Blue Desire (4 page)

“Where’s
your bag, Sir?”

“I
put it under the empty table, with the vendors.”

She
nodded and moved off for it. It was a heavy bag, and he rarely asked a sub to
carry it, but two things made him do things differently this time. Katrina
looked like she worked out and not just to get thin and reach some theoretical
feminine ideal but to get fit. She had enough fat on her to give her some nice
curves, but her arms had muscles too. She could handle it. And he wanted to see
how she would handle a task that wasn’t particularly erotic. He didn’t mind
playing with the occasional out-and-out masochist, but he enjoyed himself much
more when a woman wanted to give something as well as take. Submission was a
beautiful thing to him. Despite every hint that Katrina was a do-me girl, he
suspected there was something else underneath all that, and he wanted to find
out.

Besides,
someone had to stay with the cross, or they’d lose the station. Already he saw
Miss Carter looking around for a place to play with her latest boy toy. The
moment Katrina left, she headed over toward him, the nicely coiffed, vaguely
feminine man she was with walking two steps behind her. He shook his head at
her. She raised a single eyebrow—which he’d always thought was slightly
annoying, partly because he couldn’t do it —shrugged, and changed course.

He
watched Katrina pull the bag out from the table. She looked surprised at how
heavy it was, which didn’t surprise him. There were a few feet of heavy-gauge
solid steel chain in there. Rope or a lighter chain would serve all his
purposes, but he found that the clank of the thick links had a psychological
effect on most
submissives
that he enjoyed.

She
looked up and had a quick chat with Malcolm, who followed her gaze over to
Brett. Brett nodded in response to the man’s inquiring look. Malcolm raised
just one eyebrow too, but that was because what would be two eyebrows on most
people had merged into one solid line on the skilled
whipmaker
.
Attractive, Malcolm was not.

Katrina
lifted the bag. She didn’t have it very far off the ground, but to her credit,
she didn’t drag it as she carried it across the club. She set it down near the
cross with a sigh of relief. “That thing is bloody heavy, Sir,” she remarked,
as if he didn’t get the point.

“You’re
a strong girl,” he told her, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. “Good solid
muscle. How’d you get that way?” The thought crossed his mind that maybe she
was used to swinging a flogger, rather than being on the receiving end. A lot
of men didn’t like dominating women who liked it on both sides. Others relished
it, taking a special glee in trying to turn a
domme
.
Either way, there were reasons why a woman who wanted to sub for an evening
might not want to let someone know she liked to be dominant some or most of the
time.

“Lifting
other people’s”—she paused—“heavy equipment,” she finished with at last, giving
him the distinct impression she’d started to say something more specific. What
was she hiding from him and why? But he suspected her answer was accurate, if not
very informative. “And I work out at the gym sometimes. Not as often as I
should.”

He
smiled. “Or as much as you want to?”

“Way more than I want to.”
She made a face.
“Well, maybe that’s not true. It’s just when I’m stressed, it’s hard to find
the energy for it.”

He
nodded.
Made sense to him.
“Where do you go?” Maybe
that was where he met her.

“I
haven’t found a place out here yet.”

So
she wasn’t just visiting, or she wouldn’t have put it quite that way. He filed
that away, not that he was looking for a relationship, but in his experience,
one could never know too many things about a sub. What was implied was
sometimes more informative than what was said. He thought of offering her some
information on what the better local gyms were, but he decided to do that
later. He didn’t want to get sidetracked.

“Since
you’re not new to all this, let’s have a more mature conversation.
Any problems with bondage?”

“No.
Not in a place like this, where I can call for help.”

He
noted the distinction she made approvingly. Letting strangers tie you up in
private wasn’t safe. Some people got off on playing dangerously, the adrenaline
enhancing their sexual excitement, but all too often that went with a lack of
self-respect. “And if you like being flogged, then you
know
you’ll feel it more on bare skin.”

She
nodded. “I think you’re the first guy I ever met who wasn’t interested in
taking my clothes off.”

“Oh,
I’m interested, all right. But I needed your honesty first, because if I hadn’t
gotten it, I was going to walk away, and if I’d feel bad about leaving a naked
woman alone in a strange club.” He reached out and started unbuttoning her
blouse.

“Are
you going to flog my back, Sir?”

“I
think your ass is a more inviting target today.” His friend Evan was an expert
at flogging. He’d taught Brett a thing or two, enough that he could please his
partners who liked it. But it wasn’t his favorite thing. Bare-handed spanking,
he enjoyed.
Caressing a woman, teasing her.
Driving her crazy with desire.
But hitting
a woman with an implement, not so much.
If he was going to do it, he was
at least going to concentrate on an erogenous zone.

“Then
why do you need to take my top off?”

He
grinned as he popped another button, revealing generous cleavage and a lacy
blue bra. “Do you still think this is all about you? I like the view.” He
looked long enough to make sure she knew he was looking, and then met her gaze
again.

She
was blushing. He hadn’t expected that for some reason, but he hadn’t met anyone
yet who could fake it. He thought it was a good look on her. He unbuttoned
another button, and he could see the nub of a nipple poking against the lace.
The other one was covered by the satin lower half of the cup. He adjusted her
bra so that both peeked through. The blush extended down her neck, but she
didn’t stop him.

“Lean
back against the cross,” he said. He told himself it was to make sure they kept
it for their use, but he enjoyed giving her orders too. And she needed
something to do, because her hands were fidgeting as if she wanted to button herself
back up. He didn’t want that.

She
reached back behind her, feeling for the cross rather than looking at it, as if
she couldn’t take her gaze off him. Maybe she didn’t trust him. She stepped
back, cautiously, until the back of her foot hit the frame, and then stretched
back against the cross. He cupped her breasts, his hands on the satin, but his
thumb questing above the lace. He nudged her nipple, and she shivered.

“Sensitive?”
he asked, although he’d discovered the answer.

“Very.”

“Beautiful.”
He squeezed one nipple between thumb and forefinger and watched her pull back
against the wood behind her. He hadn’t squeezed very hard, not even a pinch.
“Very sensitive.”

“I
usually only like my tits being played with when I’m very close.”

He
smiled. She hadn’t tried to tell him what to do. It was simple information.
Maybe there was hope for her yet.
“Usually.
But now?”

“I
don’t know,” she said, and again he sensed she was being honest.

“Let
me play for another minute or two, and I’ll reward you.”

Her
eyes widened and then narrowed. “What kind of reward?”

“That’s
for me to know, and for you to find out.”

Kat
wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that or the devilish grin on Brett’s face.
She wasn’t sure about the touch of his hands, but she was beginning to think
she liked it. He was rubbing around her nipple without squeezing it. It was
tingling, but it wasn’t quite too much.
Doms
liked to
play with her tits. She could usually distract them by giving them an ass to
spank. This one she suspected would be cross with her if she so much as tried
it. Usually getting a
dom
cross helped her get what she wanted. She wasn’t sure that would work with
Brett. She was used to being sure. She liked being sure.

At
least she always thought she did.

He
pressed his body against hers. He was so big and solid; it was like bondage
being sandwiched between him and the cross. She was starting to get that
familiar warmth inside, the feeling she came here for. She squirmed against
him.

Her
breasts were entirely too sensitive. That was the problem. Vanilla men were
actually better for them, because there seemed to be an expectation in the BDSM
world that subs liked it when you were rough with their tits.
And most seemed to but not Kat.
It got to be too much very
quickly, and when it did, it was about as erotic as a stubbed toe. It was too
bad vanilla didn’t do it for her in any other way.

He
bent down and kissed her chest, then sucked one nipple into his mouth through
the lace. Then the other, moving before it got too intense. She was surprised
it actually felt kind of good. Yeah, he could do that some more, if he liked.

He
did but not for long enough. He stepped back. “I promised you a reward. Take
your jeans off.”

“And my boots?
Or do you like those on?” She had a
pair of spike-heel ankle boots. They were almost shoes, but she needed extra
ankle support ever since the one time she’d fallen off the stage. That had been
right after a fight with Angus, and he’d said it was an accident that he’d
bumped her while he was bouncing around with his guitar. She’d wondered. It had
been toward the end of the last song of their set, so the fans had gotten their
money’s worth. The “accident” had probably increased
Kradle’s
reputation for being one of the hardest-rocking live acts around. She’d
accepted his apology and vouched for him in a half dozen interviews.

“You
can leave them on unless they’re hurting your feet. This cross is probably best
for someone a little taller, so you can use the extra help.”

She
blinked. One out of three
doms
liked her barefoot.
The other two thought heels were sexy. That was what it came down to every
time. Either Brett was very smooth with the explanations, or he was a very
different kind of man indeed.

She
unbuttoned her jeans and wiggled out of them. They had been tight when she’d
gotten them and were tighter now, and it was hard to do it gracefully. As she
struggled she wished she’d worn something else.
A skirt,
maybe.
But she liked the way she looked in black denim. It was slimming.
Short skirts showed off her too-thick thighs, and long ones looked frumpy.

Once
she’d peeled them over her boots, she turned to face the cross, but Brett
stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “Not so fast,” he said. “I want to see
you first.” He helped the blouse the rest of the way, sliding it off her arms,
and then stepped back. He wasn’t sneaking a peek, like most guys did. He looked
her over from head to toe and back again as if it were the most natural thing
in the world for him to ogle her and for her to stand there in her underwear
and let him.
Objectification.
That’s what her feminist
friends would call it, and Kat considered herself a feminist. So why was she
pulling her tummy in and arching her back for him? She didn’t know, but his
gaze was making her tingle.

“You’re
a fine-looking woman, Katrina.
Very lovely.
Now let’s
see if we can redden that ass.” He grinned. “Face the frame and put your arms
up.”

She
turned. He was right about the cross. Her breasts would have been squeezed if
she’d been lower, or pressed oddly against the wood. As it was, they nestled
nicely in between the upper arms. She stretched her arms up and spread her
legs, making her body an X to match the shape of the cross. She wondered if
he’d watch her ass, bared by the blue thong she wore, the way he’d looked over
her tits. She hoped he liked it. And oddly, she found herself wanting that for
its own
sake, not because he’d be more eager about flogging
her.

He
wrapped cuffs around her wrists. The cuffs were padded, comfortable, and
buckled on. Then he bent down and did the same to her ankles. “Thank you, Sir,”
she said and wondered why she’d said it. When she said she wasn’t on her game
tonight, it was an understatement. She was losing track of the fact that it was
a game and acting as if it was real.
Method acting.
Maybe
I’m method acting.

He
clipped a chain to the cuff on her left wrist,
then
attached it to the nearby eyebolt with a
carabiner
.
Then he walked around her with the chain, attached it to the other side the
same way, and then to her right cuff. She couldn’t have broken the heavy steel
links if she’d been Samson, and when she pulled at them, they clanked. A
nervous tremor went through her, as if for a moment she’d been transported to
some dark medieval dungeon. Ropes had never had that kind of effect on her, and
certainly Velcro cuffs and nylon webbing hadn’t either. She jerked her hands
again and got more clanking. She could feel the weight of the chain too,
hanging from her wrists when she tried to move them closer to the eyebolts.
Intellectually, she knew it was as safe as any other bondage she’d experienced.
It wouldn’t stop her from yelling the club safe word if she needed to. The
carabiners
would take less time to detach than a rope would
to untie or cut. The heavy buckles on the cuffs wouldn’t take more than
fraction of a second longer to undo. Yet this felt more real, somehow. She
could almost believe she really couldn’t get away, which was delicious and
scary.