Her Troika (5 page)

It was one of the hardest, and at the same time most pleasurable, part of their arrangement, that possibility, indeed the likelihood that she’d be called upon to do whatever Kurt commanded — even if it wasn’t something she particularly wanted. It clashed with her naive fantasies of submission. In her fantasies, she’d always get to explore her needs, always had a choice to submit, and most of all, always got to come.

The life of a real sub, and especially that of a slave, was quite different. And really, surprisingly, she found she liked it that way. It was part of what she needed, what she’d known she’d found in Kurt. That immovable force, that male presence that would form her to his specifications, bend her will to his stronger one, and lead her on a journey into the deepest depths of her needs, her desires — and her fears.

Nearby, the sounds of a woman’s low panting snapped her out of her reverie. Then there was a muffled slap, and another, followed by a lost moan. For the thousandth time she cursed the blindfold. Though she had no desire to be touched by a woman, she could admit to herself that watching another woman being put through her paces held a dark fascination for her. Was it because she imagined herself in the poor female’s place, or was it something deeper that she wasn’t yet prepared to examine?

Absurdly, she thought she heard the sound of a …
gavel
?

Dear Lord.

“The session will come to order.” The gavel sounded again several times. “Take your seats, please. We’ve much to discuss.”

She stilled against her bar, her body rigid, the sound of her heartbeat pounding in her ears. This was nothing like what she’d anticipated, and standing there, bound, blindfolded in that building, with strange people all around her, she suddenly felt the unease tip over into fright.

Where was Kurt?

Before he’d been the first one to make himself known, and it turned out, he’d been the last to. But that had been enough. His was the beacon she kept in sight, the base for her sortie into the depths of submission, objectification, and ultimately, surrender.

Now though, she was truly at sea. Adrift. While on one hand it spoke to her need for adventure, on the other she felt lost — and not in a good way either. She needed her husband, her Owner, there with her. If only just to feel the strength in those hands, knowing he was molding her into something he wanted, he desired. Then everything would be possible, she’d make herself open to anything, as long as he found it pleasing.

Perhaps this feeling of loss is what pleases him. Can you endure that? Can you find grace in this too?

Pulling at her bonds, shaking her head in vain against the blindfold, she knew she was about to find out.

Chapter Four

K
urt laid a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “Just find a seat toward the front. Best view up there.”

Derek walked as if a zombie, his feet shuffling practically of his or her own accord. Though he counted himself as an imaginative sort, Kurt’s words really hadn’t prepared him for what he found in that huge barn. The center of the expansive space was dominated by a semi-circle of seats, all facing a fenced off circle, perhaps ten feet across. The seats were only half-filled, dozens of other people milling about at either side. Along the one side of the seating area, a large group filed lazily along a bank of wood-walled enclosures, alcoves really, three enclosed sides, totally open to the throng outside.

He’d thought it resembled a parody of horse stalls, though these were much smaller, and no other accoutrement of a stall could be seen.

Except perhaps the whips.

The long, thin menace of various black whips hung from the walls of each enclosure, and more than one onlooker availed themselves of them, testing the snapping bite of the implements on the trembling hides of the unfortunate occupants of the stalls.

The sharp sound came down again (he’d heard it when Kurt first led him into the stunning scene), and Derek turned toward it. Beyond the fenced circle, a polished wood lectern stood, attended by a tall, trim man. He was graying at the temples, but the width of his shoulders and the strong jaw bespoke a man very much still in the prime of vigor.

Derek tilted his head. “Is that what I think it is?”

“The gavel? Tradition.” Kurt grimaced. “Makes me think of those fucking courtroom shows on TV. No judges here though — only sellers and buyers.”

“Sellers of what?”

Kurt nodded toward the row of stalls. “What do you think?”

Jesus.

“Selling … them?” Derek looked to that fenced circle. “Permanently?”

“Just for a term, mostly.” Kurt squeezed Derek’s shoulder. “Hang tight, I’ll be right back.”

“Um, okay.”

He watched Kurt sidle through the rows of seats and make a beeline for a man and woman standing with a group of people toward the back of the seating area. The man Kurt spoke with looked younger, perhaps barely into his thirties, muscular, with close-cropped hair, and dressed in an impeccably cut black suit. His female companion, a stunning woman with hair a shocking blonde so pale as to be almost white, stood close to him, arm entwined with his. She wore an elegant full-length dress of deepest green, which hugged her lithe figure. Kurt gestured back toward Derek and the man and woman glanced his way, the glint in both sets of eyes visible even at that distance.

He swallowed.

Way out of your depth here, pal. What are you doing here?

Kurt and the couple made their way toward Derek, and he straightened his spine, turning their way and plastering on a friendly smile. He noticed one more figure then, another woman, a brunette with a pile of sable hair atop her head. She appeared quite tall, her long form wrapped in diaphanous black fabric that opened widely at the neck, leaving the soft inner curves of her breasts plainly visible. The outfit tapered down to just above the sex, where a large burnished ring clasped the garment together. Below the clasp, the fabric split daringly high up the legs, exposing smooth, pale inner thighs as she walked. Despite her height, the clasp of the garment nonetheless helped emphasize the surprising flare of wide hips, so unlike what one would expect in such a tall girl. She kept her eyes downcast, following the blonde woman at a discreet distance. Derek’s eyes took in what he’d at first assumed was a choker type necklace, but as the group drew closer it was clear it was nothing of the sort.

A fucking collar?

Wrapping around her slim throat — rather snugly, he thought — it was a band of smooth black leather, inlaid with the glittering sparkle of small gemstones, perhaps even diamonds.

“Here, I’d like you two to meet someone.” Kurt extended a hand. “This is my good friend, Derek York.”

The man took Derek’s hand in a sure grip, winking at him. “Kurt’s not fucking around I see. Dropped you straight into the viper’s nest.”

“This is Blaine Forster.” Kurt nodded toward the blonde. “And his wife, Kathryn.”

The woman’s cool hand took Derek’s in a soft, yet assured motion, a wry smile curving lips that shimmered with a pale gloss. “Pleasure, Mr. York. I hope Kurt’s treating you well?”

“So far, but it’s early and he’s not done drinking yet.”

Kathryn allowed him a warm smile. Blaine’s laughter held the easy confidence of money and power, but Derek was nonetheless relieved he hadn’t sounded like a jackass. Kurt hadn’t told him he’d be rubbing shoulders with fucking Illuminati types.

He also didn’t tell you there’d be an auction of random chicks either, dumbass.

Kurt looked beyond Kathryn at the woman behind her. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I’ve … ”

Kathryn’s eyes slid to Blaine a moment, then she turned, a lacquered nail pointing at the floor. The tall woman sank to her knees in a fluid motion, without a hint of hesitation.

Kathryn’s fingers absently played with the sable curls piled atop the kneeling woman’s head. “This is Erica.”

Blaine smiled at the two men. “She hasn’t been with us long, but as you can see.” He tilted a head toward his wife. “Kathryn’s brought her along quite well, all things considered.”

Kathryn’s slender fingers lifted Erica’s chin, her cold, blue eyes staring down at the silent, kneeling woman.

“Well, we’ve got some rounds to make,” Blaine said, nodding toward his wife.

With a snap of Kathryn’s fingers the mute Erica rose, her eyes not leaving the floor.

“Glad-handing and back-slapping. Never fucking ends.” Blaine clapped Derek’s shoulder. “Good to meet you, my friend. Enjoy yourself.”

Before Derek could respond, the couple was off, melting back into the milling crowd. Erica lifted her eyes, giving Derek a small smile, then followed the couple into the throng.

Ho-ly shiz-nit.

Kurt and Derek took a seat, the rows around them beginning to fill with people. Cigarette smoke, perfume and the scent of the barn itself fused into an odd, but not unappealing, olfactory combination, the sense of anticipation rising like the low hum of an audience as a symphony tunes its instruments.

“Uh, who were they? Was he a CEO or something?”

Kurt chuckled. “Funny you’d say that. That happens to be exactly what Blaine is — among other things. Wife’s a lawyer.”

“Seems like a tough chick.” The absurdity of the statement did not prevent it from rolling off Derek’s lips.

Kurt glanced over at him. “Shark. Rip your fucking balls off, man.”

Remembering the predatory gleam, the hard possessiveness he saw in the woman’s eyes as she glared down at Erica, had Derek thinking the woman had other things in mind than tearing off mens’ nuts.

The overhead lights dimmed and the tall man at the lectern gaveled down once more. “Call to order! Call to order. Trust quarterly auction. What have we for terms?”

Some of the crowd remained standing at either side of the seats, most of them watching the proceedings avidly. The crowd at the left parted, a stocky, dark-haired man leading a shapely woman by the arm down to the fenced circle at the center of the viewing area. The man whispered something to her, and she raised her chin, acknowledging him with a quick incline of her head. He opened a section of the circular railing, swinging it wide, and the woman stepped inside.

Derek sat forward, the beat of his heart gathering into a gallop.

The woman stood at the front of the circular railing, facing the crowd, gazing straight ahead, yet at no person in particular. A woman of striking beauty, her burnished ringlets fell about her face in a fetching auburn cascade, contrasting the pale perfection of her skin. She wore a simple, yet tasteful evening gown of muted cream, the swell of her bosom, and broad beam of her hips hinting at a figure in the fullest flush of womanhood.

The man with her stepped before the lectern, his arm outstretched toward the woman standing within the circle. “A lady for term of service, Sir.”

“Mr. Broughton, who is this person standing in the dock?” The laconic delivery spoke of rote memorization — or ritual.

“Stanton Broughton,” Kurt whispered. “Big shot in metals. Got mines in Montana, South Africa, several other places.”

“Who’s she?” He was struck by the way her big eyes caught the light from overhead, sparkling with it.

“That’s his … holy shit.” Kurt chuckled softly. “I can’t believe it … ”

“My wife, Shae is being put up for a term.” Stanton snapped a glance at his wife. “Length of service shall be up to the session, Sir.”

A wave of murmurs swept through the attendees.

The man at the lectern cleared his throat, flipping a page over. “We haven’t had the wife of a Prime go up for a term in … a long while. The session would like to know
why
.”

Derek turned to Kurt. “A Prime? What …?”

“I’ll tell you later.” Kurt nudged Derek’s shoulder. “Keep watching.”

Stanton squared his shoulders, taking a step toward the lectern. “The reasons aren’t important. I
am
putting her up for a term of service. She’s agreed to it.”

The man at the lectern sighed, his microphone picking it up as almost a hum. “There are, of course, no specific prohibitions against such a thing, but the session suggests some background might be useful in determining the length of service.”

Stanton clasped his hands behind his back. “I’ve decided that—”

“Stanton, please! Don’t … ”

The woman had turned toward her husband, reaching out with one hand, the other over her mouth.

He strode to her, and whispered something to her that Derek couldn’t make out. The woman nodded once, then dropped her gaze to the floor, turning once more toward the watching crowd.

Stanton returned to the lectern, arms once more clasped behind his back. “I’ve decided that she needs to learn discipline. She’s grown … soft. I’m unable to attend to her as she needs, so a term would seem a logical choice.”

“There are other … ways.” The man at the lectern fixed Stanton with a hard gaze. “You know she will be given no leniency. No special treatment whatsoever.”

“As our laws state.” Stanton took a deep breath. “Yes, I’m aware — we’re both aware — of this.”