Transcendent

Also by Anne Calhoun

Uncommon Passion

Unforgiven

Uncommon Pleasure

Jaded

Afternoon Delight

Transcendent

Transcendent

Anne Calhoun

HEAT | NEW YORK

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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UBLISHED BY THE
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ROUP

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ENGUIN
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ROUP
(USA) LLC

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TRANSCENDENT

A Heat Special / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2011 by Anne Calhoun.

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PUBL
ISHING HISTORY

Heat trade paperback edition / December 2011

Heat Special / February 2015

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-18978-2

Cover art: “Handcuffs on feathers” © michelaubryphoto/Shutterstock.

Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

Cole waits for me as I've ordered: on his knees, fingers laced behind his head, in the dark. I walk into the still air of the studio apartment, close the door, twist the dead bolts, the sounds sharp and final. With a flick of the switch next to the door, several table and floor lamps situated around the apartment come on. As I set my purse on the marble-topped table by the door, I treat myself to a long, thorough look at him.

Even kneeling he's large. His bowed head comes to my rib cage, and while his fingers in their woven position are relaxed against his closely cropped reddish-brown hair, as the seconds tick past I see his shoulders tense ever so subtly under his black motorcycle racing jacket. Threat is implicit in his size and strength, but for me his power is tightly leashed.

Standing close enough to hear his deliberately even breathing, I study him for a moment. In the past he's waited in a businessman's armor—suit, tie, wingtips—so this insight into his leisure activities intrigues me. He smells of fall wind and sweat, with a hint of oil underneath, as if he'd worked on his bike before he rode it.

Slowly, methodically, I remove my gloves and my coat. The pace is intended to get Cole into a certain frame of mind, to move him from nervous anticipation to inexorable submission. Until I am finished with him tonight, we move at my speed. At my command. More important, removing my trench coat reveals the antithesis of dominatrix gear. Tonight I am the idealized version of a 1950s housewife in a light green watered silk dress, sleeveless, full-skirted, and belted around my waist. I'm quite petite, with chin-length white-blonde hair, pale skin, and green eyes.

Standing slightly to one side, I lay my palm against his laced fingers, and he tenses again. His breath eases from his broad chest as he makes himself relax. I may look like an ethereal fairy, but Cole knows exactly how deceiving appearances are.

This is the ninth time I've met Cole. We are both clients of Lady Matilda, an expat Brit who will, for a rather considerable fee, arrange meetings between like-minded individuals. I heard about Lady Matilda from a friend who found a Cantonese conversation partner. I wanted a man who wanted me to whip him. Lady Matilda didn't bat an eyelash.

Three weeks later, Cole waited for me for the first time. I don't know what he does to afford Lady Matilda's fee. I don't know his last name. He knows neither my real first or last name or my phone number or job. When he wants to meet me, he calls Lady Matilda; she calls me, and I choose a date and time. I don't know if he lives in the city or comes here on business. I know he's not married because I refuse to play with a man who is, and Lady Matilda does a background check run by a very expensive security firm. I know he's completely self-assured, and hot as hell.

I know he fears this as badly as he wants it. But there is so much we don't know about each other.

I step behind him, my heels clicking against the parquet floor. Lingering behind him makes him uncomfortable, so I remain there for a few more moments, examining his ass in his faded jeans, the worn soles and scuffed leather of the black motorcycle boots encasing his feet. He can't be comfortable kneeling in those boots. He will be even less comfortable when I make him undress.

I complete the circle, noting the dark stubble on his jaw, the way he keeps his gaze forward and down. He will not meet my eyes. He will address me as Miss Banks. He will follow my every command. At the end of the night he will say “Thank you, Miss Banks” before he goes. At some level, that will be the most gratifying part of the evening.

I seat myself on the damask-covered bench at the foot of the room's sole piece of furniture, a king-sized four-post bed, and spread my skirt to either side. Although his eyes are trained on the floor in front of him he gathers details with his peripheral vision. A muscle in his jaw jumps before he controls it. I smile. Something about the delicate nature of this dress, the fabric, the color, makes this so much harder for him. I admire how he faces what makes him tremble.

“Stand up, please,” I say.
Please
is a necessary part of this game, as is
thank you.
The niceties emphasize that I am making requests he is free to decline but chooses to obey. He's not my slave. I'm not his mistress. I'm something worse. I'm what he fears, yet can't resist.

Hands still behind his head, he rises easily to his feet. A T-shirt clings snugly to his torso; memory fills in the details of his biceps and triceps under the leather biker jacket while I contemplate the lean length of his abdomen, the brown leather belt through the loops of his jeans, the thick shaft of his cock straining against his zipper. He's tall, heavily muscled, and outweighs me by at least one hundred pounds, which makes him a delight to handle.

I leave him in that position while I pour myself a glass of chilled water from the pitcher in the kitchen, then I seat myself in front of him and look him over again, from his face, carefully neutral, to the tips of his boots.

“You look well, Cole.”

“Thank you, Miss Banks.”

I insist on Miss, not Ms. There is nothing politically correct about what we do in this room. Ms. implies a measure of equality. We're not equals, and while I think we're about the same age, Miss makes me seem younger than I am, another facet of this that gives Cole pause.

“The jacket, please, Cole.”

“Yes, Miss Banks,” he says as he lets it slip from his shoulders, lays it neatly on the bench beside me, and resumes position. I request his shirt, then his boots, and each time he returns to the indubitably submissive position with his hands behind his head.

I eye his now-bare torso, muscles nicely delineated under the tanned skin, and feel my pulse pick up. His is already visible at the base of his strong throat, and we've barely begun.

“Your belt, please,” I say.

Even after nine encounters there's the slightest hesitation, then his long fingers go to the buckle, jerk back the tongue to release the prong from the eyelet, and slip the leather through the loops. He leans to place the belt on the growing pile of clothes to my left, but I stop him with a quick, palm-up beckoning gesture.

“Hand it to me, please.”

He does, offering it, the warm leather across both of his open palms. I take it. He resumes waiting, and now a dark flush creeps up his chest and into his face.

“You forgot,” I say idly.

“Yes, Miss Banks,” he says, but I can hear the hint of strain under his even tone. “Forgive me, Miss Banks.”

This is where it gets difficult. Any man can strip for a woman. Admitting his error and begging pardon is another thing entirely. I lay the length of leather across my lap and stroke it like I would a cat, savoring the warm, supple material, the darker places where the leather rubbed against belt loops or the buckle. Wide and brown, worn black in lots of subtly interesting spots, this is Cole's own belt.

I'm going to strap him to the bed and lash him with it.

“The rest, please, Cole,” I say, without giving him absolution.

In seconds he is naked before me, his cock straining away from his body. Cole's red-blooded American male brain has been conditioned to tell him he's supposed to be the dominant one. Cole's animal body, however, gets very, very aroused when we play this game, when I dress in the most delicately feminine clothing I can find and whip him until he's clenching his teeth against the groans. In a delicious turnabout of roles, tonight I will make him shudder and sweat as
he
services
me.
Tonight I will use him with no regard for his comfort or pleasure, and he will thank me for the privilege before he leaves.

The thought sends a rush of hot pleasure coursing down my spine, trickling in rivulets to every nerve ending until my body feels like licking, flickering flame.

I stand, walk around him again, moving slowly, the click of heel-to-sole audibly reminding us both of our positions. The tanned skin of his back lightens abruptly at his hips. When I'm finished with him he'll be a dark, vibrant red from the backs of his thighs to his waist.

“Shall we begin, Cole?”

“Yes, Miss Banks.” The words are firm, but low. I don't envy him the struggle he feels inside, and I don't pity him, either. That's not my role tonight. Tonight I'm implacable, diamond hard, so that the only way out is through the shame of succumbing to his fears.

I point to the bed. “Facedown, please.”

He stretches out, arms and legs wide, positioning his wrists and ankles near the leather restraints attached to the bed frame. Lord, he's
big.
In a rustle of silk I kneel beside him and begin at his feet, buckling the brown leather first around one ankle, then the other. There's a bit of give in the chain joining cuff and post, but not much. When I'm finished with his wrists, I seat myself on the bed, the silk whispering as I do.

“Are you comfortable, Cole?” I ask as I trail my index finger from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine. Shivers chase each other over his skin and his hands close into fists, then open again.

“Yes, Miss Banks.”

I brace one hand on his shoulder and slip my finger under the wrist cuff closest to me. His pulse thumps along, elevated, strong. He's not lying. At this moment he's very comfortable, body fully supported, arms and legs secured in such a way that he can't grip anything. This position leaves the mind with nothing to fixate on except the searing, unavoidable pain. Other postures can quickly grow uncomfortable. I prefer Cole suffers no distractions from the agony.

Tonight
I
am distracted. With each increasingly captivating encounter, Cole slips a little deeper under my skin. He is unlike any other man I've played with, and despite the facade of anonymity we've maintained, I need to know more.

I flatten my hand at the base of his spine. “Why do you do this, Cole?”

“To please you, Miss Banks.”

He gives me the ritualistic response, but he stiffens as he speaks. I don't doubt the authenticity of his answer, but there is something underneath. A deeper truth. But diving deeper into Cole requires offering more than I'm willing to give.

I get to my feet. He waits. He can only lie there as I pick up his belt, fit the buckle end in my palm, and take up position beside him.

To test how much movement I have in my fitted dress, I give him a few warm-up strokes. I start with the taut curve of his buttocks, the sweet spot, the lighter lashes driving his hips forward, mimicking the motion of plunging into a hot, wet body underneath him. He shudders, turns his face away from me, into his shoulder.

A tremor rolls through me. The sound, his big body completely under my control, the involuntary movement of his hips all meld into a dark, hard pulse in my core. Wetness surges between my legs.

Without warning, I begin in earnest, the first truly hard, truly uncompromising stroke in perfect rhythm with the others across the tops of his thighs, and from then on, I don't let up. I keep a slow, steady pattern of lashes, moving up and down the only truly tender curve in his otherwise hard-planed body, watching, always watching as he first winces and endures, then subtly tenses and fights what I'm doing to him.

This is a fight he cannot win. It is as inevitable as it is exquisite, that pain will course along his nerve endings as the blood rushes through the layers of his skin, the sensitive underside of his cock stroking against the fine cotton sheets as he begins to writhe, almost imperceptibly, under the lashes. The belt lands with a sharp, loud clap; his muscles tense then release as his breath huffs from him in increasingly audible grunts.

I'm strong, but Cole's stronger. The battle between what his mind resists and his body demands does half my work for me. More important, I'm slow, cruelly slow when I strap Cole to the bed and whip him. If I went at him hard and loud and fast, I'd wear myself out. Instead I give him time to feel the leather mark his skin, feel the blood rush into the welt, feel the nerve endings begin to itch and sizzle as the inevitable sweat rises from his pores, and then I hit him again. Over . . . and over. There are no clocks in this room, only the light of the setting sun he can't see because he's closed his eyes and hidden his face from me. There is no way to mark the passing of time.

There is only torment, mental and physical, the rustle of my silk dress, my even breathing, and the charged moment when our breathing merges before the brown leather cracks against his ass again. This time he cries out, low and agonized. A less experienced woman might mistake this for the surrender she seeks. I know it's just the beginning. With the next stroke he shudders violently. Then comes a moment that sends a rush of sheer erotic arousal from my pussy to the edge of my skin: all the tension in Cole's body alchemizes into white-hot surrender. The image is exquisite, his masculine body a conduit for searing, liquid desire. I continue, and now with each clap of leather against skin his groans, soft and helpless, rise into the silent air.

There is a fine line between erotic torture and torture. I am careful to stop when I see that line, not when my four-inch heels are toeing it. I halt, breathing hard, shifting my shoulders so the sweat-soaked silk teases my nipples. For a long moment he doesn't move, then the cessation of rhythm seeps into his brain and he turns his head to look at me. His eyes are two brilliant hazel pools in his flushed, afflicted face.

“Ten more for forgetting to hand me your belt,” I say.

Something—gratitude, fear, dread, longing—cracks through him. This display of emotion makes the desire hardening my nipples stream along my spine, into my brain. “Yes, Miss Banks.”

This time, because the strokes are pure punishment, not for his pain and my pleasure, he counts. When I'm finished I drop the belt with a clatter and undo his restraints in reverse order, ankles then wrists.

“Kneel up.”

Slow and beautifully awkward, he pushes back, knees spread wide. He sits back on his heels. I hand him a condom. Still in a daze he puts it on, then clasps his hands behind his head. Sweat streams down his body, has soaked the sheets, the scent indescribably erotic as I climb onto the mattress, shoes and all. Eight hundred dollars of watered silk ruined, but I don't give a damn. I lie back on my elbows, bend my knees, and spread my legs. My skirt drops to my hips, exposing the silk stockings and garter belt that frame my bare, flushed pussy.