Tombstone (11 page)

CHAPTER IV

“Fuck you too, Ike.”
 
Felicity shouldered into the big man and she walked through the door.

Ike grabbed the collar of her cropped leather jacket.
 
“Dammit, Felicity.
 
You have to wait in line like everyone else.”

She raised a pointed toed boot to knee him in the balls, and Ike laughed and released his grip on her.
 
“Shit.
 
Go ahead.”
 
He pushed her through the door of the BDSM club.

The music throbbed undulating hypnotic beats, and Felicity sneered at the weekend warriors dressed in their black leather ‘poser’ costumes while she walked up to the bar.
 
She flagged the bartender and he handed her the beer that he knew she would not drink.
 
Turning, she leaned back against the bar to study the crowd, ignoring the aroused eyes of a kid standing next to her stroking a whip.
 
A quick glance at the lash showed minor abrasions and rough spots that would cut into the skin, and Felicity figured that the kid had probably practiced with it on a tree in his parent’s backyard.

It was Valentine’s Day, and Felicity was extremely pleased with the gift she had delivered earlier.
 
“Fuckin’ old whore,” she muttered.
 
Those were the exact words she had spray painted on Susanne Fry’s headstone.
 
She had shown up at the grave every year and waited for hours behind the mausoleum, hoping to get a look at the bitch’s son.
 
This year was the first time she had actually gone near the headstone, and she had resolved herself to the frustration that Jerald never visited his mother’s grave.

Through different contacts, she heard that he ran a successful business back east.
 
Although the details were vague, it seemed unfair that he had been able to go on with his life while she remained trapped in the town where the whole thing had happened.
 
All of her stilted attempts at researching Jerald Fry had proved useless.
 
It seemed as though he had simply disappeared a decade ago, so she wondered if the crap she heard about him was even true.
 
Maybe he was locked away, drooling in some straight jacket and as fucked up as she was.

Felicity’s own mother had died ten years ago today, but her grandmother had cheated Felicity out of the ability to ‘honor’ Bethany’s memorial by having her cremated and spreading her ashes over the Pacific Ocean.
 
The crazy woman said that Bethany had no business being buried in sanctified ground.
 
Felicity had squatted on the beach and pissed into the rippling waters on the shore before she visited Susanne’s grave.
 
“Fuck both of you.”
 
How the hell could they have stuck her being raised by that righteous old bitch of a woman?

Through her teenaged years, Felicity had gotten off by slicing herself with razors and pounding her knuckles into concrete.
 
Now that she was older, her taste for cleansing pain had sophisticated, somewhat.
 
She had avoided the drugs her mother craved, because they lessened the feeling she needed to feel grounded.
 
Several Doms were already busy, and she searched the crowd for Marcus.
 
He always made time for her.

Felicity found him at a table in the back.
 
She caught his eyes and he gave a slight nod towards the stairs leading to the dungeon.
 
Felicity left her full beer on the bar and made her way to the steps to the basement.
 
Her pussy was sopping, and she reached down to her crotch to peel her leather shorts from her crease.

“Cell Seven,” Marcus’ voice whispered in her ear, and Felicity jumped.
 
She had not heard him come up behind her.

“Yes, Master.”
 
She walked quickly down the hall.
 
She entered the sparse cell and heard the metal door clang shut behind her.

“Strip.”

Her nipples tightened and her breathing shuddered in quick pants.
 
“Yes, Master.”
 
Without turning around, she pulled down her shorts and tossed her jacket and black baby doll tee shirt into the corner.
 
She had not bothered with underwear for years.

A strong hand rolled down from her shoulder blades and over her ass.
 
Felicity hissed and sucked in a deep breath.
 
The hand slapped down on her bottom and she rocked forward, but kept her feet in place.
 
“You interrupted my celebration, girl.”

“I’m sorry, Master.”
 
Felicity felt her juices drool.
 
Marcus was pissed… and that was a very good thing.

“And why should I waste my time on you?”

Felicity gasped.
 
No.
 
No, he couldn’t leave.
 
She turned and fell on the ground and began kissing his boots.
 
“Please.
 
Please, Master.”

Marcus’ cock had thickened as soon as he had seen her at the bar.
 
He had tried to talk her into a more permanent arrangement.
 
It was obvious she was a complete submissive and could barely function on her own.
 
The beautiful woman subjected herself to his most arousing and degrading torments.
 
From past years’ experience, and a little investigation, he knew that Valentine’s held special meaning for her.
 
This year, he had her followed.
 
“Post,” he hissed, and swatted her ass again when she rose.

Felicity ran to the pole, placing her hands through the leather cuffs overhead and sliding down the straps to hold them in place.
 
At the feeling of the restraints locking her into position, unable to move or deny her Master’s tortures… Felicity moaned.
 
Marcus smiled at her clenching bottom and enjoyed the two pink prints left from his strikes.
 
He could see the glistening issue of her arousal on the insides of her spread thighs.

“You have desecrated the whores?”

“Yes, Master,” Felicity quivered.
 
How did he know?
 
She hoped he would be pleased… or maybe even more pissed off.
 
She heard rustling and knew that he was taking off his coat.
 
Felicity was sure it meant the cane or the whip, and her pussy clenched frantically.
 
Yes.
 
Oh, god.
 
Please, Marcus.
 
Do it.

The first strike of the cane sliced across the fat flesh of her reddened bottom, and Felicity pushed into the smooth wood of the pole and gasped.
 
“One, Master.”

The second left a welt under the cheeks of her ass, and Marcus winced when he saw droplets of blood on the stripe
.
 
Fuck, I have to ease up.

“Two, Master,” Felicity groaned in passion.

The girl made it difficult, because her submission bordered on true masochism.
 
His third stroke lashed across her shoulders, leaving a pink welt but minimal discomfort.

“Three, Master.”
 
She wiggled her hips in frustration.

Marcus dropped the cane and lowered his zipper.
 
She was in the mood for pain tonight, and it would be very easy for him to oblige her and lose control.
 
Felicity felt his hands running down her ribs and over her welts.
 
Perhaps the most agony of all for her was knowing he would not cane her further.
 
She could beg, but she knew that he would not listen.
 
He had warned her that her responses could send him over the edge, and that he would stop before then.

His tongue licked the top of her ear while he pumped into her pussy.
 
“Move in with me, Felicity.
 
We can enjoy our pleasure and learn each other’s limits.”

Felicity leaned her head back against his shoulder.
 
“I can’t, Marcus.
 
Please don’t ask me to do that.”
 
One of his arms wrapped around her chest, and his fingers alternated from brushing a tight nipple to pinching the erect nub.
 
His other arm was wrapped around her hips, his fingers disappearing into her wet folds and stroking.
 
Felicity moaned in pleasure when the welts on her ass brushed against him, and he exploded inside her.

After his breathing calmed, he whispered, “You know I’m being transferred in two days.
 
You’re running out of time to change your mind.”
 
His lips brushed her cheek.

Felicity felt the strange twinge of loss in her chest.
 
It was an emotion usually reserved for her grandmother, mother, and sometimes Susanne… who she considered to be the cause of all her problems.
 
She was still determined to find Jerald Fry.
 
“I won’t change my mind, Marcus.”

He growled and crushed both her nipple and clit in a wrenching grip, then he stood back and off to the side.
 
Marcus’ hand slapped over the fresh welt on her bottom, over and over, while he watched blood droplets from the poorly executed lash hit her thighs.
 
The girl continued to moan and thank him, counting out his strikes until her ass was fire red and burning his hand.
 
Marcus knew that Felicity was right.
 
There were no final limits she could discover, and he would end up in trouble from going too far.

Felicity climbed the dungeon stairs, rubbing her bottom and enjoying the heat through her shorts.
 
Marcus was already back at his table, ignoring the attempts of a wannabe sub about eighteen years old and kneeling by his leg, stroking his black boot and trying to seduce him with her eyes.
 
Fuck you, little girl.
 
Marcus ain’t nobody’s daddy.

Felicity edged to the side of the stage, scanning the club to make sure no one was watching her.
 
Ike and the other bouncer were busy separating two women who were fighting over the kid with the whip, and he was cowering behind them.
 
Everyone was a fucking pretender in the club, except for Marcus.
 
Felicity still did not understand what kept her here and afraid to commit to him.
 
She snuck behind a back curtain by the dance floor and opened the second door on the left.

This was the old part of the club.
 
She faced a dark corridor lit by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.
 
When she got to the first door on the right, her fingers stroked over a brass tag that had come loose on one corner and was pitted from age.
 
‘Room One’.
 
She opened the door.
 
The five rooms were all used to store liquor now, and the stages were covered with a thick layer of dust.

This was what her mom had given up her life for.
 
Felicity squeezed by some boxes and sat on the stage.
 
The old wood creaked, and she laid back and stared at the socket where the stage light had been.
 
Through the darkness, she saw the tattered edge of the sheet on the wall.
 
The box below it held remnants of rats’ nests, and they had chewed the glued paper as high as they could reach.
 
Felicity still made out some of the words that she had them memorized.

‘Mannequins expect to be tipped proportionately to the act you wish them to portray.
 
Room One Prices:
 
Upper body configurations are one hundred dollars, facial confi… are one hund… fift…, and low… body…. igurations are two hun… twen… fiv…
 
Mannequins will remain fixe… the position …ou place them in.’
 
The words that presumably instructed the patron to put the money in the box, had been completely chewed off.

Felicity had met a few old men who explained the club to her.
 
Their rheumy eyes would glass over with whatever passion they could still manage while they reminisced about their time in ‘The Mannequin Closet’.
 
Without fail, they all seemed saddened that the erotic club had closed down after Stevie had died.

Over the years, Felicity had delved deeper down the hall.
 
There were small rooms in the back that must have been dressing rooms.
 
They were stacked with old furniture, but she had managed to squeeze into the room closest to the ally door and shimmy under chairs until she scooted under a heavy curtain hanging half off the rod.
 
On the floor, she found a black rubber mask.
 
It was stiff from age and cracked when she tried to put it on.
 
Scooting out of the room, her hand slid on the dirty floor under the vanity.
 
One leg had broken, and the table was half supported by an old vinyl chair.
 
Her fingers felt something small and metal, and she picked it up and carried it out to the hall.
 
Under the incandescent bulb, she held a rusted little car in her hand.
 
Felicity kept it in her jacket pocket.

Her mind envisioned the mannequins, tightly wrapped in rubber and posing on the stages.
 
Felicity felt her ass burning where it contacted the wood.
 
She squirmed to increase the pain and let her fingers rub over her nipples, erect and straining under her thin tee shirt.
 
Her eyes were closed, and she saw herself restrained in tight latex, ordered not to move or speak while men approached the stage.