Sweet Backlash (6 page)

Stirring, he rolled and realized he
lay on carpet. Then it came to him in a rush. Melony in leather.
The kiss. Frank. Cuffs.

Popping open his lids, he found her in
the middle of the room on her knees, looking ready to cry but still
dry-eyed. Suddenly, nothing mattered but her pain. He opened his
mouth to speak but thought better of it. Her eyes, so tormented,
pleaded with him. This was no diversion. This was no game. Her face
twisted and contorted through a variety of dark emotions. This was
the hell where she lived. This wasn't his prison. It was
hers.

"I have to pee," he said, more to
break her free from whatever thoughts had brought her low than to
state his discomfort.

Melony blinked. She moved her hand
from her mouth to her ankle. She was so beautiful. Pale curls fell
around her bare shoulders, and a black leather bustier decorated
with delicate pink bows barely contained her lovely breasts.
Thigh-high leather boots creaked as she brought a leg around and
plopped to her rear.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his ravaged
voice not much more than a whisper. Using the bar, he sat and
noticed a brown scrap of cloth in his lap.

All expression melted from her
features and she shook her head, but a pink blush washed across her
chest and traveled upward to tinge her cheeks.

His hard-on grew harder, and he
winced. "I really have to pee."

She shook her head again.

"Melony. You're killin' me. I gotta
go, and I don't want to ruin your carpet."

"Fine." Her voice sounded strained.
She removed her boots and limped out of the room.

She
was
hurt. "Where are you
going? You've got to unlock this thing," he called.

She returned with a pail. "Here you
go." Setting it under the bar, she hobbled back and crossed her
arms.

"Get real," he said.

"It doesn't get any more real than
this."

His bladder protested. "Why don't you
stop this? You don't have to pretend to be so strong."

"I'm not pretending." She
frowned.

In as gentle a tone as he could
muster, he said, "The look in your eyes tells me
otherwise."

She touched fingertips to her face,
dawning disgust contorting her features.

"You've got problems. I get that. But
don't take it out on me. Set me free and I'll help you." If he
didn't relieve the pressure, he would either embarrass himself or
sustain an injury.

"I don't need the kind of help you're
offering," she said, snide acidity dripping in her
voice.

He'd get nowhere with her in this
mood. "At least turn your back."

"You don't get to tell me what to do.
I tell you."

Clenching his jaw, he bit back a
retort. She struggled under some kind of emotional battle, and
having grown up living with three older sisters, he knew better
than to engage her. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and
concentrated on releasing it slowly, willing his erection to
relent. Melony's nearness made it more difficult, but he met the
challenge. He turned away enough to remove her from his vision, got
to his knees with the cloth sliding off his lap, and maneuvered his
cuffed hands to direct his flow of urine into the pail. When the
discomfort abated, he sighed with relief.

"Better?" she asked.

Don't talk to me right now.
He
squeezed his eyelids together, still working on emptying his
bladder. When he finished, she took care of the pail then gave him
a cup of coffee and took a position at the center of the
room.

"I like cream," he said.

"Don't care. You want to stay naked,
or do you want to wear the cloth?" She took a sip of her own
coffee.

She seemed implacable, cold as ice.
She gave a good show. He had seen what lay beneath, however. He had
to figure a way to tap into her vulnerability. When she lowered her
gaze to his crotch, he caught a flash of fear. Or was it curiosity?
Either way, he recognized her weakness. "I'm fine as I am," he
said.

She pressed her lips into a line, the
only sign she didn't like his answer. He hid a smile behind the rim
of his cup, pretending to drink.

"Suit yourself," she said with a
shrug.

When she turned her back and headed
for the sound system, kicking her discarded boots out of the way,
he got an idea. Last night, she had said he needed to learn it was
all about her. He would make her the focus of everything he said.
If he succeeded, he would meet his goal—release from that room
before dinner.

* * * *

Melony got her favorite Mozart CD
going, set her cup on top of the case, and moved to the shelves.
Her ankle ached, but it would be fine and no longer made her
limp.

These strange sensations he inspired
had no grounds in reality, and once she had him tamed and humble,
she'd see his true colors. He'd turn out the same as every other
slave. Pathetic and worthless.

With careful consideration, she chose
her favorite tool, a long, brown braided whip. She had worked for
months perfecting her skill, and took great pride in her ability.
Pivoting on her heel, she expected him to show either fear or
defiance. Last night had a toll on him. His voice proved it. His
character would dictate how he paired it with her promise of
domination.

When she met his gaze, however, he
smiled and set his coffee on the floor at his hip. "Are you
hungry?"

What? She held out the coiled length
and cocked him a smug smile of her own.. "For your
flesh."

He smiled bigger, putting her off her
guard. "I make a mighty fine omelet."

Melony's stomach answered with a
growl. Damn him. He leaned back, propping his elbows against the
bar, and splayed his legs. Putting it all out there, Chip left
nothing to her imagination. She braced her feet apart, locked her
knees, and let the tip of the whip drop to the carpet. Even without
her boots, her reflection in the mirror revealed an intimidating,
dangerous dominatrix. He seemed unaffected.

"Really," he added, tilting his head
to the side and giving her a wink. "I'd be happy to make you
one."

With a flick of her wrist, she cracked
the whip. The loud pop reverberated around the room. She appeared
tough, unyielding. Inside, however, he turned her to
marshmallow.

"Or maybe I could rub your back. You
look pretty tense. I give a great—"

She sent the tip to his shoulder, a
perfectly administered lash to shut him up. It left a tiny welt
which would disappear in minutes. He sucked in a breath, his elbows
coming off the bar.

She rejoiced in her victory, but
carefully schooled her features. She kept a deadly serious
expression as he lifted his cuffed hands and touched a finger to
the pink mark.

His eyes spoke volumes, but he said
nothing. Begrudgingly, she admired his control. It turned her on,
and she wanted another fix. Anxious to see what he would do, she
cracked the whip. He didn't flinch. Instead, he lowered his hands
to his middle and watched the braid droop from the handle.
Impressive. Her nipples hardened.

"You're pretty good with that," he
complimented.

She sent the tip to his other
shoulder, giving him a mark to match. He didn't move. His muscles
didn't tense. He showed no pain whatsoever. Between her legs, she
began to throb. Between his, however, his dick lay flaccid. How
disappointing. By now, George would have been ready to
cum.

As though he read her mind, he said,
"I don't get off like this. Unlock me and I'll show you what turns
me on."

Her heart began a marathon. Not
because he scared her, but because she actually had to fight the
temptation to do just that. Taking a backward step, she sent the
whip to the arch of his foot.

"Ow!" He jumped and pulled his foot in
then scowled at her.

"Careful," she warned, "or I'll make
you pay for that look."

He laughed. Not a forced, faked
chortle. No, he laughed in earnest, as if entertained. "Aw, c'mon.
May I cook you breakfast?"

This wasn't working. She had to come
up with a different plan. Coiling the whip, she returned to the
shelf. She put it away, turned off the music, and went to the
door.

"Aren't you forgetting to let me off
this bar? I can't make an omelet like this."

She cast him one final glance then
shut the door and fell back against it. She didn't want him to cook
for her. She wanted him to kiss her.

Guilt wracked Melony. She reached into
the breadbox for a bag of large croissants from the French bakery
down the street. She had kidnapped her boss, kept him restrained
all night, and subjected him to humiliation this morning. All
without his consent. Granted, Frank had forced him on her, and she
had brought him home to protect his life, but he had not agreed to
any of the abuse she had heaped on him.

Still, he made an effort to remain
sporting. She set out two plates. On each, she arranged a roll,
three strawberries, and a dollop of whipped cream cheese. She would
reward him. Though, she had to admit, the reward she had in mind
would equally benefit her.

The doorbell rang as she placed the
remaining croissants in the breadbox. With ideas forming for Chip's
reward, and her resulting anticipation building, she didn't have
the patience for interruption. Though in the light of the previous
night's events, she didn't dare ignore it.

At to the door, she looked through the
peephole and sighed. Frank. She'd expected he might check on her,
but she'd hoped he would call. Opening the door, she smiled. "Good
morning."

"Hi, sweetheart. How's our boy doing?"
he grated, his voice more gravely than usual. Apparently, he had
come right over after waking.

"We're in play," she said, standing in
the doorframe.

"He's bound? And you're not with him?"
His disapproving tone chastised her, and he glanced over her
shoulder into the apartment.

"Not with rope," she assured. "He's
cuffed to the runner cord on my training bar."

"Okay," he said with a nod, appeased
and relaxing. "I see two plates. Care to make it three?"

Her stomach twisted. The bouncer had
asked her on two occasions in the past year if he could watch. This
was his way of asking once more. She couldn't. The others practiced
bondage, dominance, sadism and masochism for entertainment. For
enhanced sexual experience. Melony was different. She had never
desired a mutual sexual exchange with any of her partners. Until
Chip. She sure as hell wasn't sharing it with Frank.

"He's still in training. I don't want
to compromise my authority by bringing in a third party this early
in the play," she said, aiming for diplomacy and hoping he would
accept it without argument.

His intense stare crackled the air
between them, and she braced for his verbal attack. He surprised
her by beaming a toothy grin and patting her on the shoulder. "Good
girl. Call me if he gives you any trouble. Velma's working a double
shift today to make extra spending money for vacation, so I'm just
hanging out."

She stepped back and offered a little
wave. "Sure will, Frank. Thanks for coming by." She closed the
door. It locked automatically, but for extra measure, she secured
the safety chain.

Balancing both plates on one arm like
a waitress, she went to the playroom and found Chip trying to get
into his loincloth. His squirms, twists, and huffs amused her, and
she stood to watch for a second.

"Can I get your help with this?" he
asked, giving up and letting the material hang from one
hand.

She took it and set it on her shelved
bullwhip. "You won't be needing that."

His mouth quirked to one side, making
him appear undecided. He didn't argue. Another two points for the
slave.

"Did something happen while you got
that delicious-looking food? You seem less tense." He leaned his
butt against the bar.

"Careful," she warned. "Taking
liberties with your speech could cost you your breakfast." She held
his plate out of reach and moved it back and forth,
teasing.

"You're cruel." His eyes didn't leave
the food.

"Compliments will get you nowhere."
She smiled, enjoying his company. Something she hadn't thought
possible with a man. She handed him the plate. She set hers next to
her coffee on top of the entertainment system and fetched his
collar and leash.

He took one look at the restraint and
held up a hand. "Oh, no you don't. You're not getting that back on
me."

She stopped in the middle of the room.
"If you let me put this on you, I'll remove your cuffs."

Hope brightened his eyes. "You win."
He held out his hands.

"I always win."

She locked the neckband around his
throat and attached the leader to the bar's runner cord. Her
fingers trembled as she pulled a tiny key from her rear pocket, his
nearness affecting her, making her want to touch him. She loved it.
She hated it. After releasing the cuffs and unlatching the
Dura-Loc, she tossed the shiny metal wrist restraints onto her
abandoned boots.