To Command and Collar [Masters of the Shadowlands 6] (27 page)

Well, how was he to be about this business? Sam wondered, studying Kimberly’s friend. Number ten was an older woman, probably midforties, but one of those who only got lusher— erotically softer—as she aged. Her chin-length red hair had been curled back in a smart style, showing some silvering in front of her ears. Freckles up her forearms, lightly tanned legs, the rest of her body a pure white that made the sadist in his soul salivate. She was like a blank canvas for a painter. Think of the marks he could put on her.

Her rich brown eyes had a few wrinkles fanning out from the edges. Would those deepen as she forced herself to take the pain? Was she truly a masochist as her information said?
As with all the slaves, she was naked, her wrists cuffed together in front, one leg shackled to a heavy cable running along the wall. She gave him a calm stare that made his cock sit up and take notice. He could see her terror. Despite the way she’d laced her fingers together, her hands still trembled. She’d start to pant, her gaze would dart around, and then she’d catch herself. Slow her breathing, lower her eyes. So lovely in her control.
Using pain, he could take her deep, make her give up that control—and then he could care for her. His sadistic and dominant sides both yelled for him to move forward.
Now he knew how Raoul had felt when he’d bought his slave. How he must have wanted to explain he wasn’t like the others, didn’t want any of this nonconsensual bullshit.
But a man had to play the cards he’d been dealt. He stepped forward. “Girl.”
Her head stayed bowed. “Yes, Sir?” Her voice was that of a woman, low and resonant. No shrill screaming would come from this one.
“Look at me.”
She lifted her gaze, and he looked into her brown eyes. Soft. She probably didn’t have anything hard about her, not her body, her eyes, her voice. The thought of burying himself in all that softness… His dick had hardened enough to count the teeth on his jeans zipper.
“Are you a masochist?” he asked, more to determine her honesty than to get the facts. The sign posted on the pedestal gave her specifics, including her experience and preferences. Not that any slaver would care, except to design something to rip her to pieces more quickly.
“Yes, Sir,” she said quietly and dropped her gaze, a slight flush on her cheeks. Didn’t like admitting to that need?
“Keep your eyes on mine, girl.” He moved forward, close enough to smell the light scent of soap from her body, to see tiny golden specks in her brown pupils. Her heavy breasts brushed against his shirt.
He’d positioned himself directly in front of her so he could speak freely, and she could react without being observed. Not that he’d reveal anything past the bounds of good judgment. But this would be easier if she didn’t think of him as a total enemy. “Your friend, Kim, suggested I visit you.” He nodded toward the front of the room.
Her eyes followed his.
Kim, Raoul, and the Overseer stood by the stage where the women would be auctioned off. The auctioneer was already tapping the microphone, and two attendants bracketed the first slave. A sign to the right announced SLAVE # 30.
Selling women. Sam’s gut felt as if he’d swallowed a field of thistles.
While Raoul was talking to the Overseer bastard, Kim caught Linda’s gaze and then nodded slightly at Sam.
Damndest referral he’d ever gotten. But the redhead released a slow breath. Her muscles relaxed slightly. Better.
He figured the Feds might take another hour before they got their crap set up. At number ten, this woman would be among the last to be auctioned off. Unfortunately, buyers could abuse her that entire time…unless Sam monopolized her. How many minutes could he waste?
Would she want him to? “I can play with you until”
—the Feds arrive, but I can’t say that—
“until you’re sold, or you can take your chances with the other buyers. It’s up to you, girl.”
“You’ll hurt me,” she stated.
Keeping his eyes on hers, he nodded. “That’s right. That’s what I do.” He paused a second. “It’s what you need—although this isn’t the place. But I won’t hurt you past your limits.”
Her mouth twisted slightly. “And you would know those how?” She winced and lowered her head. “Forgive me, please, Master.”
He barked a laugh that had her eyes jerking up to his. “I like plain speech. Honesty.” He pinched her chin roughly enough to keep her attention focused on him completely and saw— felt—the smallest of easing in her muscles. Yes, she was a masochist and submissive as well. His favorite combination. If she responded to pain and domination sexually, well, hell, she’d be perfect.
Use your brains, Davies. You’re in the middle of a bunch of slaves. This one would knife you and spit in the hole given half the chance
. “I know this because I can read you, little girl. Right down to your toenails.” He leaned forward, still holding her chin, keeping her mouth available for his use, and he took her lips with no teasing, just sheer domination.
Forcing her response and feeling her response before pulling back.
Without Kim’s okay and if he hadn’t given her the choice of being with him, he knew this self-possessed woman wouldn’t respond to him at all. But she did.
“I won’t scar you. I won’t go past what you can take. If you can trust me that far, this will be much easier for you.” He met her eyes straight on, letting her read his body, hear the truth, and see it in his face. “But, Linda, I’m going to hurt you. You’ll hate me when I make you take it, and you’ll hate even more that you need it. That it fills that hole inside you and cleans away the clutter.”
The shudder ran through her, telling him she’d heard him on all levels. Her muscles were still tight, her eyes blazing, yet he could almost smell the subtle perfume of submission.
She yielded. Now he would give her what she wanted and finish that surrender.

Chapter Fifteen

Raoul was grateful when Dahmer finally showed up in the ballroom. Following the Overseer, he steered Kimberly toward the doors. She didn’t need to see any more. Bidding had started on the third woman whose screaming and fighting caught the buyers’ attention like bloody flesh attracting sharks. As he walked into the quiet foyer, Raoul gave a silent sigh of relief. The crying slaves had kept him tensed with the need to protect.

“Before you set up for your scene, I need you for a moment upstairs.” The look in Dahmer’s eyes was still…off.
Raoul tightened his hand on Kimberly’s leash, pulling her closer. “Is there a problem?”
“No. Well, yes, in a way there is.” Dahmer led them up the wide stairs, the dark red carpeting like a waterfall of blood. He opened a door directly across from the staircase and motioned them inside.
Raoul glanced around at the richly furnished sitting room. To the right was a small table and chairs on an Oriental rug. Against the far wall was a hand-carved buffet with a serving tray and the remains of a meal. Oddly enough, the corner held a portable dog kennel. On the left…
ahhah
. A lean man waited in an armchair by the window, the lamplight glinting off styled light brown hair. Two men—bodyguard types—stood behind him. He would be the reason for Dahmer’s detour.
As Kimberly stepped into the room, she gasped and gave a thin moan.
Raoul spun, grasping her shoulders. “What?”
“Lord Greville,” she whispered, her eyes going glassy with panic, her breathing like a steam engine.
Raoul slapped her sharply across the face, rocking her back on her heels. Fisting her hair, he pulled her head back so the only person she could see was him. “You are mine. You do not react to any other master,” he told her through gritted teeth…and saw reason return to her eyes.
She blinked tears of pain away, and he let her lower her head. “I’m sorry, Master.”
“Better,” he grunted. He glanced at Dahmer, letting his irritation show. “What’s this about—aside from trying to destroy the work I’ve put into this slave?”
“I apologize for not explaining earlier, but I wanted you to view the undamaged beauties downstairs first.” Dahmer’s gaze lingered on the scar visible beneath Kimberly’s harness. “Which ones did you find interesting?”
“I have a slave, thank you.” This wasn’t going well at all. Kimberly’s former owner had given Raoul a dismissing look, then hadn’t taken his eyes off her. From the hand-tailored suit, the Italian shoes, the sheer pampered posture, Greville wasn’t used to being denied anything. And he wanted Kimberly.
The hatred burning in his blue eyes sent cold streaming up Raoul’s spine. He saw murder in that gaze.
Raoul took a firm grip of Kimberly’s arm and whispered in her ear, “He seems a little angry. Some people are poor sports about being poked with a knife, no?”
Her shocked laugh lightened his spirit. Brave, brave Kimberly. “Dios, I love you,” he said under his breath, not realizing he’d spoken until he saw her face. The dawning glow outweighed her fear.
When she looked down hastily, he squeezed her arm lightly. She needed to hold up awhile longer. Somehow.
And he had to keep her away from Greville. The FBI would arrive eventually, but if her previous owner got his hands on her, she might not survive that long.
Stall. Stall and stall
.
Dahmer took a seat on the couch and motioned to the chair across from Greville. “Please sit. I’m sure we can reach a meeting of the minds. Raoul, this is—”
“Greville, I assume.” Raoul assessed the bodyguards with a glance. One had puckered scars across his face and neck. The other had a shaved head with a death’s head skull tattoo on one side of his neck, a swastika on the other. They wore white shirts, dark slacks. No weapons visible. They’d probably received the same pat down as the buyers—so weaponless—but from their stances, they were well trained.
Not good odds. He was no Chuck Norris.
Stall
. He took the chair, caught Kimberly’s gaze, and glanced at the floor beside him.
She knelt at his feet and kept her eyes lowered.
“Hello, fuckhole.” Greville spoke directly to her, trying to get her to meet his gaze.
“You do not address my slave without permission,” Raoul snapped.
Greville’s face reddened with rage.
“Raoul.” Dahmer held up a hand.
“This is not the professional standards I was led to expect from the Harvest Association. What kind of shoddy scam are you running here?”
Dahmer drew himself up. “Not a scam. Lord Greville simply wishes to repurchase his slave. During his…illness, his staff returned the slave for a refund. He wasn’t aware and had no intention of returning her to us.”
Raoul forced himself to lean back in his chair. “Perhaps he should keep closer track of his staff. They sound incompetent.”
This is not going to end well
. If he got Kimberly out of the room, could she hide until the FBI arrived?

* * * *

The attendants were too damned efficient, Sam thought. In answer to his request, one had quickly wheeled a mobile St. Andrew’s cross into Linda’s slave space. So much for his attempt at stalling.

After turning the woman to face the X shape, he secured her wrist cuffs to the upper rings. The other blank-faced attendant handed him a cane and dragon’s tongue whip.

He set them down, out of his working area, and considered how to go about wasting time until the FBI arrived. Unfortunately, anything he did would have to be genuine. The assistant had positioned the cross so bystanders could see the marks he’d put on the slave’s back.

Well, then
. He had a masochist who preferred him to the others, he had equipment, and he obviously had time. Apparently he had a scene to do.
His concentration narrowed.

He stepped behind the woman and ran his fingers over the pretty spattering of freckles on her shoulders. “Linda,” he said quietly. “Are you ready to begin?”
Under the freckles, her muscles tensed. She nodded.
“When I ask you a question, I want to hear your voice, girl,” he said in an even tone, setting up the rules of the game. His hands curved around her wrists, adding to her sensation of restraint as he pressed his groin into her from behind, then let his whole body meld with hers, pushing her ribs against the wood in the middle. “You can call me Master if you need to beg.”
He threaded his fingers into her short hair, tugging her head to one side so he could close his teeth on the curve between her neck and shoulder. He bit down firmly, enough to hurt. Waking her to her helplessness and his intent. The beast inside him moved forward; his body felt larger, stronger.
“If you yell, ‘Mercy, Master,’ I will…perhaps…give you a break,” he growled, sickened and aroused at the same time. He never worked without a safe word, without consent, but to save her from worse, he’d have to do so—or at least appear to do so. “Say it now.”
“Mercy, Master,” she whispered. Even her lips looked soft, slightly puffy. Kissable and damn fuckable.
“Good,” he grunted. He rubbed his hands over her arms and shoulders and down her back, pleased with the gentle hollow at the base of her spine. A big-arsed woman, his British friends would say. His favorite kind. He slapped that white ass, one cheek, then the other. Not hard, just enough to warm the skin, stroking the sting away before striking again. He hadn’t bothered with trying to fasten her ankles to the legs of the cross, not with one shackled, but he set one boot between her feet and shoved them roughly apart.
“I want you open to me,” he said in a raw voice and was hell of pleased to see a flush rise into her face. His eyes narrowed, meeting hers, and she flinched and dropped her gaze. Submissive. God, she was a beauty.
Pushing the noise of the auction from his mind, he filled his thoughts with only this woman. He slid his hands over her ample curves, over her rounded stomach to her God-bethanked breasts. Heavy in his cupped palms, spilling over the sides. Fucking her would be like burying himself in a down quilt, surrounded by feminine softness.
He pressed his chest against her back, delightfully surprised when she didn’t cringe away. When he rubbed his erection on her reddened ass, he heard the smallest moan—and hell with it, he needed to know. He put his hand on her pussy, unsurprised to find she’d begun to dampen. “You’re wet, girl.”
“I’m a slut.” The self-loathing and misery in her voice pissed him off considerably. Raoul had mentioned something about this.
He growled in her ear and pressed his cock between her buttocks. “Feel that, missy? A man’s dick rises with the smell of a female, with the sound of a woman’s voice, with the dawn, at the sight of pretty tits, at the touch of…anything. No one calls us names because our cocks aren’t under our control.” He cupped his hand over her—nicely—bare cunt, playing in the dampness. “So when a woman’s pussy reacts on its own, why would I call her a name?” He sucked on her earlobe, surprising a shudder out of her, then ran his scratchy cheek over hers, giving the so-sensitive nerves there a hint of pain. And her juices responded.
“I’ve been doing this a long time, girl,” he said, using her own arousal to slicken her vulnerable clit. “And I’m not only good at it, but we—you and me—we have something between us.”
“No,” she whispered.
“Yes, missy.” When she tried to pull her legs together, he kicked them open again and felt her tightening nipple press into his palm. The beast inside him said,
Hurt this one and make her mine.
Dammit, not mine. I’m here to stall
. Dragging his brains up from where they’d lodged in his balls, he diverted himself with a quick check of the restraints. Hands were pink, cuffs not too tight. Then to please himself, he cupped both of her breasts again, hearing her inhale, feeling her heat against his body.
“I’m going to make you hurt now, girl,” he whispered. Her breasts were heavy in his hands, and he tightened his grip until he heard her breath catch. “I’m going to whip you until you dance the dance, until your screaming wakes God himself.” He pulled her nipples, pinching cruelly.
Tears stood in her eyes—and her ass pushed back against his shaft. “No, please.” Her head whipped back and forth as she moved her body, trying to evade his grip.
He wanted to see her face. A shame he couldn’t walk around the cross and simply look at her; he preferred a chain station for that reason. But this was what he had. He grabbed her chin and turned her face toward him. Her eyes held the pain he’d given her, showing some fear—and more heat. Just right.
“Eyes on me,” he snapped. “And don’t look away.” He took one nipple, rolling it between his fingers. Damn, he wished the slavers provided breast clamps as well as impact toys. He squeezed harder, enjoying the whine in her throat. Pulled and pinched, studying her eyes to judge the right amount, and savored the blossoming of fresh pain in her eyes, her face, the way her body stiffened, muscles tensing here and there.
Sweat started to bead on her upper lip.
He smiled at her. “That’s a good girl. Let’s do the other side.”
“Master, please. My breasts are sensitive.”
He paused, knowing even now that she wouldn’t safe-word out, that this was the beginning of the dance, and he answered the need under her words. “I know they are, Linda. That’s why I’m doing this.” And he squeezed her other nipple.
“Eeeeee.” Her scream caught between her teeth as she shut it down. Her arms jerked with her efforts to escape. To push him away. Her knees sagged.
He stroked her damp face. “Those screams in there aren’t going to be buried very long,” he whispered into her ear. Her hair was silky, and he rubbed his cheek over it. “If we were somewhere else, afterward I’d fuck you hard…and pull on your nipples every time you came.”
The tremor ran from her breasts all the way to her fingers, and he smiled.
Stepping back, he ran his fingers down her ass, between her legs, to the dampness on her inner thighs. He teased the folds between her legs, nice fat labia—perfectly designed for clamps. His finger slid into her, earning a low moan and wiggle. Very wet. She’d be a joy to fuck. He played with her clit and cunt, the scent and little noises she gave upping his own desire.
She’d take more pain and last longer if he could keep her arousal high. Fucking slavers— he damn well didn’t want to be here.
He wiped her juices off on her leg and felt her flinch, remembered her word.
Slut
. He gripped her hair, pulled her head back. “I like you wet, Linda,” he growled. “And what
I
want is all you have to worry about right now. Clear?”
The way she moistened her lips to speak… The way her response flowed to him was getting to him. Hell. He took advantage of how he’d made her arch, and shoved his hand between her legs again—forcefully this time—pushing into her in a manner that showed exactly what he wanted to do to her.
A tremor ran through her as she clenched around him. More moisture wet his fingers.
She liked rough. Hell, maybe he’d add a little pussy pain while he was at it. Drive her high before endorphins shoved her head into the clouds.
He barely glanced at the two buyers who stood nearby as he strolled to his spot. Even turned away from her, he could almost feel her breathing. Feel how the ache in her breasts receded, but the memory lingered. Feel how she craved more.
After a second, he picked up the cane. Time to warm her up. A slow, slow warm-up. Damn them for not having his favorite toys available. But a light application would work well enough.
He started by sliding the rattan over her legs, letting her enjoy the smoothness of it, the hardness, before running it up her front.
She stiffened.
That’s right, girl. This is a cane
. But pain wouldn’t come from it. It was just for warm-up to the whip.
Tapping lightly, occasionally giving her a feather-stroke touch, he woke up the flesh on her back, butt, and thighs. He followed the path of the cane with his free hand as her muscles gradually lost their tension.
Her breathing slowed.
He increased the intensity, keeping to the sting rather than the blow. Her body was still relaxed, and from the tiny curve of her lips, he knew the small smacking sounds of the cane pleased them both.
Her ass was turning a pretty pinkish red, a color that made a dom want to use his hand to see if he could darken it. Light play just didn’t do it for him. He glanced at his watch. How long could he drag this out? He saw an attendant talking to a buyer and frowning in his direction. Not long.
He tossed the cane off to one side and picked up the whip. A dragon’s tail—not his favorite but a good choice in tight quarters. About three feet of rolled leather opening into a swordlike shape and ending in the distinctive point. At least the leather on this was thin enough to give a whippy sensation. After rolling his shoulders, loosening his arm, he snapped the tail a few times, getting the feel, gauging his accuracy, smiling each time she flinched at the light crack. Hell of a lot lighter than a flogger—he could do this all day.
Then he let the end strike, enjoying the slapping sound, up and down her back, her ass, her upper thighs, finishing the warm-up in the medium range of pain. He moved into a good rhythm, watching her start to fog over. Her breathing deepened as he slowed his strikes.
He stopped and stepped forward quickly so the loss of the whip was balanced by his hand on her shoulder, the pressure of his body against her back. Rubbing his chest and groin on her reddened skin should give her a rush of pain from everywhere, different from the individual slaps of a whip. Her gasp felt as if it gripped his balls.
After checking her restraints and circulation, he turned her head, looked into her eyes. “You still with me here, Linda?”
She blinked and actually smiled at him. “That’s my name. You used my name.”
This one could tear a man’s heart right out of his chest. “That’s who you are. Linda.” He kissed her cheek and brought her back to the scene by taking her lips, taking her from lightness to hard and demanding. Her body melted into his, then revved with arousal when he cupped her breasts and teased her puckered nipples into jutting points—velvet softness, the bigger size said she’d nursed her babies. He wanted his mouth on them.
Instead, he ran his hand down to her pussy, beautifully wet and puffy. Her instinctive pulling away from the intimacy rubbed her soft ass right on his cock, forcing her forward again and onto his fingers. A nice predicament for a little sub.
But he solved it for her, removing her choices by leaning forward, trapping her even as he penetrated her with a finger. Hot, wet sheath.
He felt how her arousal, her need, vied with her wish to move away from him, to keep herself hidden from him. She made a sound he couldn’t interpret, then whispered, “No. Don’t.” Her words were negated by the low moan she gave.
“Are you asking for mercy, girl?” he whispered, pinching her clit lightly and sliding back in.
Panting, she hesitated. “Yes.” She shook her head. “No.”
“Then we continue. You ready for some real pain now?”
Her cunt clenched around his fingers, and he grinned.
After picking up the dragon whip, he did a set, up and down her body, bringing her pain level back to where she’d been before. Then he held the tip of the tail in his free hand and snapped it at her ass like a rolled towel. The end hit. Her skin jumped a split second before her jerk. A sob came from her, and he smiled.
“Not the same sensation, is it, missy?”
Snap, snap, snap
. “Feel a little like a whip?”
Snap, snap, snap
. Her first tear splattered onto the floor, then more. The dragon’s tail flicked its way down the backs of her thighs in pretty red streaks, the narrow leather giving barely satisfying cracks.
And up her legs, her ass, her back. Her first gasping scream.
“That’s a good girl. Give me more.” After easing up for a moment, not too long, he worked her into pain, into screams that satisfied his soul and squeezed his cock. By the time she tipped into a truly deep subspace, she’d stopped holding anything from him.
Her husky scream resonated in his balls.
He continued a little longer, watching closely now. A safe word wasn’t worth shit if a sub’s brain wasn’t awake enough to use it. He lightened up, finishing what they’d both wanted. Needed. Then even slower, gentling the strikes. Bringing her down.
Sweat made her skin gleam as if covered in oil. Her head sagged against her upraised arm although her legs still held most of her weight. Yes, she was no stranger to bondage and pain. He set the whip down and moved forward, feeling like a predator stalking his prey but also a man wanting to please a woman. Sadistic. Dominant.
He ran his hands over her, pleased with his handiwork, even more pleased with her gasp as his thick calluses scraped her abused skin. Her ass pushed back as if begging. He straightened and turned her head. Still mostly in subspace. Aroused and needy.
Damned if he’d fuck her here, treat her like that, but he could at least ease her, give her relief. And if he walked around with a boner for a while, it wouldn’t be the first or last time. He bit her neck, reminding her of his presence, emotionally ground-tying her so she didn’t detach entirely.
“You gave me your pain.” His voice came out raspy. “Now give me your pleasure.” His rough fondling of her breasts brought forth a moan, and when he reached down to her swollen, wet pussy, she was right with him. Her body showed her need; her eyes showed her submission.
Surrounding her with his body, reading the tightening of her muscles, hearing the faint noises in her throat, he stroked over her engorged clit, working her up and up. Was there anything more satisfying than moans after screams? He kept her on the edge, savoring the quivers of her inner thighs around his big wrist, then stroked firmly.
When she came—her hips bucking, her pussy creaming over his hand—her wailing moan ran down his spine.
He leaned against her curvy back and her lush ass, pressing her into the cross as he nuzzled her neck, adding sweetness to the ending.