Sweet and Dirty (16 page)

Her breath stopped in her throat as she waited for him to finish his sentence. He had to say, “me.” Had to admit he had feelings for her. She craved it suddenly even more than his hard, driving use.

“…unlike Master Andre.” It was his turn to smile, derisive.

She gritted her teeth. “Mage sounds fascinating.”

“Oh, he is. He came down from the Painloft and watched us at dinner for a while, did you notice? Easy to miss him, with that quiet stealth of his. You’d think he’s shy, the way he avoids crowds, but it’s not that, exactly. He’s intense, and self-aware enough to realize his level of intensity wouldn’t necessarily be welcome at the dinner table.”

“Is he foreign? His accent last night…”

Sylvester began walking toward the house. “I think it’s Eastern European. I haven’t inquired.”

She didn’t need to ask why not. She’d already gained more than a little appreciation of Sylvester’s respect for his guest’s privacy. “Doesn’t he stay here full-time?”

“He travels. But yes, I believe this is his primary mailing address.”

“He must have a lot of money.”

Sylvester grinned, wolfish. “Of course.”

“Last night, he said I should visit him today. Or tonight? I wonder which he meant,” she mused, watching Sylvester.

The smile vanished, leaving an impassive expression in its place. Then, “Mage prefers to take his time. The elaborate rope patterns alone can take hours. Electrical play also is well suited to his patient temperament.” He didn’t look at her. “And that’s simply foreplay.” He reached the lower door to the house. Stopped. Faced her.

Desire unfurled inside her. Only it wasn’t Mage, the owner of the exotic accent, whom she envisioned touching her patiently with hours of electrifying foreplay.

How convenient, she thought wryly, that she’d made her chosen fantasy man so versatile.

Then she just enjoyed the fantasy: Sylvester torturing her sensuously, denying her release. What might ropes and electrical play be like?

That was when she realized she was in trouble. Sylvester wasn’t just her latest and greatest forced-sex fantasy. He’d vaulted to the top of her lust-o’-meter, as the all-round perfect sex partner. Plus, she liked and admired him. A lot.

It shook her.

She’d known him less than twenty-four hours. She hadn’t even seen him naked.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” His voice sounded low, intimate. It stoked the growing fire in her.

“You know why.” Her voice trembled. Just an emotional reaction to the bear attack, she told herself.

He gazed down at her. Not admitting or denying anything.

She sighed. He’d said he was off limits. Clearly he meant it. “Okay. I’m going to take a quick shower and change into something more playful. Then you can take me to Mage.” Last chance, she thought, praying Sylvester would change his mind even though Mage did intrigue her. Surely Sylvester wouldn’t deliver her to Mage if he had any personal interest in her.

Sylvester nodded a few more times than strictly necessary, as if acknowledging her thoughts. Or his own. “I’ll come for you in an hour. That’ll give him time to prepare for you, as well.”

She made herself tilt her chin up, smile. “I’ll be ready.”

But despite her disappointment with Sylvester, anticipation trilled her nerves pleasantly. As the danger grew greater, the disconnect from her normal life grew wider. First there’d been the bondage in the dungeon. Now ropes and electrical play. These were things to make her vacation—probably her last for years to come—a truly memorable one, a vacation to savor.

So long as the danger didn’t get out of hand.

“W
hat’s eating you?”

Sylvester’s wandering mind returned to the present, and to the sliding glass door before him. He liked to watch the stars come out as twilight faded to clean, cool mountain nighttime. Cool but not cold; his breath didn’t mist the glass the way it did in winter.

He must’ve been standing there for a bit longer than usual. His stiffened muscles protested as he walked back to the corner of the living room where Kiana lounged on a sofa. “Just thinking,” he finally remembered to answer.

“You’re a million miles away.”

He smiled. Kiana’s gleaming auburn hair draped his largest, jewel-toned upholstered couch. Both were a treat for the eyes. Kiana’s face, however, looked pale and drawn. Earlier, typically, she’d waved off his concern. He seated himself in his favorite spot, a roomy leather recliner before the fire. He responded without thinking. “More like eight hundred miles away.”

He checked his watch. Five hours, now. He’d reminded Nora to use a safe word when he’d brought her to Mage’s door. When she’d only looked at him mockingly, he adjured her in his firmest tone to use it if she felt uncomfortable, or frightened, or just wanted the play to stop for a while. Mage would respect it, of course. If she used it.

He hoped she used it.

He shouldn’t be so bothered by the image of Mage teasing her to an explosive edge, taking his torturous time the way he did, then mounting her if she pleased him.

He knew she’d please Mage.

And he really wasn’t enjoying all the images of Mage fucking her. She could have been his instead. She should have been. She’d offered Sylvester his fondest fantasy with an eagerness that reached into his nervous system and squeezed.

His reaction to it scared the hell out of him. He couldn’t succumb to the temptation. He couldn’t go through that hell again.

“Do you miss Los Angeles?”

He went still. “I don’t recall telling you where I’m from.”

Kiana smiled. Even with the wan complexion and tired eyes, her catlike expression seemed to toy with him. Her words, however, had the effect of a bucket of ice water. “You don’t think I’d ask about you before playing here? Letting Little Peter run around naughty and naked? I’ve heard some interesting things about you.”

He held her gaze and kept his face carefully expressionless. She knew. Was this an effort to blackmail him? What exactly did she know, or think she knew? “If you have something to say, say it.”

Her expression softened at his tone. “Oh, surely you don’t think I’d believe those rumors? I would never dream of staying here if I did. Or recommend Twisted Wood to so many people. You’ve built quite the unique bondage and breakfast. It’s larger, better equipped, more luxurious than any I’ve been to. More expensive, too. Worth it for quality, though, of course. I’ve found there’s often a correlation between expense and quality in life….”

He allowed her to change the subject. Kiana believed what had happened was just a malicious rumor.

It wasn’t, of course.

But with the threat of exposure past, his thoughts slid back to Nora. Was she okay? Would she discover Mage was even more to her taste than Master Andre? Perhaps she’d decide to join Kitten as one of Mage’s slaves. Perhaps Sylvester had lost his last chance with her.

He stood with a curse, startling Kiana.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“I recognize a non-nothing when I see it.” But she said it with a tolerant, even tired, smile.

He looked more closely at Kiana. “You should take it easy, rest a bit. Have Little Peter give you a massage.”

“I did. It didn’t help.” She slumped into the couch cushions. “Training him is such a chore, but he’s so fragile, so completely unsuited to handling the vanilla world. I have got to get him up to speed on being a good domestic slave so I can place him with a caring dom. Someone with more energy than me.”

Now Sylvester was worried. Mistress Kiana had trained and placed subs before, but she’d never admitted weakness.

But she sighed. “I sent him home so I can take a break. This place rejuvenates me even when I’m not playing. The rural quiet, the wonderful surroundings of your lovely house and friends…it’s so very soothing. Nowhere I’d rather be than right here, relaxing at Twisted Wood. The Portland leather community had nothing like this, until you left smoggy Los Angeles and opened this delightful B and B.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Just honest.” Kiana closed her eyes. “We really are grateful to you, you know. I truly am.” She yawned, covered her mouth.

Her gratitude touched him. Almost as much as telling him she didn’t believe the rumors about him in Los Angeles. As he left the living room, he took the long way by her sofa. He paused, scooped one of her hands up from its resting place on her thigh, and kissed her elegant fingers. “Thank you.”

Her eyes slit open. She smiled and nodded, regal as a queen.

Sylvester passed the bagged Osmond—now hanging near-but-not-too-near the living room fireplace—and made his way down the stairs to the dungeon to check on his other guests. Mistress Kiana owned the gift of diplomacy and a light hand when needed. He appreciated her friendship and support more than ever. He smiled to himself until he remembered Nora.

As much as he wanted to rush up to Mage’s sanctuary and snatch Nora away from him, he simply couldn’t. Mage’s Painloft was off limits.

So was Nora, for that matter.

There couldn’t be any more play, and certainly no intimacy, with Nora. He couldn’t risk having his reputation ruined again, his friendships destroyed again, his joy in his local kink scene snatched away again.

It’d be best for both of them if Mage magicked her into his service, the way he so often did with the more attractive women visiting Twisted Wood.

Sylvester looked at his watch again, shook his head. Mage probably had Nora begging for more by now.

Nora wriggled against her bonds. Enveloped by a crisscross pattern of ropes, she felt the whole shift slightly. Pleasantly.

The elaborate rope sheath separated and raised her exposed breasts, encased her torso and legs in dozens of small diamond shapes, and pressed just beneath her pubic bone in a teasing knot that jiggled with Mage’s movements.

This time, he’d placed her standing face-out on an X-shaped cross, her rope-looped wrists and ankles fastened to tie points in the wood. He still threaded and tightened the rope, always adjusting.

His Painloft had much of the same equipment as Sylvester’s dungeon, and even more that was unfamiliar. Mage had placed her on, and sometimes bent her over, nearly every vinyl-padded surface in the room. He’d bound her in positions both demure and blatantly erotic, and he’d tortured her. He’d used a bug zapper to spank her, he’d bound her long hair into a fancy rope restraint and attached it to a sawhorse to force her to kneel, and he’d used various sharp instruments to dent and poke her flesh. He’d been gentler than she’d expected. Sylvester had led her to expect a fanatic, a deviant of the first order. But Mage was…very reasonable.

She felt a sneaking sense of disappointment.

The ropes whispered over her body, the twisted ridges of the cotton vibrating the spider web of the whole as it crossed over, then under. Mage certainly took his time. With his deliberate, slow touch and the frequent breaks in between each bound position to keep her muscles from cramping or overstretching, it felt more like a trip to a masseuse than a bondage scene.

Not that she was an expert, of course. Nora tried to stretch, but felt the rope’s restraint. And the corresponding shifting and tightening of the rope sheath. Liking the resistence, she tried to stretch again.

Always solicitous, Mage asked her, “Are you uncomfortable? Would you like to try another position?”

She was comfortable. If she was any more comfortable, she’d fall asleep. A tiny rivulet of sweat tickled as it ran down her back. Mage kept his Painloft warmer than the dungeon, even without a fireplace.

She noticed Mage didn’t seem to sweat at all.

Carefully keeping the impatience with his slowness out of her voice, she replied, “I’m good. Thanks.” Wouldn’t do to be rude.

Why had she been so frightened of Mage at first? His appearance? He had an inoffensive face. Short, tamed dark hair. A longish nose. Even, white teeth. The curvy lips of someone with a foreign background. His body was harder to determine—he wore a long shirt the color of a bruise, and black pants tucked into matte black leather boots. On anyone else it’d look pretentious, she mused. But Mage pulled it off. In fact, he’d look right at home wearing a vampire cape.

Must be his accent, she figured. It whispered of cruelty, of dirty deeds witnessed, of atrocities performed without emotion. When she’d heard his voice while blindfolded down in the dungeon, she’d felt a shiver run down her spine.

Strange how the different dominants compared. Master Andre seemed the most approachable, the most normal of them with his imperfect hairline and his ready grin. Mage was the most exotic. Quiet and deliberate. Sort of relaxing, despite his creepy voice initially, and surprisingly tame: was that bug zapper paddle the extent of his electrical toys?

Then there was Sylvester. The “heavy top.” The one who made her loins clench just remembering the way he’d spoken to her in his room, the way he’d made her so wet talking about their shared fantasy before grabbing her and starting to make that fantasy come true….

Nora moaned at the thought.

“Are you well? Is anything too tight?”

“Everything’s fine. Thanks.”

Sylvester had seemed resolved and distant when he’d brought Nora up to Mage.
Seemed
resolved. She knew his body burned for hers. He wanted the same violent coupling she did. He wanted to make her whimper. She knew it. He knew she knew it. But he didn’t do a damn thing about it except deliver her to yet another man.

He’d all but thrust her at Mage, after assuring her the man could be trusted. He’d also reminded her to use her safe word if she felt the slightest discomfort.

Nora smiled to herself. Of course she felt discomfort. That was kind of the point, to have little discomforts and some larger ones, physical and mental, then having them soothed away. Poof, catharsis. All of it simply a sensual sort of play, with its ritualized giving and taking of power.

She remembered Master Andre’s enjoyment of having power over her. He’d basically asked her to live with him and be his pampered sex slave as he traveled the world. She’d liked Master Andre. She’d enjoyed playing with him. She hadn’t felt afraid even once, in his power. His proposed traveling setup had undeniable benefits and might actually merit some consideration.

Was Mage enjoying having her in his power, too? Trussing her up and down, spread-eagled and hog-tied and over a padded sawhorse…She stifled a yawn.

Disappointment scratched at her. Nora suddenly felt jaded. Was this all there was to it?

“There.” Soft warm breath tickled her neck, where Mage fiddled with some final knotwork. Now he’d torture her gently for a while, untie her slowly, then do it all again. Nora briefly considered saying “red” just to end the scene faster. And, to be honest, so she could go in search of Sylvester.

Mage tugged on a back section of rope.

Hard.

The knot just above her clit dug in, twisting.

She felt the heat of his tongue as he licked her from shoulder to earlobe. “Salty. Wet. I think we are finally ready to begin.”

“Begin?”

“Do you remember your safe word? Red for stop, yellow for pause…and let us make your right fist knocking five times against the wood, here, a signal for ‘stop’ as well, yes? For when you are speechless.” Mage laughed, and Nora recalled why she’d found him frightening.

He brought before her a small black rectangular box, about half the size of a guitar case. He set it reverently on a low table in her sightline. With a glance to make sure she watched, he flipped the metal catches and opened it.

Her disquiet deepened when she saw colored wires, curved tightly in concentric circles. So this was the real electrical device. The black box—a battery?—had the center spot in the case, nestled in the dark gray foam. Radiating out from it, each in its own discrete depression, were clamps, two tubes of conductive gel, round adhesive pads, and a number of probe-shaped devices that seemed a little on the small side, if they were what she thought they were.

“I am very interested in electro torture.”

Her gaze reluctantly left the objects on display. Mage was watching her. A new light in his eyes, and the sadistic curve to his lips, made a brief shiver ripple through her.

“Cattle prods. Stun guns and batons. You do not want to know the damage these things do to a human body. They make a person very…cooperative, shall we say? My toys are gentler.” Mage considered. “They will still make you scream.”

Nora swallowed. When Mage stepped closer, she involuntarily flinched, her head hitting the pad he’d placed behind it. It made him smile. “Electricity is edge play. The biggest danger is its potential to interfere with the normal electrical impulses that make your heart beat. But playing with electricity, like hang gliding or mountain climbing or scuba diving, is not inherently dangerous. It is merely unforgiving of mistakes. Lucky for you, I do not make mistakes.”

Arrogant much? she wanted to say. The comment seemed inadvisable at the moment. She tested her bonds surreptitiously. Still secure.

“In a hurry to leave? I am only beginning.” That smile again, as he lifted the wires and electrodes, snapping their ends to the pads and coating them with gel. He attached more wires to the clamps. When he flipped on the black box she could hear its low hum. “The juice.” He said it with relish.

Despite the danger, she felt curiosity rise in her.

He reassured her further, even as he attached the electrodes to her butt cheeks, thighs, belly. “This toy, the Eclectrik EL-321, is like a TENS unit-TENS stands for transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation. Doctors use it in medicine to treat muscle pain, as the electricity interacts directly with the muscle’s nerve endings. It is said to relieve pain. That is amusing, yes? Feel its bite.”