself free of the vision. She didn’t dare look at Martin.
His voice had brought her back to reality.
Amethyst and Rollie? Charlotte gazed at them. They didn’t cling together in affection or mutual passion. In fact they’d squared off, facing each other with angry expressions.
“Charlotte!”
It wouldn’t be the least bit appropriate to interrupt Rollie and Amethyst now, she realized. Charlotte pushed herself away from the wall, refusing to look back at Martin.
She absolutely wouldn’t look back.
Would. Not.
She looked back.
Martin’s eyes were hooded like those of a hawk, but she could feel the power of his gaze hit her. His displeasure radiated out in nearly palpable waves.
She shivered, glad he wore restraints.
Sorry, too.
She fled. Purely by luck, she avoided bumping people or hitting her head against the chains dangling from wood beams or knocking herself out on the low ceiling before the doorway to another short tunnel.
She still quivered with desire. She hated herself for it.
He’d called her submissive. Cory had called her that, too. And worse.
Maybe they were both right. What else could explain the erotic tingle of excitement at the thought of being totally at Martin’s mercy?
Of his having no mercy.
She groaned softly.
The scar on her thigh throbbed its warning.
That night with Cory’s brand had destroyed everything.
Did being a submissive mean she belonged in chains at a man’s feet, a slave to his whim? If so, she might be destined to be alone forever. No way she’d let a man do that to her again.
And if her wayward body wanted to fling itself at Martin it was just a damn good thing her brain overruled her body.
As soon as Charlotte disappeared into the short tunnel connecting the second dungeon to the third, Martin reviewed his options.
They weren’t extensive.
He glanced about. He rattled his restraints.
Here he was, owner of all he surveyed, abandoned and secured to one of his St. Andrew’s Crosses.
His too-slowly fading hard-on pushed the crotch of his pants to prominence. No denying his enjoyment of his kinky diversion with Charlotte.
He enjoyed less her parting words, the ones about contacting the police.
He saw Amethyst still arguing with Ratty. The smaller man did have ratlike features, if one felt uncharitable, which Martin did just at the moment. Not that his grumpiness was in any way Ratty’s fault. Ratty wasn’t that bad looking, Martin decided. Just a little too small and sharp-featured for common taste. And odd tattoos decorated his bald skull that Martin was too far away to see. Martin wondered what the guy’s out-ofscene name was. It couldn’t possibly be Ratty.
Was his hard-on going down yet? Slowly, too slowly.
Martin’d call Amethyst over in a moment to release him. Just as soon as his erection didn’t declare to all and sundry he’d been ditched at a most awkward time.
He frowned. Embarrassment was the least of his problems.
There was the blackmailer. Normally Martin would laugh at threats to reveal so-called incriminating fetish pictures—he simply didn’t play often enough, and God knew there were plenty of wilder people to watch inside of Subspace. He hadn’t done anything worth snapping a picture of in ages. But recent unfortunate ones had surfaced, to his chagrin. Ones of Martin testing his newly created adult toys at a brief appearance in a Subspace pet-play scene. The images were cropped to imply bestiality. They made him look sleazy and depraved. In a bad way.
The blackmailer had to know a lot about Martin’s schedule. He must’ve bribed one of the women to secretly shoot the pics. Now the jerk threatened to send copies to the worst possible person: Martin’s conservative partner at Pavlov’s Pet Joy, the wholesome, mainstream pet toy company he’d helped start long before discovering his true passion.
The older man who was his partner would be scandalized, possibly disgusted, certainly unable to continue with their plan to sell to Savior Industries, a huge company rooted in religion and specializing in “clean, family-friendly” acquisitions. Their business relationship would sour and Martin’s share of the company, if his partner was willing to buy him out, would bring a shadow of the profit it should’ve.
And Martin had to get his hands on a big influx of money.
But unless Martin capitulated to the blackmailer’s demands and sold the asshole his club, that’s what would happen as a best-case scenario. Adding injury to insult, the sneaky bastard demanded Martin’s club for a pittance. A larcenous, token pittance.
Martin scowled, made a galvanized movement of frustration. Chains rattled against wood. How he’d love to get his hands on the blackmailer.
He needed the money he’d make from selling Subspace to Amethyst, plus the money from selling his share of Pavlov’s Pet Joy. His mother’s third recurrence of cancer was operable, fortunately, but the additional medical bills would break her if he didn’t help.
If he didn’t figure out something soon, he’d have to raise the money by selling the sweet house he’d finally bought.
Though maybe that wouldn’t be all bad. He’d had the thought lately the modern mansion, private and set back on rolling grounds encompassing five lots, might be too big for a newly successful single guy like himself. He didn’t enjoy rattling around in it alone lately. He kept busy, but . . . somehow he hadn’t realized just how lonely he’d been until his encounter with Charlotte.
If he found out the identity of the coward who delivered his threats out of those different cell phones—one phone mailed to him per evening, all within the past month—he’d show him pain. He’d show him suffering. He knew exactly where to push and strike and pierce and twist for maximum agony.
Martin bared his teeth. Once per evening came the same bloody call at the same bloody time with the same bloody threat: Sell by the deadline, or else.
Less than a week remained. Martin had collected a motley pile of phones. Stolen probably.
He again felt the temptation to turn them in to the police. He reminded himself, again, that it would only result in those perverse-looking photos going where he wanted them least. Richard Corvine, the hand-picked business partner with his old money and old-fashioned morals, might even have a heart attack when he saw those photos.
Martin closed his eyes to slits, feeling his mouth compress to a tight line. He wanted to sell Subspace to Amethyst for a fat profit.
She was willing. She deserved it.
And he deserved the money.
It wasn’t just about money, either. He’d looked forward to unloading the club for a while. The place was too popular now, crowded and trendy, too complex with petty drama compared to the gathering place he’d begun. No more ownership responsibilities meant finally playing like everyone else did. Playing with toys he made himself, adult toys, and actually using them rather than only demonstrating their use, then watching while everyone else had fun. No longer would everyone insist on treating him like an all-knowing Godfather figure, responsible for every little thing. He’d be responsible for his own life and his mom’s happiness only, and that was all.
The less weighty lifestyle sounded like heaven.
He hadn’t told Charlotte the whole truth. It hadn’t been just his first time locked on that St. Andrew’s Cross. It had been the first time he’d played in his own club for as long as he could remember.
Far too long. He’d forgotten the exhilaration. Especially with someone as intriguing as Charlotte. How he’d like to give her the rough sex she obviously craved. Hot and straight up in every possible position until she came with tears in her eyes.
There was his stupid hard-on, back with a vengeance.
“Hey, Master Martin. Ratty’s being a douche. He’s freaking out over those new clamps of yours. Would you tell him it’s perfectly okay and I know what I’m doing—”
“Amethyst, shut up.”
His words cut her off as effectively as if he’d slapped her.
“What did you say?”
Martin didn’t have to look at her to see her outraged body language, her scowl. People didn’t talk to Amethyst that way.
“I said shut up. Look at me. Do I look like I’m in any position to mediate yet another conflict? Can’t people think for themselves for once and leave me out of it?”
“Sure. Fine. Sell me Subspace. I’ll make all your widdle responsibilities go bye-bye.”
“I wish I could,” he replied, hearing the harshness in his voice.
Amethyst’s vexation was evident. “Why on earth can’t you?”
“I already told you, it’s not under consideration anymore.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s not the answer you want. We don’t always get what we want.” Frustration was making a dick of him, and he couldn’t seem to control it.
She gazed at his spread-eagle position, at the bulge of his cock, and a small smile curved her lipsticked mouth. “Nope. Guess we don’t.” She started to walk away.
“Hey. Wait a sec. Hey!”
Amethyst kept walking.
This definitely wasn’t Martin’s idea of a good time. He pitched his voice to carry. “Ratty. Hey, Ratty.”
The bald young man looked to his right, then his left. “Me?”
Martin shrugged, making his chains rattle. “I don’t know of another Ratty, so yeah, you.” He smiled with a friendliness he didn’t feel.
“We haven’t met.” But Ratty approached, his coat glittering and swaying majestically, a small-framed and nervous prince. “You seem to be in a bit of a bind.”
“Amethyst was in a hurry to leave.”
Something flashed in Ratty’s eyes. “Evidently.” He looked away, seemingly at nothing. Then back. “As I said. We haven’t met. Officially, anyhow.” He stuck out his hand, grasped the tips of Martin’s fingers, and shook them gently within the wrist restraint. “Hi, Martin. Pleased to finally meet the club owner.” He spoke with a precisely enunciated, matter-of-fact selfconsciousness that Martin would have found fascinating under other circumstances. Ratty’s flowing garments—the draping coat covering long, wraparound cotton pants—didn’t disguise his frail body, but the lines bracketing his mouth put him nearer to thirty than the early twenties Martin had assumed. Amethyst liked her subbie boys young. And compliant.
He wondered why she kept playing with this one when it always ended in a fight.
Martin stared back, bemused. “The pleasure’s all mine.”
Ratty exhaled in a rhythmic snort that Martin realized after a moment was a laugh. “Ten minutes ago . . . sure. Pleasure. With Charlotte.”
Martin looked at him. “You know Charlotte?”
Ratty continued as if he hadn’t heard. “But now, maybe not so much with the pleasure? Let me guess. The lady left you. And now, you either want . . . to play with me?” Ratty gave an endearing smile. “Or far more likely, you want assistance getting down from your cross.” He tilted his head, looking everywhere but in Martin’s eyes. He examined the restraints. “I can help you with that last one.”
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