Echo of Redemption (17 page)

I want flogged. I really want caned. I lick my lips again, almost drooling with the need of my desire. I smile at Master, hoping he takes it for the naughty invitation it’s intended to be. Wait. He’s not looking at me, he’s looking at a man who has matched his stride. They are close enough for me to hear Master tell him, “The receptionist is in charge of scheduling all Attic appointments. I’m sorry I can’t help you with that, but I will be happy to have someone escort you upstairs so that you can make the appointment while you’re here.”

“Sir, no disrespect but I’ve been trying to get an appointment at The Attic for two months.”

Master turns only slightly, the man steps between us, blocking his progress. I meet Garrett’s gaze, catching the flair of annoyance before he gives his full attention to the rude man. Lust crosses his face.
What?
Their words cease to have meaning as my head spins around the thought Master is obviously attracted to the man. I take a closer look. He’s mid-thirties, tan, buff, blond. I’m not blind, the man has the total package going on. Nice bod. Pretty face.

“You’re so keen to do a scene with one of my Dominants, sub for me. Now.”

My head swivels to face Master, hoping he’ll notice my glare, but he doesn’t meet my gaze and within seconds he is leading the man toward the elevator. My heart crashes as I watch them ascend. Through the glass walls of the elevator, I see that Master is already topping him. The man’s face is lowered to look at the ground. “Well, la-de-fucking-da.”

* * * *

I awake when Joel Winston, Garrett’s security lead, lifts me and starts carrying me through the dining room. For a moment I am disoriented, wondering what I did to be in trouble this time, but he passes the cages and stocks, the whipping posts, and isolation sphere without even slowing down. Suddenly, I’m scared, considering the recent violence and Thomas’s fear for mine and Garrett’s safety. “Where’s Garrett?”

“Working. You’ve been here long enough.”

One of the other security guards opens the door that leads to the alley, and bright sun blinds me momentarily. “What time is it?” Shielding my eyes with my arm allows me to see the limo waiting.
Our
driver holding the door open. Unless there is a huge conspiracy I don’t know about, I am safe. It just isn’t like Garrett to leave me unattended so long and he has never sent me home alone before.

I am deposited into the backseat as naked as I was inside the club. “Hey. Clothes?”

Joel, never a man for many words—unless he’s arguing with Garrett—points to a small bag I hadn’t noticed on the floorboard. It is the one I normally keep stashed in the office. Since most often I leave the house in fetish-wear, or naked, and return in the same condition, I realized fairly early in mine and Garrett’s relationship—the second time around—I needed clothing available for a vanilla emergency.

Frowning, I look from the bag back to Joel. “Did Master instruct you to send me home?”

“Miss Jackie asked me to see to your welfare before she left.”

“Thank you, Joel.”
He forgot about me.
I start rummaging through my bag as soon as the door closes and instruct Blake to take me to the office. I slept all night. I am certainly not going home to stare at an empty space. I know myself well enough to know
that
would lead to me getting into much trouble…

What I really want is to turn around and go back to the club. Now that I am awake I want to know what Garrett’s doing. I imagine him in The Attic, still torturing the hotty he took upstairs—clamping his nipples, zapping him with a prod. God, I get wet just thinking about it.
I want zapped
.

“Damn it!”

I can’t go straight home in this mood. I’d only end up hunting down Lord Fyre. Now that I know he’s still in town, it isn’t a far leap to know that he’s holed up with his brother somewhere. I know where he lives and if not there I know where George lives…and if he was neither place…I’d just keep looking.

Better to find a
safe
activity.

“Hey, Blake, can you take me to the nearest bookstore?”

“It will be hours before one is open, Miss.”

“Do you have something better to do?” I ask irritably, immediately regretting my sharp tongue. It isn’t like my foul mood is any fault of his.

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, neither do I, and go through a fast food drive-thru. I’m starving.”

“Mystery and disappointment are not absolutely indispensable to the growth of love, but they are, very often, its powerful auxiliaries.”

Charles Dickens,
Nicholas Nickleby

Garrett

My favorite room in The Attic is one I designed with George for mind play. It’s one thing to go into the nice sterile medical room. You can be fairly certain what is going to happen there. Or the room that looks like a Victorian boudoir, no big surprises, but room number eight is a mystery. The floor is wooden and overlaid with a maze of pipe that you have to step over again and again to navigate the room. Pipe on the wall, pipe hanging from the ceiling.

I have the man who introduced himself as Dean make his way to the center of the room. There, I have him strip. Completely. If I was in lust with him before seeing him naked, I am flipped now.

I lick my lips and try to not stare. Wouldn’t want him to know I’m impressed, now would I?

I’ve kept on my clothes, dress shirt, pants. I work my tie loose and roll up the sleeves of my shirt. “What brings you to The Attic, Dean?”

He swallows hard and tries to look away. Is this more than he bargained for? The intimacy of questions…

Some people can handle it, some can’t. Some don’t want you to know anything about them at all. That’s how I peg Dean. He didn’t supply a last name. If I wanted I could use my PDA to pull up all of the secure personal information he provided before being allowed on the floor. I’m fine with Dean.
For now
.

“Curiosity.” He finally answers my question. “Everyone talks about The Attic like it is such a big deal, like you can’t get the same type of experience anywhere else in the world.”

“Well.” I scratch my chin. “Your expectations must be high then. Perhaps when we’re through you can tell me if you were impressed or disappointed.”

“Be glad to,
Sir
.” He’s challenging my authority already with his sarcasm-laced answers. He probably dominates in all of his relationships, but in The Attic all clients are subs, he wasn’t given a choice in the role he is playing.

“Think you can balance on that pipe there, Dean?”

Barefoot, he steps onto the pipe and smiles.

“Good boy.”

He frowns at the praise. I don’t think he liked being called boy, or maybe it was all of it together, “good boy,” like a loyal hound. Or maybe, just maybe, he sensed my sarcasm and is beginning to realize the scene has begun, and it’s all downhill from here. I push a button on my remote control, and the pipe suspended above him drops. I have him grip the bar, like he would if I wanted him to do pull-ups. He holds on. From a rack I grab some lengths of pipe, some galvanized elbows, and join him on the balance pipe. I make quick work of boxing his hands between pipe. He tries to pull his hands free, the design deceptively simple, seeming not effective, but he is trapped as surely as if I’d bound him in rope or leather or cuffs.

I hop down, pressing the button on the remote that lifts his hands above his head. “Comfy, Dean?”

“Yes, Sir.” He’s lying. The soles of his feet are burning already from balancing on the narrow metal pipe. He shifts his weight again and again.

“So, why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re here, Dean?” I withdraw a handful of clips from my pocket. They are shiny black and have a nice bite to them. I bring one into his line of vision just to watch his eyes widen a bit before I attach it to his scrotum.

He says, “Fuck,” under his breath before answering, “I told you the real reason, Sir.”

I don’t expect a reaction so early in the game.
This is going to be entertaining
.
I smile, relaxing for the first time in what feels like months but has only been days. I can feel the dom-space settling nicely through my cortex. It doesn’t usually happen at work. Work is work. And to gain the slightly euphoric feeling so early on? This is an unexpected surprise. The room around me fades as I focus on distributing the clips in a pleasing pattern over his scrotum. He dances on the pipe, and to ease his suffering just a little I stroke the back of his thigh. It’s a very small distraction. “Relax. So, you aren’t here for the pain?”

“No, Sir.”

His jutting erection labels him a liar, but I don’t mention the obvious. I join him on the pipe and dangle a pair of nipple clamps attached by a chain in front of his face. “Tell me you want me to attach these to your nipples, Dean.”

“I’d be lying, Sir.”

I laugh at him and twist his nipple. “You’ll have to try harder than that to convince me, Dean.”

He writhes forward, gasping, “Please.”

“Please is neither your safe word nor the response I was looking for.” I twist his other nipple.

“Sir. Please attach the nipple clamps.”

I don’t leave him wanting. His breath sucks in and he makes a high pitched keen in the back of his throat. From experience I know the bite of the clamps I just attached. They are wicked. I won’t be able to leave them on him long, but just the initial pain ripped through his chest and zigged down his spine to pucker his asshole. “Say, Thank you.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

I stroke his face, and he closes his eyes at the tenderness. “We’re going to have a good time, Dean.”

I attach the other clamp and this instance I don’t have to ask him to say the words. He volunteers, “Thank you, Sir.”

My cock is as hard as a rock and the session is just beginning. I smack his ass as I jump off the pipe and leave him standing. I cross the room in front of him, taking my time. I posture a little as I remove my tie. Seduction. It’s what Lewd Larry has always been best at and now, consciously bringing Lord Ice more and more to the forefront of my psych, I decide this part of Lewd Larry I keep.

I take my time selecting the perfect flogger and though I’m not looking at the man bound behind me, I know he is watching me because a wave of his need ebbs through the room. I chuckle.
We are going to have a very good time.

“Night, the mother of fear and mystery, was coming upon me.”

H.G. Wells,
The
War of the Worlds

Thomas

I am filled with trepidation as I enter the hotel’s lobby. At Glorianna’s request I am meeting her in the bar after hours. I am surprised to find her sitting at the bar, instead of a small table tucked into a corner. We’re alone except for a man playing soft jazz on piano…and of course, her armed bodyguards. Most senators aren’t afforded such luxury as secret service at their beck and call, but Glorianna is an exception. She’s swirling her drink like a woman with something heavy on her mind when she says, “Tell me you were surprised to hear from me.”

I kiss each of her cheeks before sitting down on a bar stool beside her. She gives me a long, sensual look. Glorianna has always been a very beautiful woman, time and experience giving her an edge that adds to rather than detracts from her raw sensuality, especially now with at least one cocktail down, maybe two. She is toying with me, making me wonder why I am here. Am I to be bed sport? Or am I to be reprimanded for not bringing her my brother? She has most certainly heard news of his
death
.

“You do not look like a man in mourning, Thomas, and I’ve been so very concerned about you. That’s assuming you heard about the blast in Shanghai?” She strokes the top of my hand. “Real tragedy there, fire out of control, no small loss of life. The question is did Henri eliminate your brother? After so many years getting him into place, I doubt that very much. Which leaves the questions, which of your brother’s many enemies went after him, and what retribution do you have planned?”

I swallow hard. I hadn’t considered what my reaction would be if my brother was really dead. There would have been a reaction. I’ve been blowing it without realizing I was and if she has been watching me, no doubt Henri has been watching, leaving the heads of two international organizations watching me. So not good. I like it when they forget I exist.

I take her glass of mostly melted ice and swill the remainder of her drink, although I rarely consume alcohol. “Sweetheart, I know you’ve heard that revenge is best served cold.”

She lifts her finger for two fresh drinks. “I knew there must be a reason. So, you know who is responsible?”

“Not yet. I’m still working on it. Perhaps you can make my job easy and tell me who had him killed.”

The bartender sets two glasses in front of us and she answers, “Ah, but if I knew.”

Licking her lips, she runs her fingers down the front of my lapel. I am very aware of two things simultaneously, her perfume and her two bodyguards leaving the corners to step nearer.

Seeing my discomfort, she rubs her cheek against mine, whispering, “Relax. Don’t you think that if I wanted you dead, you would be so already?”

I smile and laugh.

She too laughs. Still leaning intimately near, she asks with hope filling her voice, “Come to my room?”

By the question, it might be assumed I actually have a choice. I lean nearer, wrapping one arm around her back to pull her against me. Inappropriate for so public a place, for such a well-known political figure…because even after hours someone somewhere is watching…even if it is merely the piano man. Discretion is always called for, but tonight caution feels overrated. She and her men are watching me closely. Every facial reaction, every body movement. Reading body language is such an exact science and tonight I must convince them I am mourning.

I whisper, “I may not be up to my usual expertise. Events have left me emotionally and physically drained.”

“Perhaps tonight, I can comfort you? No props, no play, no games…just two people using each other to relieve the stress and heartbreak of the day.”