THE FIRST SIN (23 page)

I had a major “wow” moment. My gaze roamed a beautiful round chamber that included frescoes on the ceiling. The tall mahogany doors were the only things that broke the complete smoothness of the place. The room smelled like cherry scented cigars.

The circular foyer was empty save for a bouncer, or guard, who could give those Special Ops guys a run for their money. He stood beside a flight of marble stairs leading below.

My stomach tightened when the single door opened. Cabot walked through it. Behind him I caught a glimpse of a mahogany desk with a flat-screen computer monitor on it, a pair of chairs in front of the desk, and shelves lined with treasures and books. Cabot closed the tall mahogany door, withdrew a key from his pocket, and the locks tumbled into place as he turned the key.

Excellent. That had to be Cabot’s office.

Now what kind of lock did he use?

My stomach squeezed harder as I lowered my eyes to avoid Cabot’s. I had the feeling he was a mean SOB when it came to punishments.

The dimly lit Austrian crystal chandelier threw rainbow glitters onto the marble floors as well as the walls, which were thick enough to block out the pounding beat in die main nightclub. Rachmaninov flowed at an elegant level from speakers that must have been carefully recessed so they couldn’t be seen. There were three cameras, though, meant to be obvious, no doubt.

Beneath my eyelashes, I glanced to my left, where the bodyguard stood to the side of the sweeping staircase. Must lead to the BDSM part of the club.

Donovan left me behind as he strode forward and shook Cabot’s hand. “Great to see you, Master Cabot.” “What a pleasure it is that you could make it to the Champagne Slipper,” Cabot said in his snotty Boston Brahmin accent and too-formal manner of speech. “I’ll be delighted to show you and your slave my dungeon.” Dungeon, huh.

I kept a “respectful” distance behind Donovan and Cabot.

We walked down the marble staircase, crossing the boundary from the elegance of the foyer into what I could only call a raunchy underworld. This place definitely had no class, especially compared to Strong’s and Tarantino’s clubs. But, after taking a look around, maybe that was the intention. It was certainly not what I’d expected of the “sophisticated” Cabot.

Hard-pounding rock music blared loudly enough to cover some of the screams of slaves being “punished.” Donovan and I walked with Cabot through fog from smoke machines that gave the huge floor a misty look and lent a bitter smell to the air. Colored lights added to the sense of the surreal.

The rock music pulsed and throbbed, even more than it had in the nightclub.

The nightclub had been elegant—this was so not. This room had the thick smell of too much beer and testosterone, not to mention marijuana. We paused long enough for Cabot to let Donovan and me have a chance to take in the layout. Several slaves wearing only their collars, along with bikini underwear, thongs, or miniskirts, were humping poles.

They moved like exotic dancers in the very center of the room, over squares lit with blinking lights of blue, orange, and purple. At least twenty Doms crowded around the raised floor and crammed bills into whatever bottom parts the slaves were wearing.

“You’ll certainly enjoy watching your slave turn on other Doms,” Cabot said with a smile. “After you get a chance to visit the other parts of the club she can start there.” Oh no. Absolutely not.

Donovan didn’t glance at me, didn’t say a word as he walked beside Cabot.

We learned there were twenty rooms in the Champagne Slipper’s lower level as we passed a full bar at one end of the room.

Donovan and I stopped with Cabot and looked into one of the rooms, where a man was screwing a bound and hooded woman in front of a large picture window. “As you can see, two of our twenty rooms are for voyeurs.”

“The rooms each have a theme and plenty of ‘toys,’” Cabot said with a satisfied smile. “Of course spanking and whipping, multiple partners, shock treatments, wax play, caging, ponyand puppygirls, and any other number of fetishes.” A wicked gleam was in his eyes that scared me more than anything.

Especially when he said, “I even have two Irish wolfhounds, the tallest breed of dog, in one room. Moose and Duke have a taste for pussy.” Intense fear pounded my heart against my rib cage. I know my expression was beyond stunned at Cabot’s last sick statement, and I raised my head and stared at Cabot.

“You allow your slave free rein. Sire Dunning?” Cabot’s eyes met mine, and for a second I forgot my role and locked gazes with him. “Your slave has failed to lower her eyes, and she has moved herself in front of you,” Cabot said with a scowl and a bite to his tone.

Damn, damn, damn!

Immediately I looked down. No fucking dogs. No fucking way.

His Gucci loafers, which coordinated perfectly with his beige Armani suit, would be great for stuffing up his—

Donovan grabbed me by my hair, and I cried out in surprise as he jerked my head back. He said in a rough tone, “Looks like I’ll need one of those spanking rooms to punish slave Alexi.”

My heart jumped and my scalp stung where Donovan had grabbed it. Oh, jeez. Better than Moose and Duke. Yeah, bring on the whip.

“I’ll be glad to show you a room with plenty of implements for punishment, Dunning.” Cabot’s words grew harder. “And since it affects her so much, she most definitely needs to meet my Irish wolfhounds.”

I started shaking.

Oh. My. God.

No. Fucking. Way.

Anger rushed through me and I wanted to drive my heel into his balls. And fear that we’d blow this whole operation burned through me because I would be saying “fastball” in a hurry. My safe word was all that stood between me and those wolfhounds.

Donovan damned well better come up with something.

Cabot walked on like he had a stick up his ass.

Sick sonofabitch.

Cabot led us by the two voyeur rooms, and I prayed he wasn’t going to insist that Donovan use one of those rooms to punish me while crowds enjoyed the show. When we reached the back end and got to the last of the rooms along one side of the club, Cabot entered a large room that had a St. Andrew’s cross.

“Over here in these cabinets we have almost every toy imaginable.” He gestured toward one of the cabinets. “Nipple clamps, candles for ‘wax play,’

strap-on penises, violet wands, butt plugs . . .”

I swallowed. Those were really, really big butt plugs.

Huge butt plugs.

Cabot seemed particularly attracted to a wall with every kind of whip, flogger, paddle, or cane one could imagine. Cane. They caned people here. I’d come across it in my research. It was one of the things I hadn’t seen in action. I just couldn’t picture people really inflicting that amount of pain on someone else, or the sub enjoying it.

When Cabot selected a natural rattan cane that was about four feet long, I kept my head down and gritted my teeth. Rattan, the most painful, of course.

Donovan better get me out of this, or I’d be partnerless because I’d kill him.

Trying not to ball my hands into fists and keeping my expression stone solid was so hard as I waited to see what would happen next.

“Remove your clothing,” Cabot said, slapping the cane against his palm. “I would like to see what you’re wearing beneath it for your Sire.”

I didn’t hesitate because I wanted to make sure Cabot didn’t have any additional excuses to punish me. “Yes, Master Cabot,” I said.

The pounding of my heart increased and I found I had a hard time breathing.

Caned? Caned?

My fingers shook and I fumbled with the fasteners. It seemed to take so long before the sparkly red dress and its halter top fell away, and I was left in my red stilettos and nothing else but my leather thong and minuscule leather bra. Cabot took the handle of the cane and hooked the opposite end along the edge of the material barely covering my breasts. He scraped my skin with the hard edge of the rattan, and I almost winced as he gave a fierce tug and dragged the material down so that both of my breasts spilled out. Donovan! I shouted in my mind.

From the corner of my eye I saw Donovan’s jaw tighten as Cabot palmed each of my breasts. “Nice size. Good shape. Perky.” Cabot pinched one of my nipples, then the other, forcing them to harden. “Responds well.” Cabot extended the cane to Donovan. “You have an appealing slave.”

Donovan took the cane and dragged it across my nipples, making them harder, no matter that I wanted to take the cane and shove it up Cabot’s ass.

“It would be my pleasure to watch,” Cabot said with lust in his tone. “And then a little play with Moose and Duke.” I couldn’t help it. My head shot up and I met Cabot’s olive green eyes. “No!”

He met my gaze for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. “I believe I should teach your slave a lesson,” Cabot said, his voice now hard as a two by four.

“Her rudeness is unacceptable, especially to an owner of this establishment.”

Oh, shit.

“Good idea.” Jason Strong, the Vin Diesel lookalike, walked in, smelling like testosterone and sex, his smooth, bare chest covered with a sheen of sweat.

He grinned and punched Donovan’s shoulder. “All the better to watch.”

Donovan better get me out of this. He’d better get me out of—

‘Tarantino, Cabot and I—like I said, we get a private show from everyone now and then.” Strong slapped Donovan on the back. “A little extra payment for being allowed to join the club.”

Blood drained from my face. I could feel the blood drop straight to my toes.

Tarantino had walked into the room just as Strong said his name. Great.

Instead of wearing a suit, this time Tarantino was barechested, his muscular body tanned. He wore black leather pants with what looked like a “hatch” he could pop open so his cock would be free to do whatever he wanted with it.

Not with me. Not with me.

Right now there was a really big bulge behind that hatch. Cabot and Strong had obvious hard-ons, too, as Cabot said, “I’ll do the honors. Sire Dunning, as she insulted me.” If there was ever a time for crying and begging, this was it.

Donovan’s chest rose as he sucked in his breath. From beneath my eyelashes, I saw him looking at me, his eyes asking me if I wanted to go through with this or say my safe word. Fastball. That’s all I’d have to say.

But the women. The auctions. Kristin. Randolph. I had to remember why I was here. I couldn’t blow it now. I bowed my head.

“Strip, slave,” Cabot said, his tone harsh. “Including your shoes.”

“Yes, Master Cabot.” Oh, God.

Again I found myself naked in front of virtual strangers. “This’ll be good,”

Strong was saying. “Just fucked two slaves and I could take on another right now.” Tarantino gave a low laugh. “Slave Alexi has nice assets.” “We should take her before Cabot gets through with her,” Strong said. “She won’t be much good afterward.” I said a little prayer of thanks that Cabot at least wasn’t stopping to let those two men have me. But I also came up with a lot of creative curse words in my mind, especially after what Strong said about me not being much good afterward. “Stand in the middle of the room.”

Cabot’s voice was harsh, not amused or filled with lust anymore, like the other two.

My eyes didn’t want to focus, and I barely made it to the center of the room without tripping over the stilettos I’d left on the floor. A part of me recognized there was black furniture—if it could be called real furniture, since there were, as always, straps and chains and more than I wanted to know about.

The carpeting was black, too. “You continue to earn more punishments,”

Cabot said with a bite to his words. “How do you respond to me, slave?”

Screw you, Cabot. “Yes, Master Cabot”

“Bend over and grab your ankles so that your ass and pussy are perfectly displayed,” Cabot said. “Y-yes, Master Cabot.” I couldn’t see them when I obeyed, but I was sure Cabot was talking to Donovan as he continued. “I am a renowned expert in the art of caning.” Already my eyes were watering as I held my toes, and my back started to ache as my trembling increased.

“Hmmm... It’s important that each stroke is delivered so that they are in a narrow band.” I felt a smooth palm rubbing my backside and knew it wasn’t Donovan. From the thick, overwhelming cologne and the smooth hand it had to be Cabot. His hands weren’t roughened in any way, proving he was a man who did nothing. “This slave is not very fleshy, so this may hurt her more than someone with a fuller figure.” I squeezed my eyes shut. Great time to have a small butt. He lightly rubbed the cane over my skin. “Now to locate exactly the right angle to administer the blows to her posterior.”

I gritted my teeth and concentrated on my happy thoughts.

Ripping off Cabot’s balls. Snapping his neck. Chopping him into tiny pieces and shoving them down the garbage disposal. Or putting them in a blender first.

A reedlike whistle.

Contact.

The first stroke was brutal, and I almost broke my promise to myself that I wouldn’t scream. It stung so much more than the whip had.

I waited for the next stroke, my body shaking. Two seconds.

Six seconds. Ten secon—

Another whistle of the cane right before a blow to the same spot.

I never thought anything could match what I went through in Mexico and Cuba, but this came damned close. And this was humiliating.

Cabot’s strokes were slow but intense, powerful, and cruel. I counted every second in my mind and tensed when I reached ten. Again I’d hear the whistle of the cane before he struck me, and I’d choke back a cry.

Six times. Six excruciating times.

“I normally administer twelve, but in this case six should be enough,” he said with apparent satisfaction. “Enough to teach your slave a lesson, Sire Dunning, yet not so much that you can’t have at her.”

Strong snorted before he said, “All four of us could have screwed her if she wasn’t bleeding. I think you got a little carried away, Cabot.”

I was bleeding? Cabot hadn’t given me permission to straighten yet, so I was still bent at the waist, grasping my ankles. “Yes, well.” A hard slap over the cane marks. I choked back another cry and almost tipped over because of the bent position I was in. “Disobedience comes with a price.” Cabot said. “She was fortunate I didn’t give her all twelve strokes.” “You might as well let Dunning have at her,” Tarantino said.