Authors: Christina Crooks
Sweet and Dirty
M
ichelle Gray shut off her car. As she stared at the unusual store before her, the old anxiety rose up.
She pinched herself just below her elbow. Swiftly, angrily. “No. That’s done with, that’s behind you, that’s gone.” She focused on the pain until the anxiety receded. An old trick. It was one she hadn’t had to use in weeks, not since she’d moved to Los Angeles.
Her new boss, a domineering woman who’d hired her at Dog Day Care and Cage-Free Boarding, clearly had a mean streak. Why else would she send Michelle
here
to buy a dog collar?
The odd store seemed to grin at her, its entrance a mouthful of teeth ready to gobble timid types.
Michelle looked away, small-dog style. Maybe she’d always be the smallest, most submissive puppy in any pack. Human packs, anyway. Fortunately for her dog-training livelihood, dogs knew she was pack leader.
Michelle’s gaze crept up to the sign,
FANTASY DRESSER
, then to the display window. Her eyes locked on the sight within. This time she didn’t look away.
Human figures cavorted. A few wore dog collars. They seemed to be the metal-studded type she’d been sent to buy.
Nearly nude, the mannequins wore an astonishing array of strategically placed bits of material: animal skins, rubber, satin, steel. There were curvaceous female angels with white feathered wings and muscular devils with bright red horns. No plain hairstyles or wavy brunette tresses like Michelle’s own, but instead a rainbow of wigs. Silver headdresses glinted under spotlights, and gold headdresses with feathers, too. One intertwined couple was enshrouded beneath a curtain of beautifully real, straight long human hair. It gleamed with an unlikely orange sheen.
A velvet backdrop and the mannequins’ beauty acted as a display for the bondage gear. Life-size human cages, fur-lined handcuffs, riding crops, paddles, floggers, small steel jewellike cages the size of Michelle’s fist, ball gags, and other things…the variety of paraphernalia got her mind to wondering how many of them could possibly be used.
She’d heard of those kinds of things before, of course. She accepted that there were all kinds of strange people in the world, and their sexual preferences didn’t have to affect her one little bit.
But now she had to enter such a store. That was another matter entirely. It was a “den of iniquity,” or so her ex-boyfriend Ted would label it. The thought made her smile—a little. He’d always been so conservative. So proper, so concerned with what others thought of him, so determined to keep Michelle in his tight little grasp.
Well, she’d slipped away despite his best efforts. And she intended to be everything they’d all said she’d never become. Even if it meant going in that store.
She swallowed, pulling her keys from the ignition without taking her gaze from the store. What kinds of weirdos might pounce on her, thinking she was one of them?
She braced herself to the task and moved. If her boss preferred these collars for the dogs, Michelle would fetch them. Posh wasn’t a woman to piss off.
Michelle’s hand pushed the store’s glass door before any second thoughts could take hold. She moved inside like a hound on the scent.
She collided with a dominatrix. Her purse whacked the taller woman in the center of her tight black leather micromini.
“I’m so sorry,” Michelle breathed, feeling herself blush to the roots of her hair. She clutched the offending purse, breathing fast. The woman looked strong. And stern.
“That’ll be forty whacks,” the woman drawled, amused as she gave Michelle a once-over. The chains and rivets on her top sparkled, but didn’t come close to the ruthless glitter in her eyes. She gazed down with a small cruel smile. The woman reminded Michelle of an older Posh.
Embarrassment and envy and admiration snaked through Michelle. The foolishness of her own klutzy maneuver brought a smile to her face. “Forty whacks?”
“Unfortunately I don’t have time to explain or administer…but Ro is currently giving a demonstration.” The woman waved one careless, perfectly manicured hand toward the back corner of the store. She brushed past Michelle not waiting for a response and trailing faint scents of musk, new leather, and the tang of metal and mystery.
“Nice meeting you, too,” Michelle finally said. What she wouldn’t give for such confidence.
She’d taken only one step farther into the store before jumping out of the way of another dominatrix. Michelle blushed again when her gaze stuttered to the woman’s face only to see that she was a display mannequin. The female stood, alabaster white and imposing and half-blocking the main corridor, tassels on her whip draping over the rear of a male mannequin crouched at her feet. Michelle viewed with appreciation the hard roundness of his bottom. Someone had colored his rear pink with crayon crosshatches patterning the otherwise white expanse, lovingly smudged for effect.
The kneeling mannequin’s face was twisted in pain and lust. The whip-wielder’s face showed amused contempt.
Michelle felt her body respond to the scene, to its simple interpretation of sexual power. A momentary languor, then a haze seemed to descend gently over her, like the distant buzzing of bees. It felt…good.
She shook off the sensation, bemused.
“Dog collars.” She eyed the collar on the kneeling male’s neck as she skirted the two mannequins. It seemed a shame to deface the display by removing the exotic stainless-steel collar. Its red down lining and enormous center O-ring made it the most outlandish one she’d seen yet. She’d like to watch Posh fit the dignified old mastiff with that thing. She was sure the dog’s owner hadn’t meant an actual collar for humans when the wealthy woman had insisted, over the phone, on “human-quality everything” for her precious pet.
Posh knew far less about dogs than she should, working in the pet industry. Worse, she still hadn’t availed herself of Michelle’s vast canine expertise. It made Michelle wonder why the woman had hired her.
It made Michelle worry for the dogs.
A gasp came from the back of the store. Then, the slap of leather on flesh.
Flesh?
Scandalized and not a little curious, Michelle followed the sounds toward the back.
The ceiling soared far overhead to give the store a roomy, airy feel. The theme from the display windows continued deeper inside, with exhibition after exhibition of mannequins arranged in dramatically dominant and submissive positions. Her first impression—that there were many shopping patrons—proved false. Only half of them were flesh and blood, though some of those fooled her into thinking them mannequins initially. It seemed that pale makeup, contrasting eyeliner and lipstick, bright wigs or suspiciously black hair, and exotic clothes were the rule rather than the exception.
Michelle glanced down at herself. Khaki slacks, cotton shirt, comfortable sandals the same brown color as her belt and watchband. The clothes went well with her makeup-free face and her medium-length, unruly brown hair. A natural look.
She belonged in this store like a Chihuahua belonged in a wolf pack. She should buy the one collar and leave. She would, just as soon as she satisfied her curiosity.
She reached the source of the sounds.
Seeing the man who inspired the sounds made her forget to look for dog collars, and also to breathe. She was entranced, her thoughts replaced by a primal imperative that left her momentarily without the strength to move. She knew she was looking at the alpha male of the wolf pack.
The controlled rotation of his shoulder showcased muscles underneath his tight black T-shirt. Strength flexed in his forearm as he brought the paddle down…onto a woman’s half-bared rear.
Smack
.
The woman gasped as she jerked forward with the force of his blow. The thin black rubber material of her miniskirt had been peeled partway down, revealing the globes of her upper cheeks. They were pinkened darkly, like the mannequin’s.
The man waited.
It was his face that made Michelle suck in a long overdue breath, and then another until she panted like a bitch in heat. His dark, blade-straight hair and naturally pale skin combined in a way that hit her viscerally. His too-large brows and nose and, most of all, those curling lips, gave an impression of straightforward ferocity. Yet he held himself still and disciplined, with only the hint of a smile on his lips. He wasn’t traditionally handsome, but she knew she’d never in her life been in the presence of a more compelling man. His mouth was exquisitely carved, cruel and thin and smiling slightly, as if with contempt.
“Thank you. Another, please.” The woman’s voice sounded ragged, with lust, or pain. Michelle drifted closer.
He brought the paddle down again.
He was magnificent.
Drawing closer yet, as if under a spell, Michelle felt her nerve endings leap to life. She should go about her business, she should leave, but the sexual buzz she felt didn’t allow her to turn away. Her mind was full of the stern disciplinarian and his now-whimpering victim.
Primal, and as straightforward as dog pack dynamics. It was beautiful, and simple, and for a moment Michelle felt as if she understood a great many things about herself.
But people weren’t dogs. And if they were, Michelle thought bitterly, then that would make her the cringing runt.
Smack.
An unexpected new surge of desire left Michelle weak. She tried to escape the distracting pull of the sensation by concentrating on the logistics of the scene before her. The woman, doubtless a willing participant (
though what if she wasn’t?
Michelle thought, the possibility spiking her desire,
what if she’d just been yanked aside randomly and punished, it could happen, it could happen to anyone
), was held in her bent-over position with the help of a contraption clearly built for the purpose. A stringed price tag knotted to one stainless steel strut identified it as one of the store’s available products.
It looked familiar.
“Of course! It’s a breeding rack for dogs,” Michelle said with surprise. Too loud. The man seated his paddle in his other hand, scowling. The woman stopped writhing. Spectators turned, glared. For the second time in a day, Michelle felt her face heat with embarrassment—and some apprehension, seeing the disapproval in the man’s eyes. They were a bottomless aquamarine, but steely cold rather than warm. “Oops,” she gulped. “Please.” She waved her hands. “Keep going. You’re doing a great job.”
He frowned, then bent in one graceful movement to unhook the woman from the rack. He whispered briefly in her ear. She glanced at Michelle with something like pity.
Michelle’s apprehension grew. She backed away. Maybe she could find some clothes to hide behind, or a side door to make her escape.
Tall, white plastic stands held a variety of studded collars. Michelle paused only long enough to scoop an adjustable fur-lined leather collar on her way to the anonymity of the denser clothing section of the store. She didn’t think anyone was following her. Hopefully they’d forgotten her faux pas and just gone on with the demonstration. Hopefully—
The man stepped out from behind a display. “And where do you think you’re going?”
Startled, she jumped, grabbing at the nearest sturdy object to steady herself.
He was even more gorgeous up close. His deep voice seemed to bypass her ears and zing straight to her nervous system.
“I’m browsing, just browsing,” she replied, a little breathlessly. Metal clanked under her palm as his voice toyed with her system some more.
“You interrupt my demonstration, you insult”—he paused for a moment, then shrugged—“pretty much everyone with that ‘dog-breeding rack’ comment…and now you think you can just stroll off without even an apology? It doesn’t work that way where I’m from.”
If she had hackles, they’d be up. She bared her teeth in a smile. “Where’re you from?”
“Somewhere they teach manners. You?”
“The uncivilized backwoods,” she replied truthfully. She tugged at the metal piece without looking away from the man’s accusing stare, trying to casually add whatever was in her hand to her collection of dog collars. Just browsing. She should tell him she was sorry—lord knew she wanted to, the apology all but strangled her trying to get out—but something held it back.
She tugged at the metal, harder.
“Need some help with that?”
“You have experience with these?” She couldn’t believe her ears. Her voice was the human equivalent of a dog’s warning growl. What was she doing? She had to disengage, somehow, before she hurt herself.
The sudden heat that snapped to life in his eyes didn’t help matters. It took an effort of will for her just to turn her head and look at what she held.
She had no idea what she held. It appeared to be a small steel skeleton, complete with spine and ribs wrapping around empty space, attached to a ring and a small, dangling padlock. The padlock seemed to be hung up on another padlock, from an identical product next back on the hanger. It was caught.
“That’s a very personal question,” he said with cool dignity. “But, no. I have no personal experience with male chastity cages.” His expression softened slightly as he watched her struggle. “Here, I can work that loose for you.” He stepped closer, not seeming to notice the way she suddenly sucked in her breath, and worked the padlock back and forth.
She worked hers at the same time, trying to free hers from his. She was not going to back down, not going to run away again, and above all, she refused to reveal how embarrassed she was to be tugging on a cage that evidently fit over a penis. She eyed the cage. A large penis.
“It’s stuck. We seem to be tied together,” he said at last. Male amusement tinged his voice.
Stuck. A tie
, she thought, mad hilarity rising. First the breeding rack, now this. He had no way of knowing the images his words evoked. During mating, a female dog’s muscles contracted and the male’s penis swelled. The resulting “tie,” as it was called in dog-breeding circles, sometimes kept a pair stuck together for thirty minutes to an hour. Michelle had seen it often enough while managing the breeding of her champion studs back in Alabama.
