To Command and Collar [Masters of the Shadowlands 6] (11 page)

Kimberly pushed a little farther back in the closet, feeling like a complete idiot.
What have I done?
First she’d stolen some of Master R’s toys and hidden them.
God, she’d only planned to check what was in the cabinets because he said they’d use the dungeon today, and she…she needed to know.
Only there had been an anal plug, a huge one, and maybe if she removed it, he wouldn’t notice. A dildo had joined it, and then her inner coward had come unhinged. She’d filled a plastic bag with everything she didn’t want him to use. And then hidden the sack.
How could she have thought he’d be blind to half-empty shelves?
That was bad enough, but to hide. Like, okay, on her first day here, she’d spotted this little corner closet under the stairs—so very Harry Potter-like—and also noted every single place a person might hide and all the exits as well. But she hadn’t thought about any of them since.
Not until today when he’d said
“play in the dungeon.”
God, with every passing minute, her dread had grown. After hiding the toys, she’d tried to clean the kitchen, to read, to do laundry, but her feet had carried her here as if she had no control over them at all.
Despair filled her as she heard Master R’s footsteps. So distinctive. Not quiet or sneaky, but solid. Even. Unstoppable.
Get up, she told herself.
Go out and beg forgiveness. Do it now
. Her body didn’t move. Her inner coward shrank further inside its cave.
He wasn’t calling for her. Oh God. Was that good or bad? How mad was he? She started to shiver.
The door opened. Light shone through the spaces between the clothes. Surely he wouldn’t spot her in the corner.
A grunt of satisfaction. His big hands grasped her arms and pulled her out of her hiding place.
She went limp, unable to stand, but he hardly noticed. He lifted her far enough to view her face and sighed.
Her trembling didn’t stop, but tears brimmed in her eyes as she realized his disappointment in her. He wasn’t mad, and that almost…almost made it worse. She firmed her knees, managed to stand, and earned herself a nod.
With one hand firmly curled around her upper arm as if he no longer trusted her not to run, he led her to the tower room. The place he liked to use for their talks.
He took the chair, pointed to the floor.
Blinking away tears, she knelt clumsily and lowered her head. Her throat clogged as the silence turned thicker. Heavier. A tear escaped. Another.
And then, as if a storm surge sent waves crashing over her barriers, she started to cry. “I’m s-sorry, Master. I…couldn’t.” Why didn’t he hold her? The need for his arms pulled at her, shaking her like a loose sail in the wind.
He gave her only a touch, his finger lifting her chin. He leaned his elbow on his thigh and studied her. “Couldn’t what?”
Couldn’t face the dungeon, talking about it, seeing your disappointment
. “I—” She cried harder, unable to say any of it.
“
Carajo
,” he muttered, and she flinched at the Spanish
F
word. “Tell me—clearly—why you hid from me.” He waited, offering nothing more as she struggled for control.
Her breath hitched, but she managed to whisper, “I was scared.”
“I realize that. Why didn’t you talk to me?”
Talk to him? Her brain stopped as if it had floated to the end of an anchor line. “I-I don’t know.”
His finger stayed under her chin, keeping her face exposed to him. She blinked the water from her eyes, needing to see his expression. Hard…but not cold. He had on the
you-screwed-up
dom face, but he wasn’t angry.
Why isn’t he angry?
“Have I asked you to let me know when you’re getting too afraid?”
She tried to nod.
His eyes chilled.
“Yes, Master.”
“I make you so fearful you cannot speak with me?” She heard his unhappiness in his tone, in the slowness of his phrasing.
Her tears started up again. “No, Master. I’m sorry, Master.”
This time, he framed her face between his hands, using his thumbs to wipe the wetness from her cheeks. “Then talk to me now. Explain so I can understand.” Releasing her, he set his forearms on his knees and waited.
Why
hadn’t
she gone to him? Talked to him before she got too crazy in her head? He always listened. He’d hold her during panic attacks. He’d go slower if she was really scared. But… “I wasn’t thinking. I just hid.” Had he maybe not seen the missing toys? God, let her have a chance to put them all back first.
He frowned at her. “When you were little and scared, who did you run to?”
“Mom.” What did that have to do with anything?
“Not your father?”
Like he would have helped
. Her laugh sounded…odd. She shook her head.
“Why?”
How to explain their family? “He… When I was younger, he treated me like a son. Boys don’t get scared.”
“No?” His mouth twitched. “Thank you for letting me know.”
Her mouth dropped open, and her brain started to kick in, erratic as a motor with some salt water in the fuel. Other fathers hugged their children…both sons and daughters. They’d comfort them and hold them if a baseball smashed into them or when a big dog chased them. Her father hadn’t been…fatherly.
“At first, he treated you like a son. What happened when you grew older?”
Her own fault. Her own choice. She didn’t regret it. “I decided I was female and started dressing like one. Helping my mother. So I was…nothing to him.”
Master R was frowning again. “You would have been a beautiful little girl. How could any
papá
not be proud?” His knuckles stroked her cheek, and she…yearned.
“I guess you had a good father,” she said.
“I did.” His fingers ran through her tangled hair. “Kimberly. Terror can make us like children. If you didn’t run to your father—a man—to comfort you, and considering your experiences with men recently, I understand why you hid.” His level gaze held hers. “But, chiquita, you must understand that while you are here, I expect you to come to me and share your fears. Even if I am the one causing them.”
Why did his uncompromising look make her heart stutter? “Yes, Master.”
The corner of his mouth curved. “I like all the Masters I’m hearing right now, slave.”
She flinched, chilling as if arctic water was seeping into her core.
His eyes narrowed. “This is the type of thing we discuss.” He paused. Then his voice hardened. “Slave.”
He rarely called her that horrible word. Surely he couldn’t understand the effect on her. How could he?
Now he expected her to talk as her insides shriveled like a jellyfish on dry sand.
Can’t talk
. She pulled in a breath.
Must talk. I’m braver than this
. Her shoulders straightened a little. Gabi would tell her to pull up her big girl panties and spit the words out. “The word. Slave.” Could she bleach her mouth out? “I never liked it even…before. Now it makes me sick to my stomach. Ugly.” She bit her lip and forced the rest out. “When
you
call me that, it’s…worse.” As if her security blanket had a snake on it.
“Mmm.” He picked her up, tucking her easily onto his lap and against his chest.
Every muscle in her body relaxed at the enveloping comfort of his embrace. A reward. He was rewarding her for her honesty. Manipulative? Kind of. But she’d take it.
“You don’t look sick when you say master.”
“It’s not the same—not ugly.” She rubbed her cheek on his chest; his faded T-shirt was soft over his solid pectorals. His masculine scent mingled with that of the laundry soap and had come to mean safety. “I like the master word.” She considered and added, “Although sometimes I want to throw things at you when you make me use it.”
His laugh sounded different, deeper, when her ear was pressed to his chest. “Bueno. Is submissive better than slave?”
“I guess.” She tried to imagine him calling her that. “It’s kind of blah.”
“Mmm. Perhaps
sumisa
—or even
sumisita
? It means little submissive in Spanish.” He shifted her so her face snuggled into his neck. “Someday we’ll discuss why I think the word fits you.”
Sumisita
. It sounded…sweet somehow. He’d called Gabi
chiquita
a couple of times, so that term didn’t seem very special. Gatita was…more hers. And sumisita was more…ownery. His way of saying “mine.” “I like that, Master.”
“Good.” He tipped her face up. His approving kiss made her feel as if her boat had entered the harbor.
“I put a blank journal in your sitting room,” he said. “And a limit list as well. You know what that is?”
A list of BDSM activities where a submissive could check off what she might be interested in trying…and what she absolutely wouldn’t do. Sometimes a club dom would hand her one. She nodded.
“Fill out the list, and we will discuss it.” He tapped her nose. “I doubt we’ll actually play much, but we have reached the point where I need to know more about what bothers you.”
“And the journal?”
“Is mostly for you. Faith agreed you should use it.” He paused. “I want you to write one page for me every day, and we’ll read it together each night. The rest is only for you; I won’t ask to see the other pages.”
A journal.
Bleah
. “I get Faith’s reasons. But why a page for—to—you?”
“To avert problems like today.” He stroked her hair gently. “There will be things you need from me. Thoughts you can’t speak but might be able to write. So. You will fill the page, even if your words seem foolish to you. Clear?”
“Yes, Master.” Homework. Frigging
what-I-did-on-my-slavery-vacation
homework.
“Such a pout,” he murmured and kissed it right off her lips. His lips were warm, firm, controlling. His hand tightened in her hair as he took her mouth, punishing before he finished in gentleness.
Her head swam as if she’d downed three quick drinks.
When he pulled back, his gaze smoldered with as much heat as she had simmering inside. His expression hardened. “Now about what you took from the toy cabinet…”
She buried her head in his neck.
Oh God.
“Bring them here and lay out everything neatly on the ottoman. For your punishment, you will pick one of the toys—just one—which I’ll use on you sometime in the next few days.”
“When?” she whispered.
“Wrong response. Try again, sumisa.”
“I’m sorry, Master.”
More
. She should say something more. “Whatever Master wishes.”
“Very pretty.” He kissed the top of her head and set her on her feet. “Off you go now…and, Kimberly?”
Trying to remember what all she’d taken—
that huge dildo, definitely don’t want to pick that
—she turned. “Yes, Master.”
His lips quirked as if he was trying not to smile. “Next time when I say we will play, I do not mean hide-and-seek.”

Chapter Seven

A few days later, Raoul practiced in his dungeon with the door locked. Using a whip was a skill a dom couldn’t afford to let grow rusty, not if he didn’t want to mark up the bottom.
He’d watched from the tower room as Kimberly walked on the beach with Gabi. The sun had glinted off his sumisita’s dark hair. Her tan had darkened from her frequent walks, and her skin glowed with the return of her health. Kimberly had shoved Gabi into the frothing surf, her face alight with laughter. To see her so carefree lightened his heart.
And having her out of the house meant he could practice. Although the crack of the whip probably couldn’t be heard outside the dungeon, he’d take no chances. She didn’t need to know how much he enjoyed bullwhips.
After stretching up until his arms and shoulders were loose, he started. An empty space on the wall held various practice targets—today newspapers were between the wide clamps. He worked on slicing delicately through only the top layer of paper. At intervals, he’d lash the adjacent piece of suede, checking that the cracker on the end barely raised the nap.
What was there about the crack of a whip that was so erotic?
His phone rang. After finishing his swing—only a fool pulled a stroke—he took the cell from his pocket. A private number. His gut tightened as he answered. “Sandoval.”
“Raoul, it’s nice to hear your voice. This is Dahmer…the Overseer. Is this a good time to talk, or should I call back?”
“Your timing is excellent.” Raoul reminded himself of what must be brought up. The location. Referring Sam.
“How is the merchandise working out? Any problems?”
Raoul forced a laugh. “Well enough, although buying…used…wasn’t my smartest choice. The previous owner left some dents.”
“Not surprising. The prior owner has a temper. But I’m happy everything else is good.”
“Yes. In fact—”
Dahmer cleared his throat. “Phones are—”
“Not a problem.” Paranoid bastard, as Buchanan had said. “I have a friend who admired the merchandise. He’s rough on his playthings and hopes to purchase something sturdier.”
“Well.” A pause. “We do have an upcoming event. Perhaps if he qualifies, he might attend.”
“He’d enjoy that.”
“As I did with you, I’ll need to see your friend in action. It decreases the chances of…ah…unexpected visitors.”
He meant cops. “Speaking as a buyer, I appreciate the precautions.”
“Is there a location you prefer? Your house or a Tampa club?”
Raoul didn’t want to foul his home with Dahmer’s presence, yet taking Kimberly to a regular BDSM club with no safeguards in place was totally unacceptable. A few days ago, he’d discussed an alternative with Buchanan and Kouros…and then Z. “Since public clubs are noisy, perhaps you would be my guest at the Shadowlands?”
“The Shadowlands.” Dahmer paused. “I’d like that. The club has an amazing reputation.”
“Well deserved.”
“About the audition scene you planned to do at this visit…”
“Yes?” Raoul’s hand tightened on the phone. He’d hoped Dahmer would have forgotten. How to blow him off?
“The master scheduled to do the fireplay demonstration this month is unavailable, and I’ve had difficulty finding fireplay scenes erotic enough for our buyers. Someone mentioned you give a fine show.”
Someone
. Would that be the bastard who had scoped out submissives from the Shadowlands for the slavers to kidnap? Raoul’s jaw clenched. “Good to hear.”
“For your audition, I’d like to see a fireplay scene with your new toy. If you do as well as I’ve heard, I’ll book you for the coming auction.”
The coming auction
. Raoul paced across the room, thinking. He wouldn’t be on a waiting list. Since Sam might not be cleared as a buyer, this might be the best chance to get a person into the auction. But what about Kimberly? Raoul stared at the bullwhip and wished Dahmer was close enough to serve as a target.
If Kimberly could manage the scene in the Shadowlands, the FBI could find an agent to play his submissive at the auction. It might work.
Agree now; back out later if needed
. “A fireplay scene it is. The Shadowlands is open Friday and Saturday. Which night suits you?”
“Let me check my calendar.” Silence. “Next Saturday would be good. Ten o’clock?”
“Fine. We’ll meet you in the parking lot and go in together.” Raoul punched the Off button. He tightened his grip on the bullwhip. A crack, and he slashed through every layer of newspaper.