Going Down (3 page)

“You want to amend that. He has me. You'll find Mr. Right. You just have to be patient and keep looking.”

How
, she nearly asked, but they'd been over this ground. Even Hayley couldn't argue that her career choice limited rather than expanded her potential mates. Most men were intimidated by what they perceived to be her overcharged libido. As for those in the industry, the majority were so self-absorbed they barely gave her the time of day, not that she ever really lusted after a rigger or male porn star.

“If I was on vacation I could look,” she offered. “Tropical island, nearly nude native hunks, filthy rich old men burning their fat bellies in the sun.”

“With their rich old wives in tow, don't forget. Damn it, sis, you keep talking about taking some night classes. Do it. You never know who else might be taking the same class or teaching it.”

“Hmm.”

“Don't hmm me. Move beyond work situations in your search for Mr. Right.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean, maybe? I'm just repeating what you've told me.”

“I know.” She drew out the words. “I was just thinking—the other night this guy joined one of my chats. Then later we e-mailed privately. Great sense of humor, and he kept the conversation out of the gutter, if you know what I mean.”

“Humor's good. What do you know about him?”

“That's it.” As she reached between her legs, the word
Reeve
echoed in her. “I don't know a damn thing.”

 

“They found a body.”

“Where?”

Instead of answering immediately, Agent J stared out at the trio of sailboats in the distance. Although J was in his late fifties, his nude and tanned torso was as lean as when he'd been in his teens. If anyone in the sailboats or the tourist boat closer to shore had taken note of the two men in the luxury craft, they might have assumed the men were wealthy business owners, but although that was Reeve's cover, the truth was that they were members of an organization so secret that the FBI hadn't been able to penetrate all the layers. Fine, let the FBI believe that The Clan's membership was limited to the powerful. Only the members themselves needed to know why they existed.

The craft was Reeve's, at least that's what the financial trail would show. The same was true of R&R, the supposed electronics company he'd founded and recently sold, thanks to those who knew how to create something out of nothing.

It was hot this afternoon, too damn hot to be exposing one's skin to the sun's rays, but when Agent J had sent a coded text message this morning saying he had vital information for Reeve, it was understood that they'd have their conversation far from eavesdropping equipment. Not that either man suspected their covers had been blown, but The Clan succeeded because no member ever took anything for granted.

“Off northbound I-5 about forty miles south of L.A.,” Agent J said. “Road workers spotted the body when they were coming to work. She wasn't there when they shut things down last night.”

“No doubt she was one of
them
?”

“None.”

Despite Agent J's sunglasses, Reeve had no trouble reading the older man's mood. It hadn't been pretty. “She'd been branded?”

“Yeah. S on her left hip, not yet healed.”

“What else?”

The
else
included handcuffs and ankle restraints on the naked and gagged woman. She was beautiful, at least she had been before her body hit the highway. The preliminary autopsy report had concluded that she'd been dead when she was thrown from a moving vehicle. Other than the brand identifying her as a slave and the bruising around her neck, she'd been in prime condition—except for faint whip marks on her back, belly, and breasts. Perfectly acceptable, the bastard who'd snuffed out her life would have called them, a necessary element in teaching a slave the nuances of her new world.

What had happened to the dead and so-far unidentified woman had nothing to do with classic BDSM where both dom and sub embraced the master/slave relationship. This was robbing a woman, always a beautiful woman, of her freedom and turning her into whatever her captor/owner wanted her to become.

And if she didn't accept her lot, she wound up dead.

“Who's doing the autopsy?” he asked.

“County coroner's office. I met with the director before coming here. The media's not going to have access to the report.”

“But the workers who found her will talk.”

“I know.” Agent J scratched his reddening middle. “Her killers expect the body to make news. They'd be suspicious if there wasn't anything.”

“True.” Now it was Reeve's turn to study the sailboats. Having never been in one, he couldn't say whether he'd be able to keep the graceful craft upright, but he'd much rather be giving it a try than what he was doing. “What was it, an in-your-face message to anyone who suspects they exist? Telling everyone they're superior?”

“So far they are. Hell, what do we know about those bastards? That they're rich and powerful, that they consider themselves above the law.”

“And that getting into their circle is damn near impossible.” The words said, he waited.

“If anyone can do it, you can.”

Nodding, although it was the last thing he wanted to do, Reeve continued his study of the sailboats. If he had one, he'd fly a pirate flag because for too long he'd been living with the devil. That was the hell of doing what he did. Yeah, his successes had given him a James Bond reputation, and a book written about his exploits would probably be a best-seller, not that he'd ever risk blowing his cover. But where Bond remained the sophisticated, suave lady-killer, Reeve had spent too much time in and around society's sewers. He knew how to walk hip deep in slime, to mimic the bastards who cared nothing about human life including their own, how to cheat and lie and threaten and kill. When he succeeded at those things and brought evil to justice, his coworkers—who were the only ones who knew what he did—praised him. Sometimes, if he didn't fade into the dark soon enough, victims thanked him; those words kept him going.

But not much longer.

He was tired, burned out, cynical—his heart so deeply buried beneath the harsh exterior that he wasn't sure he still had one. Maybe, like the monster who'd spawned him, he'd been born without one.

Damn it, he wanted to go sailing and fly a kite, do a little mountain lake fishing, have a home, not think about his old man and what he'd done.

“Come back to me, Reeve,” Agent J said, his own voice weary. “Don't make me have to say it.”

J was right. If they stayed out here much longer, they'd be sunburned. “Don't make me say it either.”

“I don't have a choice; neither of us does. Innocent women are being kidnapped and turned into sex slaves by men without regard for human life. So far we haven't been able to crack the walls around whatever the hell they call themselves beyond being fairly sure they're operating in Southern California. You agreed to this cover.” He indicated the high-end boat. “We've put too much time, money, and effort into setting it up for you to walk out now.”

He shouldn't have said yes back when The Clan could no longer deny the existence of a group of white slavers, should have sensed his soul-deep weariness. But he'd seen the pictures of women in real, raw bondage on the Internet and shared in the frustration of not being able to track the images to their source. He'd seen the helpless fear in the women's eyes, and they'd touched his maybe nonexistent heart and soul.

But if he was going to rescue anyone and bring those he called The Slavers to justice, he'd have to walk back into the sewer.

Not only that, he'd have to drag an innocent woman into it with him, a sexy, beautiful woman who wouldn't be destroyed by what he was forced to do to her.

Saree McKeon.

R
elax. Relax. Go into that nothing place and wait, simply wait.

Feeling centered now that she'd repeated the mantra she used at the beginning of each session, Saree disconnected from her immobilized body and went deep into her core.

As far as the cameraman, rigger, director, and eventually Dungeon members were concerned, she was being displayed in all her naked glory, a helpless
slave
waiting for what she couldn't escape. No one needed to know or concern themselves with how she managed her emotions.

Even with her eyes closed, she knew what was taking place. Theo, the cameraman who'd been with The Dungeon since its beginning, was standing in front of her while he slowly panned from the top of her head to her naked toes. As he'd done countless times, he'd linger on her face where a gag made of electrical tape wound around her head, trapping her long chestnut hair. Then the camera would slide down to her silicone-enhanced but not off-the-scale breasts, over her ribs, to her hips, and finally to her shaved mons. Because she'd been positioned with her legs widely spread, he'd record an up close view of her sex.

As she saw it, the camera was both impersonal and a lover, the most essential element in what made The Dungeon a success—next to her and the other models, of course. She knew how to play to it, but that would come later once she'd been turned into discomfort, heat, and need. Right now, her body spoke to her and her alone, and only she understood its language.

She was nothing, restrained arms stretched up and out so she resembled an X. Waiting. Exposed and vulnerable. Anticipating.

When she'd started in the business, being rendered helpless in preparation for sexual teasing had unnerved her, but she'd learned to trust those in charge of the production. If a tie cut off circulation or pinched a nerve, all she had to do was tell someone, and if she developed a cramp, a grunt summoned help. Over the past three years, her body had made its peace with what looked like impossible ties and positions. She'd even come to love the lightweight whips that caused her skin to sing and heat because they increased and enhanced her self-awareness.

Floating. Being, simply being.

“So my pretty, been waiting for me, have you?”

Sammy's rehearsed words pulled her into action. Opening her eyes and assuming a horrified expression, she pretended to be trying to free herself. As she clenched and unclenched her fingers and twisted from side to side, the camera marched in to record the details. Mindful of the benefits of sound, she moaned.

“Don't try begging, my pretty.” Sammy, who'd recently been hired as a full-time rigger, grabbed her hair and pulled her head down. “You had your warning. I told you, the next time you disobeyed me, I'd punish you. Look around. There's just you and me here.”

That wasn't true, not that the members cared. Members preferred shoots that took place outside The Dungeon's sets, which was why they were in the hills above a large park today. They'd had no trouble finding a secluded setting where she could be tied to trees in any number of innovative ways. Even with the occasional insect, she loved being out of doors, and if a random hiker happened upon them, well, that hiker would certainly have something to tell his or her friends.

Sammy released her hair and started walking around her as is she were some animal he was contemplating buying. Because her role in this B if not C film was to play the not-too-bright bimbo, she kept moaning and struggling.

“When I hired you, I told you you'd be working long hours and I expected you to get adequate sleep, but did you?”

Eyes wide, she shook her head.

“No.” Planting himself in front of her, Sammy captured her right nipple. The moment he did, energy and anticipation slammed into her. “You went out barhopping and didn't get home until nearly morning. Now we'll see if it was worth it.”

Sammy's grip wasn't firm enough to draw tears, but it wouldn't take much more. Far from wanting to escape, she studied the change in her boob as he drew it toward her. Belatedly, she remembered to beg, at least she made sounds that she hoped people would interpret as begging. However, if they looked into her eyes, they'd know she was turned on.

Just like that, turned on. Feeding off her servitude.

“I'm not a forgiving boss, I told you that from the beginning. By the time I'm done with you, you'll do everything I want. Everything.” After tweaking her nub, he released it but only so he could pick up a pair of silver spring-loaded nipple clamps. He ran the erotic contraption over the fullness of her breast while she continued her unintelligible babbling. Smiling like some silent movie villain, Sammy cupped her breast and easily, expertly closed the shiny metal around her nipple. No matter how many times she'd worn clamps, the initial bite made her gasp. Fortunately shock was immediately followed by a familiar river of heat flowing from her breast to between her legs.

Again remembering her role—who had thought up this nonsense anyway—she tried to lunge to the side while throwing back her head. Sammy waited until she stopped struggling and then stroked her left breast with the other clamp. Hoping she looked defeated and resigned and even tamed, she stared while he imprisoned her second nipple. Even as fresh pain hit, she had to admit that the chain dangling between her pale, captured breasts looked great.

Felt great.

Now came what? Although she'd seen the various toys and tools that director Carole Mars had brought for the shoot, she didn't know what would be used when or in what way because keeping the models somewhat in the dark made for real reactions.

“I'm going to start by punishing you,” Sammy said. “Then when you're a compliant little bondage slut, I'll give you your reward. And once that's over, I'll let you show me how appreciative you are.” With that, he ran his fingers between her legs. Deep in anticipation, she jerked. “Wet here, my pretty. Does that mean you aren't objecting as much as you'd like to have me believe?”

She started to shake her head in denial, then stopped because something among the trees had caught her attention. Because of the shadows she couldn't be sure, but wasn't that a human form?

A voyeur? Hopefully not some high schooler playing hooky or a dirty old man. She could have called the others' attention to the intruder but decided to wait, mostly because at the moment Sammy was tightening the ropes around her ankles and forcing her to increase her stance even more.

A touch, no more than a touch of soft, wide leather strands on her cunt, but that was all it took to haul her attention back to what was happening. Sammy started whipping her exposed labia, his strokes more caresses than blows, the velvetlike leather gliding over her wet tissues. A slow fire spread over her, flames inching down her thighs and over her ass. Wise in her body's ways, she knew she could be kept like this for wonderfully torturous hours. Although she'd masturbated to climax last night, her system had forgotten the incredible sense of release and craved, absolutely craved, the ultimate pleasure. But it wasn't going to happen, not yet, not until she'd been rendered mindless.

Oh boy, gonna be a hell of a ride today.

Stroke after stroke, gentle and invasive at the same time, occasionally zeroing in on her clit but not often enough to allow her to ride the sensation to explosion. Being teased, damn it, teased! Determined not to be turned into a bleating mound of flesh, at least not yet, she forced her world back into focus.

Yes, a man, no doubting it now. He'd come a little closer, and although the shadows still held him in mystery, she thought she caught an amused look in his eyes. Amused! How would he like it if the tables were turned?

“Getting warmed up, are you? Starting to get the idea, are you?”

Belatedly realizing that Sammy had stopped whipping her, she dragged her gaze off the stranger and onto the experienced rigger. Giving her a superior smile, Sammy ran his nails lightly over her hip bones.
Shit, don't tickle me, don't!
She was still trying to adjust to the change in sensations when he abruptly and confidently spread her labial lips and ran his forefinger into her sodden opening. A moment later a second finger joined the first. The heel of his hand pressed against her mons. Melting. Fucking melting.

“Hmm. Hmm!”

“Like this, do you my sweet?”

Eyes wide and system close to cracking, she shook her head.

“Oh, I think you do!” More pressure, fingers going deeper. And now his other hand pulled the chain linking her breasts so pain and more sparked through them.

“Ahhh! Hmm!”

“I can't understand you. Speak up.”

There was no speaking in her and no tamping down the conflicting sensations now running rampant throughout her. Sammy kept after her with pleasure and pain until she thought she'd go mad. When she tried to shake him off, he made a lie of her pathetic efforts before finally, thankfully releasing the chain. The silver thread danced between her breasts, whipping back and forth and creating its own fire. Her nipples begged for mercy and yet ripples of hot need kept her moving. Sammy's fingers were still inside her, possessing her, testing her limits.

Eyes searching for anything to focus on, finding and then locking onto the stranger.
Dance for me,
he commanded with nothing more than a shift of his weight.
Let me understand what you're feeling.

Something to concentrate on, something to do. Even when Sammy ripped off the clamps and massaged blood back into her throbbing nipples, she shivered and tossed her head for the stranger. Only when the pain receded did she realize she was no longer housing Sammy's fingers. She redoubled her laughable attempts to free herself.

“You love this. You're already becoming a compliant little employee, but I've just begun.” Sammy repeatedly slapped her belly. “You need some more warming up and then we'll get on to the fun stuff.”

This time warming up began with Sammy selecting a long, thin switch and walking slowly around her while planting stinging slaps wherever and whenever he chose. Each blow was an electrical jolt, adding to the confusion plowing rampant throughout her nervous system. Although not nearly as exciting as sex, the assaults kept her awareness of her body on high alert. Pain followed by pleasure, she kept telling herself. That's what Sammy had promised.

But Sammy's words weren't what fed her shudders. The stranger—that tall, rangy man with the wide shoulders and solid legs—held her attention, or at least what she had in the way of ability to concentrate. In her mind, his slacks evaporated. With his thighs and calves and butt and erect cock revealed, the stranger became something primitive, maybe as primitive as she was.

As the teasing whipping continued, her body became the stranger's pallet, his tool and toy. He, not Sammy, was controlling and playing with her, discovering her secrets and bringing her heat and cold. She lived not for, but through him, gifted him with her raw emotions.

And in turn he granted her nothing of him.

It wasn't until she heard a buzzing that she realized Sammy had dropped the switch and was guiding a penis-shaped vibrator toward her core. The batteries sounded fresh, and strong. No longer trying to pretend that she was being assaulted against her will, she widened her stance and welcomed the intruder home. Warm and hard, it slid up and in, filled her and brought her memories of flesh and blood invasions. Sammy pressed against the base to keep it in place, and how she loved his firm grip on her buttocks. Waves of rippling movement spun through her pussy.

Pleasure, all pleasure.

The camera plowed close to record her expression; Carole was saying something; an insect kept trying to crawl along the back of her neck. And the vibrator worked its magic, worked her up and out and high and hot. What restraints? What nudity? What existence beyond pure, primitive sex?

Ignoring the camera, she again sought out the stranger. He was even closer now, maybe close enough that he could smell her sweat and hear the vibrator. The bulge between his legs spoke of his arousal while his dark brown eyes remained cool, maybe cold.

Cold? A man with a responsive cock but no heart?

The thought splintered, then evaporated as her climax struck. It built, kept building, shaking her with an intensity she seldom experienced. Long after she should have started returning to earth, she screamed into the gag and fought Sammy and his damnable toy and dug through the stranger's layers looking for his heart. Nothing. Either that or a deeply buried soul.

“Please, please, please!” she begged, body twitching, sweating, dying and being born. “Can't take, can't take.”

“Holy shit! You got that on film, right? Look at her go.”

“That was incredible,” Carole said as she loosened the rope around Saree's right wrist. “What got you going like that? I thought you were going to pass out.”

Saree still wasn't quite sure she was conscious, but then what did it matter? Her legs were already free and under her and hopefully capable of supporting her once she could lower her arms. Cooked spaghetti touched on how she felt. Overcooked. “It was incredible,” she thought to say. “Sammy, where'd you get those batteries?”