Master of Mine Read online

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2011 Evernight Publishing

  ISBN: 978-1-926950-47-1

  Cover Artist: LF Designs

  Editor: Bonnie Brown

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  MASTER OF MINE

  BDSM Anthology

  Edited by Bonnie Brown

  Denied by Lauren Gallagher

  Tempted (Dark Lust) by Jenika Snow

  Spice It Up by Alexandra O'Hurley

  Lady Blake's Tales for the Queen by Pepper Anthony

  After the Honeymoon by Rachel Clark

  Hidden Pleasures by Ashlynn Monroe

  Mistake by London Saint James

  Bad Romance by Melissa Hosack

  Taken for Pleasure by Angelina Rain

  DENIED

  Copyright © Lauren Gallagher 2011

  Her name wasn’t really Lady Roxanne.

  Mine wasn’t really Elliott, so I guess that made us even.

  We didn’t need to know each other’s names, though. In between weeks of lengthy online conversations, we’d met in the flesh at local munches and had a few mutual acquaintances. She was a well-respected – and deliciously sadistic – Domme, and presumably, she knew enough about me now to satisfy any concerns she might have had that I was an ax murderer, or an otherwise unsavory character.

  It was also more than enough for me to be damned sure she was exactly what I’d been looking for. I wanted a Domme who’d make it hurt, and the more we talked, the more I knew Lady Roxanne was exactly the woman to do it. Pain play under her command didn’t mean a couple of slaps on the ass and some hair-pulling. Thud was for pussies as far as she was concerned, and if a sub didn’t want it to sting like hell, then she wasn’t interested. She talked about welts and bruises like they were badges of honor beaten into the flesh of her subs.

  After much pleading on my part – she so loved to make me beg – she’d agreed to meet me tonight at the local dungeon. No more chatting. No more discussing what we wanted from each other. No more negotiating limits and rules.

  “Do you want it to hurt?” she’d asked via instant message last night.

  “Yes, Mistress. Please, please make it hurt.”

  “Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”

  In the room she’d reserved, I glanced up at the clock on the wall. Modern and unembellished, it was out of place here. It was the same crisp, black and white utilitarian device that hung above cubicle walls in every workplace in the city, with a thin red hand blandly marking the passing minutes. Out there, it informed people when it was time to leave their dull jobs and return to their dull lives. Here, it had become a necessity because it was so easy for a twenty-minute flogging to turn into a two-hour scene without anyone in the room realizing so much time had passed. Eventually, the dungeon owners would probably install clocks that were a bit more in synch with the ambiance, but for now, these eyesores would suffice, and this regimented keeper of corporate time kept watch over the pain and pleasure below.

  It also said Lady Roxanne was fifteen minutes late.

  No, that wasn’t right. She was the Domme. She was in charge, and she was not late. I was expected to be here at seven o’clock. When she arrived was her prerogative, and not my place to question, so I tried not to look at the clock. She would be here when she was damned good and ready.

  Taking a deep breath, I wondered what awaited me this evening. She’d chosen one of the rooms that had a little of everything: A Saint Andrew’s Cross. A steel frame with dozens of holes and eyebolts specifically for hooking up ropes, chains, shackles, and God only knew what else. A table and couple of chairs, any one of which could be put to use by a creative top. Was she such a top? I’d find out soon enough.

  I’d been disappointed the last several times I’d done this, but everyone said Lady Roxanne could dish out the pain like few other Dommes. She was relentless, and if there was a limit to be found and tested, she’d find it and test it.

  We’ll see about that.

  I had yet to find another Domme who could hurt me the way I wanted. Oh, the others made it hurt. They even got me into something close to subspace, at least far enough to make sure the resulting subdrop left me reeling for hours afterward, but it had been years since someone had beaten, clawed, and tortured me into knee-shaking, eye-watering, heart-pounding euphoria. Longer still since one had pulled it off without the jarring drop.

  If what I’d heard and all she’d said was true, Lady Roxanne was the kind of Domme who would scratch my back to ribbons and whip me until I couldn’t stand it anymore. She wasn’t for the faint of heart, and faint of heart I was not.

  At least, I thought I wasn’t, but my heart certainly did something when the door opened.

  With a duffel bag over one arm and her curvy body poured into a skintight, black leather catsuit, Lady Roxanne strode in like she owned the place. Shoulders set back, eyes narrow, lips together in a straight, neutral line. Her high-heeled boots hit the floor with a rhythmic crack-tap that echoed through the room and down my spine. Blood pounded in my ears.

  Damn, she was hot. Even when she was in street clothes, she was stunning, but like this? Jesus. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight, severe twist instead of spilling over her shoulders. Surreptitiously looking her up and down, my mouth watered. I was a hips-and-ass man, all the way, and she had the most amazing set of hips. What I wouldn’t have given to run my hands over the slick, clingy leather, but I knew that wouldn’t happen. Not unless she gave me permission anyway.

  “Close the door.” She dropped the bag on the table with a thud, and the muffled clink of metal made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

  Here we go…

  Willing my legs to cooperate in her presence, I quickly did as ordered. The click of the latch sealed us in this sadistic room, and it was all I could do not to back up against the door. To shrink away from her. I wasn’t afraid of her, but intimidated? Nervous? Oh, hell yeah.

  Lady Roxanne opened the duffel bag and, piece by piece, laid its contents on the table. Over her shoulder in a terse, sharp voice, she said, “Safe words?” I barely registered what she’d said over the clank, thud, clatter and thunk of the implements she dropped onto the table. Metal, leather, plastic. God, yes, she’d brought all kinds of pain.

  Without turning around, she snapped, “Answer me.”

  I cleared my throat. “Red and yellow, Mistress.”

  She gave a single, slow nod of approval. Her back still turned, she said, “Strip.”

  Shouldering myself off the door, I swallowed hard and started unbuttoning my shirt. I couldn’t decide whether to watch her and her bag of tricks, or avert my eyes and try to keep my nerves in check. When we’d met at the munches, she was chattier. Friendly, if a bit aloof. But here, in her natural environment, in the role of the sadistic Domme, she spoke only as much as was required to get the point across. She made every word count. I grinned to myself, glancing at the cane and cat o’ nine tails. Such a Domme probably made every blow count, too.

  I folded my clothes and laid them neatly on the chair beside the door. Just as I put my boxers on top of the stack, Lady Roxanne turned around to face me.

  I looked back at her. For a long moment, she didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Her expression hadn’t chang
ed since she came through the door.

  Finally, she pointed at the floor in front of her. “Come here.”

  I obeyed, the hardwood squeaking softly under my bare feet. At her command, I stopped a few feet in front of her.

  She walked around me, conspicuously assessing me up and down. The artist sizing up her canvas, the executioner deciding where to drop the ax. That, or she already had it all worked out in her head, and she was just fucking with me.

  While she did so, I stole a few surreptitious looks at her. The black leather catsuit clung to her hips and breasts, but cut off at the shoulders, leaving her arms free and unrestrained. A stainless steel zipper up the center kept the material pulled tight across her chest, stopping just below the hollow of her throat. Much as I would have loved to be able to see the skin she hid, I didn’t allow myself to be disappointed. It wasn’t my place, after all.

  When she’d finished her inspection or whatever it was she’d been doing, she pointed at the steel frame up against one wall. “Stand under that.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” I murmured, and did as ordered.

  Without a word, she pulled a length of rope from her duffel bag and went about tying my hands to the horizontal bar above me. We’d already discussed my limits and boundaries. She knew about the old rotator cuff injury that meant I couldn’t tolerate my arms being bound in certain positions, and she tied them accordingly: over my head, but at an angle that didn’t aggravate my shoulder.

  She tugged the rope to make sure it would hold. Evidently satisfied it was secure, she said, “Too tight?”

  I tested the restraints myself. They weren’t tight enough to cut off circulation or cause pain of an unpleasant variety, but I definitely wasn’t going anywhere. I shook my head. “No, Mistress.”

  She walked around me again. Probably admiring her handiwork this time. Maybe a little more plotting and planning. Quite possibly just fucking with me. When she was behind me, I closed my eyes and gulped. Nerves and excitement vied for dominance. I was alone with her, bound, completely at her mercy.

  God, yes.

  Oh, god.

  Contact made me suck in a breath. My restraints creaked against the steel bar, and my senses scrambled to figure out what had touched me, and where, and how, and if it hurt.

  A single fingernail. Barely touching at all, just enough pressure to let me know it was, in fact, her nail drifting up the center of my spine.

  And damn it, it didn’t hurt. I gritted my teeth. She’d get there. A little teasing, then she’d give me her worst.

  As abruptly as it had begun, the contact ceased. The air above my skin thrummed with the absence of her touch, and my nerves searched for a strike, a slap, a scratch. Something. Please, Mistress, please. Something.

  I jumped again, pulling in a sharp breath when she ran her fingernails down my side. The sensation almost tickled, my skin anticipating the switch from a light touch to claws digging in at any second. Any second. Any fucking second.

  She traced light patterns on my skin. First with nails, then with fingertips, then nails again. Up and down my back. Shoulders. Neck. Into my hair. Along trembling, restrained arms. The absence of pain, of even the gentlest abrasion of nail to flesh, made breathing damn near impossible.

  The backs of eight nails slid up either side of my spine in a single row, taunting hungry nerve endings to life, and when her hands stopped on my shoulders, her claws were poised to dig in and make the downward return trip. Eight edges, right there against my skin, with my breath stuck in my lungs while I waited, waited, waited. Rake them down, I silently pleaded. The ghosts of burning vertical streaks tingled in anticipation of the tracks she hadn’t yet left.

  And she broke contact once again.

  I exhaled hard, grinding my teeth and clenching my fists.

  Oh, but she wasn’t finished.

  Her footsteps echoed in my consciousness – crack-tap, crack-tap, crack-tap – as she came around in front of me. She stopped. I swallowed. Brow furrowed with intense concentration, she reached for my face.

  The backs of her fingers hissed across my jaw. Drifted down my neck. By the time they passed the hollow of my throat and started down my chest, only one finger made contact. My abs contracted with the featherlight touch of that single, gentle finger, and although that moving point of contact was the focal point of my entire awareness, I still wasn’t prepared when she ran it down one side of my hard cock, then the other.

  I groaned softly and closed my eyes.

  Her hand stopped.

  “Don’t close your eyes.”

  I opened them. She looked right back at me, one eyebrow lifted in a “don’t make me tell you again” arc. I licked my lips. “Sorry…Mistress.”

  She didn’t reply, but her hand started moving again, continuing down so she could tease my balls with one light fingertip. My knees shook more violently than before, my lungs couldn’t decide whether to hold onto my breath or force it out. Then she closed her hand around my cock, and I exhaled. She made slow, gentle strokes, the kind that would have been pure fucking bliss to any other sub who was thankful for the pleasure his Domme gave, but torture to someone dying for a hit of delicious, promised pain.

  When she released me and went for that table and its scattered array of weapons, I had to fight to keep my breathing even. Especially when she raised her hand, and stainless steel between her fingers glinted in the low light. Nipple clamps were barely enough to make me flinch anymore, but I had a feeling she could make it hurt like hell.

  She started toward me, every high-heeled crack-tap like a slower, amplified version of my heartbeat. I gulped. Nerve endings tingled with anticipation. Just a little sting to get things started. Then she’d move on to the real pain. I couldn’t wait. Jesus, she knew how to tease.

  Stopping just inches in front of me, she held the clamp up between two upraised fingers. She squeezed it enough to open it, revealing the tiny teeth on the twin prongs. I bit my lip.

  Like she had earlier, she reached for my face, and this time it wasn’t fingers that made contact. The smooth, cool prongs slid over my skin. Along my jaw. Down the side of my throat. Past my collarbone. As the clamp neared my nipple, I closed my eyes and let my head fall back.

  “What did I say?” she snapped.

  My eyes flew open. “Sorry, Mistress.”

  A wordless nod indicated my apology was accepted, and she again focused on working her evil ways. She drew the clamp closer to my nipple. Closer. Closer still. She made progressively smaller circles around it, spiraling closer, and when she pulled it across my nipple, just enough to let the teeth graze sensitive skin, I damn near came unglued.

  And it moved further away from my nipple. I expected – hoped – she’d do the same to the other, but instead, she let the prongs drift down my abs. Like they’d done beneath her finger, my stomach muscles contracted, and with every inch of ground she gained, my heart beat faster. She wasn’t really going…she wasn’t…not with a…

  Smooth metal traced a meandering line from the head of my cock to the base.

  Oh, god, she’s one of those sadists.

  A preemptive rush of endorphins washed over me as the tips of the clamp teased my cock, then down to my balls. My heart pounded. I gulped. My senses were once again concentrated on a single moving focal point, ready for the tiny teeth to bite sensitive flesh. Every circle, every change of direction, every fucking move the little prongs made ramped up my pulse, and I was sure at every turn this would be the place she’d close the clamp. Here. Or there. Or, oh god, there.

  I didn’t realize I’d stopped breathing until the clamp was suddenly absent. Something – relief? Frustration? A mix of the two? – pushed all the held air out of my burning lungs. Hell if I knew where the lack of oxygen ended and the pain-starved madness began, but my head spun and my knees still trembled. Had my hands not been balled into tight fists, they would have as well, I was sure.

  “I won’t say it again,” she growled.

  I opened
my eyes, wondering when I’d closed them. “Sorry—” I cleared my throat and licked my dry lips. “Sorry, Mistress.”

  Lady Roxanne took a step back. She reached for the zipper pull on her catsuit, and my mouth watered. Leather squeaked and metal creaked as she pulled the zipper down, and every inch of newly exposed flesh made my knees shake that much more. The “V” of the zipper widened, deepened, and when her hand passed between her breasts, there was no strip of fabric to indicate the presence of a bra beneath the sleek second skin.

  The zipper stopped just below her navel. She slid her hand under her lapel and pushed the catsuit aside, revealing one breast, but that wasn’t the only thing that sent my pulse soaring. Eagerly watching her every move, I followed the nipple clamp in her hand as it headed to her nipple. Goose bumps prickled every inch of my skin when she ran the clamp around the rosy peak. She spiraled closer and closer, the prongs with which she’d teased me inching dangerously close and—

  Oh. Fucking. Hell.

  She clamped it onto her own nipple and sucked in a hiss of breath, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back. A rush of cool water flooded my veins like phantom endorphins. My own nipples tingled when she pulled the clamp. Twisted it. Pulled it again. A soft whimper escaped her lips, and thank God for my restraints because my knees damn near buckled.

  She looked at me, eyes half-closed and lips parted, the face of pure bliss. When she bit her lower lip, the corners pulled up into a sly grin. She had what I wanted, and she knew it. Hell if I could decide if she looked more arousing or infuriating, especially when she took the damned clamp off and zipped up the fucking catsuit again.

  Then she clipped the nipple clamp to her zipper pull, keeping it within easy reach, and it taunted and teased me as it swung back and forth, catching the light on its stainless contours. Out of my reach, just like everything I needed and wanted and craved.