Surrender to Fire: Maison Chronicles, Book 3 (18 page)

They had another half hour before the demonstration began, right before the club officially opened its playrooms, so he spent the time going over the outline of his routine with Camille. Just enough that she was prepared, but not so much that his imagination ran away with him again, or that he gave away all his surprises.

By the time he was done, Camille was squirming in her seat. “Eager, sweetheart?”

She nodded, her body primed and ready to play. Her nipples poked against the soft cotton of her T-shirt and by the way her thighs squeezed together, he knew she was turned on. “Good. Now let’s get you into the right state of mind.”

He gestured for her to rise. Taking the occupied seat, he drew her down to her knees in front of him. “What are your safe words?”

“Red and yellow.” He cleared his throat and she blushed. “Sir. Red and yellow, Sir.”

“Good girl.” Sounds from the arriving crowd filtered through the stage curtains and a glance at the clock showed they were on in five. She needed to start going under, now. He tugged on her hair until her neck drew back, creating a beautiful arch to her body. He kissed down from her chin to the collar of her shirt. “Strip down to your panties.”

She rose and removed her pants, then shirt, then bra. It wasn’t a striptease, but it aroused him more than any disrobing he’d seen before. Her pale skin stood in contrast to the dark clothing and her own dark hair, practically begging to be pinked by his ministrations.

When she was almost naked, he pulled her across his lap. “Will you take a spanking for me, sweetheart?” He suspected the pleasure-pain would help ease her into subspace. Her ex obviously had no fucking clue what he was doing. Camille was not a service sub—she needed that bite of pain to set her free.

He felt her deep breaths against his thighs. He knew she might deny him—she had every right to, especially after her day. But she had no desire to. “Yes. Please, Sir.”

While his left arm braced across her lower back, his right hand rubbed over the round cheeks of her ass until the skin took on a pale-pink hue. “Ten strokes, for all your eye rolling. You’ve been racking them up since your last spanking.”

She giggled and wrapped her hands around his leg. “Yes, Sir.” Her laughter vanished when he removed his right hand, so he brought it back and rubbed up and down her thighs. He tapped across the crack of her ass. “Don’t tense.” She calmed and he laid two quick smacks on each of her cheeks. She sighed with each. He rubbed the now-blushing spots until she settled once again. This time, he gave her three harder smacks, sticking to the fleshier parts of her ass. He knew the heat of his strokes was warming through her body—she writhed against his thighs as if eager for more.

“What are you doing to me?” she panted. He would have felt bad that his Camille had never received a proper spanking, but the joy of being her first roared through him. He laid the last four strokes across her ass, relishing the way she jumped and moaned at each one. Before she could assimilate the bite of pain, he shoved apart her legs and found her wet center, rubbing up and down her cleft through her soaked panties. She buried her face against his calf and screamed a quick, hard orgasm.

Camille lay draped across his lap, limp from pleasure. He maneuvered her upright, her forehead resting against his cheek. “Is that what it’s supposed to be like?”

He dragged his fingers up and down her back, absorbing the little tremors on her skin. “For you? Yes. Some subs like more pain. Some, less. But if that gets you off…” She nodded. “Good. I promise you more tonight, if you ask nicely.” She bit back a moan, then kissed his neck. He loved how she could go from fiery to tender and back again, always keeping him on his toes to earn her submission.

The side door opened and Stephan stepped through, his black hair in a neat queue at the back of his neck. “Are you two ready?”

He shook hands with the other Dom. “Yes, I think we are.”

“Good. I’ll introduce you, then you’re on.” Stephan ducked around the curtains and shared a little bit about temperature play with the crowd, then spent an embarrassing amount of time sharing Damien’s experience as an instructor.

Camille perked up to listen. “You didn’t tell me any of that,” she said. “Had I but known I was working with an ‘internationally recognized
leader
in the BDSM community’…” Her impish smile made him want to kiss her, then shower her with delicious torture.

“Careful, sweetheart. You’re getting awfully sassy there. I wouldn’t want to have to punish you so close to the show.” He pitched his voice low and spoke into her ear. He could feel the air shift as she shivered at his words. “But maybe you’d like that, hmm?”

He saw her fight the admission, then sag, eyes closed. “Yes, Sir, I would.”

Stephan’s reappearance ended their conversation. With a command for Camille to keep her eyes on the ground, Damien took her by the hand and led her onto the stage. While the surprisingly large crowd applauded, he buckled Camille facedown into the restraints on the table. Stephan rolled out his supply cart, parking it by Camille’s feet.

Despite the spotlight, the air in the large main room was chilly, so he rubbed his hands along Camille’s legs, back and arms, wanting her to stay warm and supple until he started working. He started giving the audience some basics about temperature play, the same safety precautions that applied to any kind of BDSM scene.

When Camille shivered, he unbuttoned his black shirt and draped it across her back. “It’s very important that your submissive be comfortable. Too hot or too cold, and they may be too distracted to hit subspace. This is especially true of temperature play. Your submissive should not be too warm or cool. Otherwise the hot and cold extremes you apply will be intensified by their nerve receptors.”

As soon as she was covered, Camille settled down. Her breathing grew deep and regular again.

He lifted his shirt from the pale canvas of her skin, draped it over her feet to keep them warm, then pulled a putty knife from both the hot and cold bowls of water he’d asked Stephan to prepare backstage. He started working her over with heat and ice, alternating blades to build up the sensations and confuse her skin. Like last time, her reactions were perfect. The audience sat enraptured by her submission. Hell, it was almost enough to distract him, the way her soft sighs and high gasps showcased her exposure to his tools. He could almost feel her dropping into subspace, her sounds and body movements less restrained.

When her back was splotchy from the blood rushing to her skin, he stood by her head and spoke. “Part of the allure of temperature play lies in the mindfuck aspect. This is something that’s often overlooked in impact play, but it’s amplified here because you’re not necessarily providing pain the submissive can escape into. This is more delicate, less predictable. And because of that, the element of doubt, of fear—will this be too hot? too cold?—works to tease the mind. Many submissives need this kind of mental landscape to hit subspace.”

He stroked Camille’s hair, amazed that just a week ago he hadn’t known this woman. While the audience watched their every move, he knelt by her head and yanked back on her hair. “Are you floating yet?”

Her words slurred together somewhat as she replied, “Yes, Sir. Floating… Yeah.”

“Tell me your safe words.”

She paused, opened her mouth, then closed it again. Yes, she was deep in subspace. His perfect little submissive, so eager to fly for him. “Red…red and yellow, Sir.” She licked her lips and he couldn’t help but kiss her.

“Good girl.” He turned back to the crowd. “It’s essential that you have your submissive reaffirm his or her safe words, just to make sure they’re not too far gone to remember them. If they are, the scene needs to scale back or end.”

He gestured for the two male submissives who’d helped him earlier. They joined him onstage. “But since my girl is doing so well, I have something special planned for her.” He unbuckled her limbs, then slid a blindfold over her eyes before handing her over to the men. With utmost care, they maneuvered her to the Saint Andrew’s Cross, locking her in place so she faced the audience.

“Wax play is something best tested and learned on the fleshiest parts of the body: the back, the thighs, the ass. Otherwise, it’s too easy to burn your submissive, or to overestimate how much wax you’re pouring.” While the two men rolled the table aside and brought the cross to the front of the stage in its place, he lit his candles. “Can you tilt the cross back a bit?” he asked the men. When Camille reclined back farther, he nodded and they locked the frame in place.

He showed the audience a few different kinds of candles they could use, then lit his favorite glass pillar candle.

Camille trembled when his boots thudded closer on the stage. “Are you ready for this, sweetheart?”

Oh God, what had she agreed to? This was not like the last time. Cam could have safe-worded, asked to be put back on the table, but she trusted Damien not to hurt her more than she could take. And she was curious—why did he want her front exposed?

When she nodded, her question was answered. Hot splashes hit her collarbone, then the top curve of her breast. Not too hot, but her brain was so overloaded by sensation that she jumped and groaned at the contact. Her nipples hardened in the cold air, the stark contrast to the hot wax making her head spin. She’d had no idea what she was missing, not being played by Shawn. He’d been too gentle, never able to quiet the incessant inner monologue of her mind long enough to get her to let go and truly submit. That was, the few times he’d actually engaged with her. She’d been an idiot, thinking he’d eventually fulfill her needs.

The hard wax pooled and spread on her skin, drying to a tight, warm weight. Rivulets of wax trailed down the sides of her breasts, dripping onto her stomach. He never hit her nipples, but they began to throb with her heartbeat. She ached for his attention on them.

Cam could hear him speaking to the audience, feel him move around the stage, but she couldn’t think beyond the tactile impressions on her body. When a hot mouth closed over her nipple, she cried out. Her swollen breasts, enflamed by Damien’s wax, tightened from the human contact.

Damien’s woodsy scent enflamed her desire until her core throbbed and the cool air blowing across her damp panties was enough of a tease to almost make her beg to come. Wisps of his hair blew against her skin and when he abandoned one nipple to suck on the other, she yelped. “Sir, please,” she pleaded, but he ignored her.

Without her sight, without being able to move, she could do nothing but lose herself in the pleasure he gave her. Her body was drawn taut as a tightrope, on the edge of breaking from the suspense of his next move. He released her nipple, letting the cool air caress her body.

Then, without warning, an endless trail of almost-painful wax fell on her breasts, across her nipples in biting streams. She felt like an erotic live version of a Jackson Pollock painting. Her body responded to Damien in unprecedented ways and she would have been scared if she didn’t trust that he’d catch her if she fell off into some mindless pit of submissiveness.

She wouldn’t lose herself with him. She wouldn’t have to fake her submission, either. He reached into that willing and obeisant part of her and charmed it forth.

“Are you ready to go deeper, Camille? Tell me your safe words if you are.”

Her mind bent around his words until they made sense. She licked her lips. “Red. Yellow.” She was safe with him.

Damien moved and she heard the wheels of the little cart
whish
ing against the wood platform. The heat of his body settled at her side. She almost relaxed into his presence when wax hit her chest, her breasts, her stomach—everywhere at once—each point zipping straight to her clit until she couldn’t tell which part of her he was actually toying with. A tug at her waist, a fabric ripping, a third pair of panties destroyed and cool air wicked across the wet lips of her pussy. She waited for his hands to find her—instead, the wax did, rolling down from the cooling blobs on her stomach, reaching ever closer to the juncture of her thighs.

Tongues of hot wax teased her mound, licking across her labia.

“Farther back.” Damien’s odd words broke through her lusty fog and didn’t make sense until the world tilted and she was on her back, arms spread wide above her head. She was exposed, bared to the whole crowd, but in that moment it only made her hotter. She wanted to show off what Damien did to her. He was a masterful Dominant and every drop of her arousal was a testament to his skill.

It was also an unmistakable sign of possession. He was doing things to her, with her, that he self-admittedly hadn’t done with other women. Every intimate touch on her body was, in a way, Damien staking his claim on her.

And after the day she’d had and the way he’d supported her, she could no longer deny it: she wanted him for herself. All of him, and not just for a weekend.

When wax hit her inner thighs, she reflexively tried to close her legs, but she was tightly stretched against the cross and unable to move. Pressure built in her body, her pussy soaked with arousal, demanding fulfillment.

Drop by drop, Damien stoked her fire, the wax getting hotter as he neared her clit.

“Please, please, please,” she begged, not quite knowing what she was asking for. But Damien would know what she needed.

A wash of searing wax covered her clit, dripping down the lips of her pussy, and she shattered, feeling the wax breaking along her skin while she strained against her cuffs. A burst of applause filled her ears. Whistles and deeper, more sensual sounds formed a backdrop as Damien unbuckled her restraints, then carried her into the back room.