"I understand there was a scuffle of some type involving you and Marguerite out in The Zone parking lot the other night. Did she whip your ass?"
"Cute. No. I assume you know the real details."
"Oh, yeah." Violet Nighthorse's voice was dry, even over the cell connection. He assumed she was maneuvering her Stealth through Tampa's traffic with the professional ease and terrifying maneuvers of a NASCAR driver. "Mac won't let me go within ten feet of the exit doors at The Zone without him. Like I'm not a cop, just the same as he is."
"The man loves you to the point of imbecility."
"Yes, he does, doesn't he?" The smile in her voice was obvious enough to make Tyler roll his eyes.
"God save me from goofy newlyweds." He sobered. "She fought him with the fear and rage of a cornered animal. Then slam, the drawbridge whips up." There was a moment of silence on the other end. "Knowing you, it must have been hard as hell to let her drive away."
"I followed her home. Made sure she got into her door. She didn't even look my way but she knew I was there. I sat outside until I saw her light go off. Hell, knowing her she turned it off to get rid of me."
"Well, you're obnoxious and intolerably arrogant." He chuckled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Always a good friend. And probably right. But I know she's drawn to me. You feel it from a sub, you know you do."
"You think she's a switch?" Violet didn't bother to hide the disbelief in her voice.
"Yeah, I do. When we're interacting just the two of us, I think she might be playing the wrong side of the fence altogether. Then I see her top someone and she's so damn gifted at it. It's like she's two people."
"One of the most terrifying Mistresses I've ever seen and you think she's a sub in Domme's clothing? Tyler, did you have a recent head injury I don't know about?"
"Now I know why I've been seeing of three of everything. Brat. Shut up and listen.
Marguerite is the perfect Mistress. Never out of control, never emotionally ragged. It rings false to me. It's like being a Mistress is the closest thing she can get to what she really wants without losing control, because the control's more important to her than anything else. There's something wrong, Vi."
"You've said we're all damaged, Tyler. That's part of life. Your psyche gets bumped, bruised. Wounded."
"Maimed, mutilated." He allowed himself a tight smile. "I guess what I'm saying is I think Mac's instincts weren't off."
Her tone sharpened. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, back all those months ago when Marguerite was his lead suspect in the murder of male subs. She's not a murderer but I don't think he was off in his evaluation. She's the real deal. Damaged to the point the civilized world doesn't touch her, not when she's cornered. Maybe not at all. She thinks of survival first, consequences second." He thought of the knife, embedded an inch deep in a table that probably was worth four figures. The untamed look in her eyes when she'd fought the mugger.
"Then maybe you shouldn't be messing with her mind, no matter what your gut tells you. Maybe she needs to be just who she is."
"Maybe she just needs to know she can really trust someone. So she can let go."
"Are you familiar with the damsel in distress syndrome, Tyler? The man who has to rescue a woman to prove something?"
His jaw flexed. "Don't go there, Violet."
"I won't if you won't."
"What combination of words will convince you that we're not having this discussion? Or will it take me snapping the phone closed?"
"I'll ease up." He heard her frustrated sigh through the connection. "But you're worrying me. You don't exaggerate things. You have the training to know what you're saying. Want me to see exactly what Mac found out about her when he was investigating the S&M Killer and ask him to dig a little deeper? I don't think they went too far with it, seeing as Mac managed to stumble onto the actual perp." He thought it through. Was tempted. "Yeah, I do. But don't. I want her to tell me herself."
If she shows. He glanced at his watch. Six-forty.
"Tyler?" Violet's voice was soft in his ear.
"I know. I know. I just..." He shook his head. "When did a ninety-pound Dominatrix fairy become my confessor?"
"I weigh far more than ninety pounds. You call me Tinkerbell, I'm going to shove a Taser up your ass."
"Ouch." He sat down on his front porch steps, tried to listen for the soothing sounds of the sea birds instead of the sound of an engine. "On our second phone call about him, you told me you wanted Mac. In your voice, I could tell that wanting him had become everything to you. In the space of a breath, this guy you didn't even know had crawled up into your soul, busted it up. I didn't believe in that. I heard it but I didn't understand. So I was worried about you. You see the things I've seen, you can't... It's impossible to think something like that can happen. But then I saw you two together and knew it had happened for you. She's kept her distance, not letting me get within an arm's length. Now I got the excuse and..."
"Wham. You find she's sitting in the center of you, like she's carved a big hole in your chest and set up house."
"Yeah." His throat closed up as a pair of headlights threw a wash of gold across the lawn. He heard the purr of the black BMW, then her car was slowly rolling up his drive.
"She's here." She's here.
"Good luck. I'll be here if you need me."
"Violet." His hand tightened on the phone, though his attention remained on the car. "You're not my confessor. You're my best friend." Something he hadn't had in a very, very long time. "Thank you."
There was a pause. When she spoke, her voice was a bit thick, making him smile.
She might be tough, perhaps the second toughest woman he knew, but she was still female.
"You're so full of shit. Stop charming me and go work on her. I've got a guy." He noted Marguerite was moving a bit stiffly as she got out of the car. It swamped him with renewed anger at the man who'd laid hands on her, as well as a wave of protectiveness.
"So does Marguerite. She just doesn't know it yet. Bye, Violet." She was here. And he had her for two whole days.
Marguerite had heard his home was beautiful, a sanctuary from a busy world. The graceful antebellum plantation house and all of its outbuildings, including a family chapel, had been transported from his home state of Georgia.
He'd planted them here on his acres bordering the Gulf, ninety minutes from Tampa. The extraordinary undertaking had been done to save the structures from demolition, when the property on which they sat was taken under eminent domain for additional highway expansion.
She'd learned that from conversation at The Zone, from people who included it as a footnote to their discussions of how his home was a D/s playground, containing a personal home dungeon beyond compare, if the stories were to be believed. Knowing what she was about to face, dungeon was definitely the word that came to mind, not the plush toy room that had been described to her.
But she was here. Though there might be lines on which she would stumble because of her own personal issues, she could stay in control of this situation. She was a Mistress. She knew a Dom had to strictly adhere to a sub's boundaries, and Tyler knew that as well. And she was a Domme going through sub training for a better understanding of the sub mentality, to enhance her future experiences as a Mistress. She was not a sub herself. She would and could keep certain shields in place. Tyler would certainly expect and respect that.
"You're late," he said quietly. She turned to see him standing there, the breeze off the Gulf riffling his hair, molding the soft fabric of his shirt against his upper body. He was wearing the jeans she had imagined in great detail several days before. She'd been right, and even understated it. The long columns of his thighs, the nicely outlined groin area. The man had a rugged sexuality that was oddly even more blatant outside The Zone walls. Here on his own ground, the sense of him being a Dominant was far more out front. The way his golden eyes examined her from head to toe, taking in the slacks and crisp shirt she'd chosen to wear with loafers, a more feminine version of male garments. A message that she would not dress sexually for him unless he commanded it, as she was sure he would. She would arrive as a Mistress and leave as one no matter what happened in between. That much she had promised herself.
"Are you wearing boxers or briefs under that outfit?" he asked.
As always, she was momentarily taken aback at his ability to pick up on the direction of her internal thoughts as if they were having a spoken conversation about them. Before she could respond to that, his tone gentled. "How are the bumps and bruises?"
"Fine."
"And the ankle?"
"Nothing an ice pack couldn't cure. It's just a bit tender. Nothing you need to worry about interfering with or slowing down our sessions."
"Hmm." He moved toward her, didn't stop when he reached the personal space boundary. His hand snaked around her, pressing on her back, on the bruises. Not expecting it, she flinched before she could tell herself not to do so. Tossing her braid over her shoulder to throw her head back to face him, she was childishly miffed when he managed to pull back just enough to avoid the lash and level an amused gaze on her.
That gaze became much less amused when he brought his hand forward to cradle her face, his thumb tracing her lips. She had to make a conscious effort not to part them.
"We need to talk about the rules again." She sounded desperate, even to herself.
"I remember them. No kissing." He continued to stroke her lips. For some reason she couldn't take her eyes off his mouth. "You wanted to keep your clothes on. We agreed that's not an option. But I agreed to no questions about any unusual marks on your body and no sex. Unless you ask for it. I'm giving you thirty seconds to state any last-minute rules you've concocted and then it's going to be all about my rules. Okay? Go."
She pulled away from his touch, stepping back, which brought her up against her car. "I want two hours each day to prepare and take my tea. That time will belong to me, not be part of the training. There should be plenty of time between now and Sunday afternoon to cover the session requirements even without those four hours."
"All right. But if I choose to join you, I'll do so. You won't shut me out in my own home."
That was exactly what she'd hoped to do but it was a fair enough request. She nodded reluctantly.
"Anything else?"
Yes. Don't make me do this. She shook her head.
"Good. Here's one of my rules, Marguerite." He moved in, ran his touch down her back again, so tenderly that her bruised skin wanted to weep at the contact. "You won't lie to me about anything. As a sub, your care and comfort are completely my responsibility. If at any time something is beyond your capacity to bear, you'll use the word chado."
The Japanese word, translated to "the way of tea" or "the philosophy of tea". A smile touched his mouth at her surprised look. "I figured that would be an easy one for you to remember. At that time, we'll evaluate what's going on. I won't necessarily stop what I'm doing but we'll work it out. But all that can wait a few more minutes." Tucking her hand into his elbow, he laid his on top of her fingers. "You've shown me your place. Let me show you mine."
"Shouldn't we just get started? We have a lot of ground to cover - "
"Marguerite." He stopped and faced her but kept her hand. "When we walk up those front stairs and you step over the threshold of my house, from there forward I'm your Master and you're my slave. I can tell you're nervous as hell. So let's take a moment, okay? I'm not a complete tyrant."
There was something in his gaze that told her that was not entirely true. He could be as ruthless as one. "This isn't a course at the community college where you can answer all the questions correctly, proving to the teacher you're paying attention so he'll leave you alone." He tipped her chin, feathered his hand through some of the shorter wisps of hair around her face. "You're going to have my complete personal attention all weekend long."
"I thought you said you were trying to make me feel less nervous." She didn't smile. Neither did he. "I might like you a little nervous." He pulled her into a walk, and now he clasped their hands loosely between them.
She'd never known a man who liked to hold hands so much. Though she didn't recall ever having seen him hold hands with his subs at The Zone, she found it a somewhat sweet, romantic gesture. She realized it suited him. She didn't know much of the man Tyler was outside The Zone, which made her wonder how much more she was going to find out.
The house had some minor architectural improvements that modern building technology could give it. However, Tyler had apparently made every effort to restore the home to its previous condition, honoring its past. It was painted the pristine white that a Southern belle like this deserved. He'd made the circular driveway a mixture of gravel and oyster shell and the groupings of azaleas around the foundation only accented the house's sweeping grace. He took her around the corner and she saw the rear and side areas had even more to offer. A lawn stretched out behind the house, followed by a mulched area that ran to the banks of the Gulf and had a scattering of sprawling live oaks draped with Spanish moss. There were tennis courts and a large glass pool house off to the right, connected to the house by a maze of gardens that even from a distance were beautifully designed, a series of linked circles that featured central pieces of statuary and fountains surrounded by lush green specimens splashed with blooms.
He strolled with her down to the wide lawn. "Slip off your shoes," he advised.
"You know those stuffed animals you find in the card shops that are so soft you'd like to sink into a vat of them? That's what this grass is like." Bemused by his easy enthusiasm, she watched him toe off his loafers and then did the same to sink into the cushioned coolness of the grass. "How do you get it so green, so close to the salt water?"
"I have two house staff," he explained. "Sarah is our cook and does the cleaning.
Robert, her husband, does maintenance and repairs. He's also the best organic gardener in Florida." He guided her toward the water's edge. "He keeps the grass back just far enough. That's why there's the mulched area with the oaks to serve as a wind break. At least that's what he tells me to justify why it's so green. I personally think he met the devil at the crossroads. He insists he just has a knack for knowing how to work with nature. So, was I right about the grass?"
"It's very soft."
"Robert proves his reputation by keeping it this way practically year-round. We host Shakespeare in the Park here for the community theater in the spring and have even been known to show old movies on a wide screen and serve ice cream in the summer." His eyes glinted. "In the fall, I have a three-day D/s carnival I'm sure you've heard about. It's an invitation-only fundraiser, a thousand dollars per Master or Mistress and their chosen sub. We donate the money to the Tampa domestic violence shelter."
"Anonymously, of course."
"Of course. I just send it in as a donation from one of my trusts, since people won't accept money from a bunch of sexual deviants." She noted that he sounded amused, not offended. "Maybe you'll come to the one this fall. You could always come as my slave."
"Or you could come as mine," she retorted.
"I already am, Marguerite." He lifted her hand to his lips again, flustering her with that old-fashioned gesture he did so well. Even the words should sound silly, contrived, but he had an ability to make real what another man could not. "Don't you understand, when all is said and done, it's the Master who's the captive?"
"No." She drew her hand back. "I don't understand that."
"Maybe you will by the end of the weekend. It would be an honor to know I've taught you something about being a Mistress that you didn't already know."
"Who are you, Tyler? You keep pounding at my boundaries but I don't know anything about you."
"Hmm." He sat on a long bench, drawing her down next to him. "Lately I'm an amateur gardener and a bit of a handyman. When I moved here, I paid to have this house restored. Money makes a lot of things easier, but I wasn't as involved hands-on as I really wanted to be. That's one of the reasons I eventually chose to ease back on the writing and film production, take more time to be part of those details. Something else money allows you to do."
But she was sharp enough to catch a darkness in his eyes. That wasn't the only reason he'd taken the time off, she suspected. Not the most important one.
"Look over there. A heron, like the one in your picture." Marguerite turned her head, watched the long-legged, graceful white bird step through the shallows, looking for dinner.
"He's like you. Perfect in his isolation. Everything goes in slow motion around you, Marguerite. You steal time when people look at you." She'd intended to retort to the comment about isolation, but with the compliment the response died on her lips. Turning, he laid his head down in her lap, stretching out his long body along the length of the bench. One knee crooked up against the back, the other foot resting on the ground. When he looked up at her, the weight of his skull pressed into her thighs. His hair whispered against the fabric of her blouse, so tempting she had to curl her fingers into a tight ball to keep from touching it.
"I think you know everything about me, Marguerite. That's your special gift. From whatever plane you view the world, you see right straight to the heart. I don't believe in games, so I'll say I know that I attract you. I thank God for the gift and hope to keep earning it, because I know you attract me like the proverbial moth."
"Then it's probably not very professional for me to use you as my mentor." He chuckled. "Nice try. You contacted me, remember? And there's nothing that says the mentoring can't be done by people with personal relationships. This is The Zone, not a corporate work policy."
"I think you've just come up with a charming way to avoid questions about yourself."
"Maybe I'm afraid if you know the sordid details of my life, you'll like me less."
"Than I do now? I hardly see how that's possible." She sniffed.
"Petulance looks very sexy on you. Don't get me stirred up." At his lazy grin, she shoved at his head and shoulder.
In a movement that was so fluid it did not seem hurried, he brought his hand up and captured both of her wrists. In the same smooth motion he reversed their positions, laying her head into his lap and putting her shoulders against his denim-covered thigh.
His arm settled with deceptive casualness over her waist, anchoring her in the vulnerable horizontal position.
"Tyler, stop this. We need to get started." Where any intimacy that happened could be explained as part of her training. Not a spontaneous, accidental pleasure experienced in his company as she was feeling now, with butterflies feathering around in her lower belly.
He stretched his other arm along the back of the bench and cocked his head, looking down at her with those intense eyes that seemed to convey two messages.
There was the surface gentle teasing light, and the darker shades. A man's desire coming through, stirred by her presence and making no attempt to mask it.
"If you could ask me one question about myself, what would it be?" She didn't want to know more. She'd just been being defensive and he knew it. She sat silently, stubbornly. Watched his smile die away. But she studied the clouds over his shoulder and wouldn't watch the reaction grow in his eyes further.
"Look at me. Unless you're afraid to."
Of course that was an easy ploy to recognize, but she stepped right into it. The expression in his eyes was not what she expected. Not frustrated or angry, not hurt or rejected. Deep, focused, centered on her face. She reflected he was already figuring out things she didn't want him to know with that intelligent mind of his.
"How far will you run, Marguerite, before you realize you're not running away from me? You're running to me."
He put his hands beneath her legs and back and lifted her onto her feet as he rose before she could think of a response to that outrageous statement. "It's time to go up to the house. Sarah and Robert will be here periodically through the weekend. Out of respect for them, I typically hire off-hours Zone staff for cooking and assistance when I have larger D/s parties. But they've started helping me with smaller groups or when I'm alone with a sub, or when I need certain areas or settings prepared. When I anticipate needing them through a weekend they stay in one of my guesthouses. While I've no indication of their own sexual preferences they understand mine, so you need feel no concern around them this weekend."
She struggled to reorient herself as he shifted gears on her, physically urging her toward the house and that very significant threshold with a firm hand on her lower back. They paused briefly only to retrieve their shoes and slip them back on.
"Do you remember all the items on the requirements list?" Commands, total submission, restraints, flogging and punishment, exhibitionism...submitting before another Dom... She nodded, a quick motion, her stomach constricting in a twist of nerves.
He took her to the front of the house, up the steps. As he opened the door, he looked down at her, unsmiling, his mouth a little stern now. She wished he could be one of the many men who was shorter than her when she wore heels, though of course she'd maximized the difference in their heights with her insolent desire to wear the gender-neutral deck shoes.
Why couldn't he reassure her, say something that acknowledged she was just playing at this role? Why did he have to treat her like she actually was a sub?
Because that was the point of the training. She knew that. It didn't work if it didn't feel real and Tyler had integrity. He wouldn't let her just skim through the basics. She'd talked to Lisbeth about her session. The woman had seemed so calm about it, like she'd been able to maintain some sense of...not detachment, but had actually enjoyed the experience of understanding what her subs felt. All Marguerite felt was a frightening sense of going down a dark tunnel where she wasn't sure what would grab her. What might reach for her in the dark, a hand covering her mouth...
"Hey." Tyler's voice, like the warming heat of a summer sun, reached through the cold and found her. His hands were on her face again, his eyes close. Those beautiful brown and gold eyes. The tiger. Taigaa, in Japanese, though the word that came to mind was mouko. Fierce tiger. Afraid of nothing. Willing to do anything to keep her feeling safe forever.
"You can do this, Marguerite. Slow, easy steps. Let me hear that beautiful voice of yours."
"I'm okay. I'm fine."
She was trembling under his touch. Tyler took a firmer grip on her cold hands, drew her over the threshold, stopped. Rubbed his hands along her upper arms. "See?
Small steps. Just take it one thing at a time and you'll be fine. Angel, I'm not going to hurt you. You know that, right? Can you nod for me? Breathe a little?" Tender humor mixed with the concern in his face could undo her. And give her reassurance. She was rather amazed at the combination. When she managed a nod, he put an arm around her waist, guiding her forward.
To her left was a sunken living room with a widescreen television, a white sectional sofa and a black glass center table. An alabaster statue of Isis rested on the table next to a small water bowl with floating fresh gardenias. Over the fireplace was an oill painting, a tall ship of the line plowing through a stormy sea. As he took her through the house, she noted that every room on the first level seemed to have windows and more windows affording the inhabitants panoramic views of the Gulf. There was absolute privacy here. The last neighbor she'd passed had been a few miles away, so it was easy to imagine him walking into his kitchen in his underwear to get his morning coffee, his eyes sleepy, a shadow on his jawline. All those wonderful muscles on display that she had felt under his clothes when she was pressed up against him.
She hadn't expected to feel desire rush in so suddenly on top of fear but inside his house, his touch and the sense of sanctuary that the comfort of his home suggested allowed it to happen. She'd have preferred the fear of her training to this - fearing the emotions he evoked, how he made her think these intimate things about him. The sky was now a violet blaze, night settling in. He had the gas logs going at a low setting in a cozy sitting room. He paused in there a moment, stopping her in front of its warmth.
"Sarah will have us a small meal in about an hour. You probably haven't eaten yet."
She shook her head. "I'm not really hungry."
"You'll eat, because I'm going to be requiring a lot of you." His voice was the erotic touch of warm oill on bare skin. "And it's my job to care for you. As much as it is for you to follow my direction for your benefit."
Get a grip, Marguerite. They're just words. Words have no power to change who you are.
It was just the way the game was played. That's all it meant, though the focused way he watched her very movement, heard every word she spoke, made her stomach do a funny dip. Was this the way it was for subs? Every reaction of approval or disapproval from the Master ratcheting up the tension as well as the arousal another notch? And was it this easy to slip into the way a sub might feel? He hadn't even demanded she address him formally as Master but she'd felt the new relationship settle onto her shoulders like a staggering weight the moment she'd crossed the threshold.
She'd always been a Mistress. It never occurred to her that the states of mind could be so easily tried on.
The foyer was a hallway that extended the length of the house. When he took her up a staircase to the second floor and turned her onto a catwalk that connected the two sides of the second level, she could look at the view of the Gulf out of the two-story-high window that framed the rear entry and rose high above it in an arc, a wall of glass.
The water moved calmly under the rose sky which was beginning to be jeweled with early faint stars that would grow more ornate as the night deepened.
"This is an amazing home," she said out of politeness, sincerity and an awkward inability to come up with anything to say. He glanced down at her, reminding her again of their height difference before he tugged her to sit down with him on the catwalk. The slats of the railings were wide enough that he could slide his legs through them. When he directed her to do the same, they sat like two children, their feet dangling over the open space below. He put her hand on his thigh, his own hand curled over it.
"Here's one of my rules, Marguerite. You speak only when I ask you a question or if you want to say something, in which case you ask my permission to speak first." His thumb moved over her knuckles one at a time, tracing the bumps of bone, the veins running across them. "Do you understand why I would have that rule?"
"Because you're an egotistical male who doesn't want any competition with the sound of his own voice?"
He tightened his grip. "Marguerite, focus. Quit building up your defenses and think."
The admonition stung, mainly because he'd seen so easily through her tartness, more easily than she had. Closing her mouth, she tried to think beyond his touch. He'd turned her hand over now and was running his fingers over her palm, down toward her wrist. She wanted to pull away, to make him stop doing things that were creating taut arousal in her lower abdomen. She could handle this. She could. Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her sternum just below the pocket of her collarbone, inside the vee of the blouse. Her breath expelled sharply from her, her nipples instantly reacting. Her thighs wanted to press together, to contain the response between them, but of course her legs were between the slats and could not close. Her chin brushed his hair. Looking at his other hand braced on the railing just in front of her, she could imagine how easy it would be for him to let go of the railing and cup her between the legs of the slacks.
"I'm waiting for an answer to my question, Marguerite," he said against her skin.
"Because..." She swallowed, closing her eyes, wishing his tongue wasn't so warm and clever, able to make her heart pound beneath it. His chin rubbed the top of her breast, an innocent touch. "What...why are you doing that?"
"Because a Master is able to enjoy the gifts of his slave at any time he chooses.
Answer the question. Or am I making it too difficult for you to think?" The teasing, the arrogant implication, stiffened her resolve as she was sure he'd intended. However, she was learning that being able to identify the strategy did not make her any more immune to it.
A Mistress of incomparable experience and yet his lightest touch was making her react like an innocent, unused to sensual pleasures. Tyler wondered what she would think if she knew how powerfully that unexpected discovery affected him.
Her voice came out strained, her brow furrowed like a student puzzling out a difficult math problem. He smiled against her skin.
"A slave who doesn't have to make...conversation will focus on...things."
"Feel the Will of her Master far more keenly, physically and emotionally." He raised his head, making sure his approval was evident in his eyes. "Similar to what's implied by 'God is in the silence'. Many enlightening lessons are to be found in quiet." A flush spread through her cheeks and drew his attention to the delicacy of her eyelashes, as fine and pale as her silken hair.
"Come with me. We'll come back here, don't worry." Rising, he easily plucked her out of the slats and set her back on her feet, guiding her forward again with a hand on her lower back, his fingers lingering on the beginning swell of her buttocks.
He took her across the catwalk and down the rear staircase, to an oak door carved with a pastoral scene. While sheep lay placidly in a meadow, a shepherd serenaded a reclining shepherdess with his pipe. Marguerite reached out to touch the fine detail as he turned the skeleton key in the lock, the key also serving as a doorknob to pull the door open.
It was an atrium, a large chamber with a domed ceiling which had been painted with a simple scene of clouds and pale blue sky. Only... Her eyes narrowed. On closer inspection, she saw wispy outlines of angels floating in those clouds, elegant fingers extended toward the feathers of swans backing against the wind, soaring. It was a study of whites, the shadowing giving the features of clouds, birds or angels.
"It's called 'Living a Child's Summer Day'," he explained. "Inspired obviously by the way children lie on their backs and look into the sky. The artist told me that there are over two hundred and twelve images in it. I haven't found them all myself yet.
Sometimes I think magic has touched it and the images actually change from day to day."
She managed to tear her gaze from it to see that the chamber was a gallery. The walls were hung with original paintings. Sculptures had been placed on pedestals strategically scattered across the room, such that one could either wander among them or stay in one space and simply turn in a circle. And as she had that thought, her eyes came to rest on two cushioned straight-back chairs positioned in the center of the atrium, back to back. There was an ice bucket next to them.
"I'd like you to sit here." He guided her into one of the chairs as she eyed him, distrustful. "And while we're in here, you may speak freely, whatever comes to your mind."
Kneeling by her, he took one ankle in his hand. There was a muted ripping noise as he loosened a Velcro strap she hadn't noticed at the base of her chair and wrapped it around her ankle over the thin dress sock she'd worn with the loafers. "A simple lesson in restraints," he explained. "Nothing too fast or aggressive, just easing you into it." She peered down the other side, noted there was a matching one there. Her heart started pounding up into her throat again.
"Would you ease a sub into it? I don't want to be treated differently." Tyler took the other ankle in hand, fastened it to the opposite chair leg so her legs were spread, restricted. "Handling subs doesn't come with an Equal Opportunity Employer policy, Marguerite. Every one is different. If she was new to it, uncertain of what her feelings meant, yes, I would take my time. To rush it would be selfish, but even more than that I'd be depriving myself of a great pleasure. To watch the minute signs of nervousness, the moistening of the lips..." He raised his head, passed his finger over her mouth. "The quick darts of the eye, the pulse riding high in the throat..." He stroked there and she shuddered. "The trembling, the knowledge that this is something the body and soul are begging for, even as the mind and its fear and its inhibitions try to interfere, to slow a process that's inevitable... It's one of the sweetest aphrodisiacs I know."
"I've never broken in a virgin sub."
"You've denied yourself a real emotional pleasure then, for both of you. I can't imagine any sub not wanting to be under your command for his first time. Now the hands."
He stood up behind her, his hands coming down on her shoulders, molding over her biceps, moving to her elbows. Tugging gently, he eased her arms behind her, around the back of the chair. It flattened her against the upper part of the chair, straightening and arching her. Tyler could tell it startled her when he secured each of her wrists not in Velcro straps but in the handcuffs he picked up off the seat of the chair behind hers and ran through the slat of her chair back. He was still learning the territory, working on picking up the minute nuances of her expressions, body language and voice, but it was hard to focus when she was now all his, restrained and open.
Bending to her ear, he ran his hands up her upper arms again then rested them there, his grip light, easy. "Are you wet, Marguerite? Wet from me restraining you, holding you open to me like this so I could fondle your breasts or your pussy whenever I wish?"
"I'm...I'm wet. I think."
She had no flirtatiousness or artifice to her. From her sudden stiffening, he knew she'd realized that her words could easily be construed as an invitation, not as honest uncertainty. It made Tyler curse the obvious need to exercise restraint, not to take undue advantage. Weren't you the one who just expostulated on the benefits of patience? Idiot.
He went back in front of her, dropped to one knee, laying either hand on her spread thighs clad in the mannish trousers. Leaning forward, he felt her tense, quiver, as he brought his face down between them, his nose and mouth so close, so temptingly close...
He inhaled, closing his eyes, felt his cock harden even further than he'd thought possible. "You are wet," he agreed, his thumbs caressing her inner thighs. "And I'm going to make you much wetter."
Marguerite wanted to spit at him when he rose without doing anything else, almost as much as she wanted to rail at her traitorous body for wanting him to do more.
Surprisingly, he took a seat in the chair just behind her so they were back to back. There was that rattling of handcuffs. She was astounded when she turned her head enough to see him fit one of his wrists in a second pair, work the slack between the slats of his chair. He clicked the other one in place, locking his arms behind his back in much the same manner. They were close enough that he was able to lace the fingers of his right hand with that of her left. Reaching out with his foot, he tumbled the ice bucket over on its side, so that two ice cubes rolled out. Marguerite noticed that there appeared to be something gray in the center of the cubes.
"Those are the keys to the cuffs. When it melts down, we'll be able to free ourselves."
"And exactly how is either one of us going to reach down to pick up the keys?" He twisted his head, looked at her blankly a moment, then the meaning of her words apparently sank in. "Oh, Christ. Didn't think of that." At her alarmed look, his grin broke through. "Just kidding, angel." He caught her fingers in his, tugged them so they were feeling the slat of the chair through which his cuffs had been threaded. "The slat of this chair is in slots, see? I just remove the slat, pull the cuffs free. Then I can pull my legs through the cuffs and pick up the keys."
"You..." She shook her head, resisting the urge to throttle him as he chuckled. He settled his back to her, both of them bound by the handcuffs, hands intertwined in a lovers' clasp.
"Tyler, why are we doing this?"
"It's a way to see if you can follow direction. And remember, one of the requirements was the restraints, the physical vulnerability."
"But why are you participating?"
"Maybe to remind you that we're in this together. You're not all by yourself." He caressed her open palm as she moved restlessly, clacking the cuffs against the wood of the chair.
And there was another point as well, though Tyler chose not to share it. He wanted to coax forth the Marguerite he'd seen in brief flashes at the tearoom, with her appreciation of aesthetics. He wanted the real woman when he roused her passions, not the prisoner fighting involuntary response every step of the way.
"Trust me, Marguerite. Look at the artwork on display before you." Marguerite closed her eyes, wondering if she should count to ten as a method of regaining her composure. She thought that a multiple of ten might not be enough. So she resigned herself for the moment to following his direction.
She found herself auditing an eclectic assortment of erotic art. The one directly before her chair was a photograph blown up to life-size and framed in black. A woman was folded over the soft high back of a couch. Taken from a rear angle, the photo focused on her from waist to feet, showing her wearing frilly high-cut panties, garters, stockings and heels. Her calves had been crossed and tied, her arms bound behind her.
Her face was in shadow, the whole photo artistically done in black and white, every detail of her submission starkly outlined except for one tiny touch of pink. The line of ruffles that went across the widest portion of her backside. Cry Mercy was the name of the photo.
Not a cry for mercy from punishment Marguerite knew. For the punishment, for the release that came with it.
The piece to the left was a photograph focusing on a man's erect cock. With his body displayed only from mid-thigh to well-defined abdomen, the man rested his hand on the base of the cock, a loose curl, his fingers massaging his testicles. It was easy to imagine him caught in a frozen moment of stroking himself for an avidly watching lover. She was absorbed by the hand, the long fingers, and made herself pull her attention from it.
Next came something familiar, the fresco of the three Graces, the Hellenic Period rendering, the two outside Graces facing forward, the middle one with her back to the viewer. The smooth bodies, small perfect breasts and heart-shaped buttocks, the partial torsos linked by their arms in sensual innocence, simply what they were.
"Describe what you're seeing to me as if I've never seen it. Tell me what you think about it."
She cleared her throat as her gaze shifted again. "It's a pen and ink drawing, in color. In the forest. It looks like a David Delamare. A man has been attacked by a woman with...wings and fangs. Like a harpy, only beautiful, with raven dark hair falling over her shoulders. She's crouched over his groin, her wings folded back, teeth bared. You can see where she's scratched his chest with her talons. He's bleeding.
Naked, his garments and armor stripped...as if he's a knight...scattered in piles in the clearing where she's torn it haphazardly all off him. She's just started to lower herself onto his erection and though you can tell she's forced him to this moment, something has happened. He's gotten one hand loose to reach up to her face."
"Even though she could tear him to shreds, he now desires her more than fears her," Tyler suggested.
"Yes. But it's more than the fact he desires her. The way he's touching her face...he's offering...more."
"And what's she doing?"
"She's...looking down at him. You can tell it's...she's not sure. She didn't expect her savagery to be met with desire. With love. You can't tell if the next moment is going to be one of blood or passion."
"The interesting thing is that's an adaptation from a medieval religious engraving.
It was intended as a rendering of an agent of the Devil trying to tempt and destroy the soul of a poor sinner but the artist took it and provided a different interpretation. Do you like it?"
"Yes," she said after a moment. "What are you looking at?" You, he wanted to tell her. There were two angled mirrors that allowed him a clear view of her profile without her being able to see him. Her shifts in gaze, her expression as she studied the artwork, intrigued him. He wished he'd thought to open her blouse before he'd restrained her so he could see the small curves rising up over the top of her bra and know if her nipples were puckering into hard points. Her fingers were twitching against his, suggesting agitation, possible arousal. Or just the fact she didn't like his proximity, he reflected wryly.
"First, tell me if you like the one of the man's cock. And why or why not."
"I like it. The detail. The stillness. A moment of reality you don't usually get to study at your leisure before the view changes."
"Well, unless you have Viagra."
"That's not what I meant." There was a smile in her voice, though. It pleased him to know he could touch her sense of humor. "The hairs on his legs, the line of muscle in his thighs, the curve of ass, the planes of his abdomen. His hands..."
"You like his hands." He caught the slight inflection and pounced on it.
Her fingers flexed in his and he heard a quiet swallow. Testing, he began to move his index finger on a slow glide up the center of her palm. "Why?"
"Tyler." She stilled further at the caressing touch. "Are you... It feels like you're seducing me. Trying to seduce me," she amended.
"Does it? You sound surprised."
"It doesn't seem necessary."
"That's because you don't have to seduce or flirt with men, Mistress Marguerite." He leaned his head back on her shoulder, turning to brush her cheek, smile up into her confused eyes. "You are a seduction. A man looks at you and not even a siren's voice would tear him away from your side, or keep him from seeing to your desires. But the rest of us poor Doms..." His thumb drifted to her wrist, stroked that erogenous zone.
He felt her shoulder shudder where it was pressed under his. "We must endure the torment of flirtation. The tedious, monotonous arts of active seduction." Despite her best struggle, he saw that tightening of her facial muscles he was beginning to recognize as her version of a smile, the resistance to one.
"Tyler, I really don't like you."
"I'm glad you told me," he said gravely, wishing he was free to turn around and kiss a smile onto her mouth, a real one. He had a suspicion that those blue eyes could sparkle like diamonds when she was truly happy. He lifted his head, returning them to their back-to-back position where she thought he couldn't see her. "Tell me about his hands."
"They're...capable. You'd think the cock would be the focal point of the picture but because they've brought his hand into it, underscored its functionality by showing it stroking and stimulating him, you begin to think of the other things his hand could do if..."
"If?"
"If he stepped out of the picture."
"Nicely said."
"You still haven't told me what you're looking at."
"Marilyn Monroe's breasts."
"Excuse me?"
"It's a molding. Not from the real ones, because the artist unfortunately was just a boy when that wonderful lady passed out of our lives but he studied her movies, photographs. Interviewed two privileged gentlemen who had the honor of seeing them uncovered. He chose to mold them as they would have been toward the latter end of her life, when they were fuller, heavier, ripe." Tyler paused, searching for the right words. "When I saw it, I saw what he intended. The breasts of a woman... They're her life, her vulnerability, one of the most powerful of her allures. Have you ever noticed when a woman touches herself for pleasure at The Zone, she often starts with her breasts, almost as fascinated with their perfection as men are? But while our interest is often atavistic, hers is more reverent, as if thanking Mother Goddess for a gift that ties the woman to Her. And I suppose that's why he also sculpted her hands beneath them, cupping them. The vulgar would say that it represents what she offered to the world. They'd mean it in a crass way that denied her value, the fact that she captured our hearts as much as our sexual fantasies.
She was a woman in every sense of the word. Every man wishes he could have saved her, helped her see the world was a far better place than she knew and that she was stronger than she realized."
"I think you're idealizing her. She likely was as difficult and mundane as any of us."
"I reserve the right to make up my own story behind the art." Switching gears on her, he curled his forefinger and thumb around one wrist.
"You're fine-boned for your height. No jewelry, though. You don't wear it much but when you do... That was some show of ice at The Zone. If that robber had known you were carrying those on you, he would have fought a lot harder. Probably cut your throat."
When his grip tightened on her, just thinking about it, her fingers touched his, a reassurance that stilled him, made him loosen a bit. He cleared his throat. "Tell me your favorite piece of all of those you see in front of you. Don't think about it, just say it." His sudden possessive protectiveness was almost more unsettling than his moments of physical seduction. Marguerite struggled to stay up with him. "They're all beautiful. You've got exquisite taste, Tyler."
"I certainly do." He pinched her knuckle and she wiggled her finger free.
"Now you're flirting."
"A Master? We never flirt. We merely wave our hand and command our sub to fall to her knees in slavish devotion. We never cajole, coax, flirt, seduce..." He tilted his head, this time toward her other side. Catching her braid in his teeth, he gave it a tug and succeeded in catching the band holding it. When she jerked her head away, he was able to pull it down six or seven inches, off the base, so that the braided strands started to loosen.
"Tyler Winterman - "
"Tell me your favorite. Stop being a polite guest, trying to say all the right things."
"The statue in the left corner. I like the statue. And the chair near it. Though it's not part of the artwork."
"Describe the statue."
"It's a man and a woman. It's done in brown clay and she's... He's behind her, his arms outside her arms, both in a vee, pointing down the front of her body, all four hands clasped just at her vagina. They're bent over. His legs are spread, hers together, and it's obvious he's inside of her. Her head is back on his shoulder, his is tilted forward, his lips on her opposite shoulder. They're perfectly meshed, unified. I like the lines of it."
"Get past the artistry. What does it say, what does your heart say when you look at it?"
I wish I was her. The thought came to her mind uncensored but she couldn't say it.
"The look on her face...moves me. She's not thinking of anything but this, doesn't have to. Nothing is touching her, filling her but him. She's an empty vessel, filled by him."
He was silent. She knew he knew there was more. "And you like the chair," he said at last.
She let out the tense breath she was holding, relieved he hadn't pressed. "Yes. What do you call it?"
"A tete-a-tete." The design was like two chairs facing in opposite directions, side by side but curved as one pair, so the two backs formed an intimate S-shape that would allow a man to reach over and lay an arm around the waist of his lover. However, separated by the opposite arm, they had to maintain a seductive distance. "There were many subtly suggestive items in the Victorian era," he noted. "During sexually repressed times, I think people just get more creative."
"That chair seems to be more romantic than sexual."
"You think so?" He shifted to consider it, which rubbed his shoulder against hers again. He was so much broader there, reminding her how infrequently she allowed her subs to get close enough to her to compare the differences in their body types. "If you and I were sitting there, side by side, you know what I'd do?"
"I'm not going to encourage you."
Tyler smiled to himself. "Do you also realize that many of the most popular sexual role-playing games we've adopted are associated with that time period? For instance, I can imagine you as a prim schoolmistress, saying what you just said to me, the naughty student. I come back after class is over, having loosened my cravat, tossed away my neat stockings. I take away your ruler and turn you over my knee for once, throwing that skirt over your back, feeling the press of your waist against my thigh, seeing your trim pantaloons beneath. Wondering what it would be like to take those down your stockinged legs while you're struggling, kicking in those dainty little boots..."
"While I maneuver for a clutch grip on your crotch to get you to let me go." He winced. "You and Mistress Violet have similar mean streaks." But he noticed her eyes had moved back to the photo Cry Mercy and her pale face had more color than before.
"Now if I were in that chair, I might try to steal a kiss. Or maybe go lower, kiss every inch of your lovely throat, down to the first button of that stiff shirt. I'd bite it off with my teeth, then the next one. Run my tongue in the valley between your breasts, nuzzle your soft skin, nip at the lace holding it. But what would your more romantic version be?"
She couldn't grasp any image now except the one he'd just painted. Imagining.
"I see you're fascinated with Cry Mercy." Her gaze jerked up and he saw her realize at last that he could see every expression of her face.
"It's interesting, isn't it?" he continued in a mild tone. "How the photographer chose to keep everything in black and white except for that one ruffle of pink lace across the widest curve of her ass? And you can't help but think of another area so delicately pink and female, waiting for a tongue, a hand or cock to slide into its welcoming warmth. Now, answer me. What was your romantic version for the chair?" The creases of her palm were damp enough to please him. He was equally pleased by the tension he felt in her body now that she knew there was nothing she'd been able to hide from him.
She drew in a breath, then another. He admired her ability to continue to regroup, rebalance, no matter how often he was seducing her off the pedestal.
"Just sitting like that, the closeness, the arrangement of the chair speaking for itself, saying that the two people in it have a connection, or want more of a connection than they ever had up to that point. The suggestion of things to come. That's romantic. And I guess you've proven it can be sexual, too. That's a dirty trick," she added. "The mirrors."
He lifted one shoulder in a brief shrug. "The point is the sub learns there's nothing she can hide from her Master, that she's to be open to him in all things."
"She doesn't deserve any privacy?"
"No," he said simply. "Not if the Master is going to give her the pleasure she deserves." And needs.
He removed the slat of the chair to free the cuffs from it. When he moved to the floor, he felt her watching him as he brought the cuffs under his hips and pulled his long legs through the loop of his arms in a lithe, practiced move. Bending, he fished the key to his cuffs out of the melted ice, unlocked them. Then he came around the chair to squat between her spread legs, laying one palm on each kneecap.
"You look like you've done that a few times in your life." Her breathing was beginning to elevate, he suspected because he was so close and she was completely helpless before him.
"More than a few."
Sliding his hands up her thighs, he studied her face as he moved inch by inch up the inside until his thumbs were resting just shy of the spread crotch, framing it. With her arms behind her, her breasts were well displayed before him, the white shirt pulled taut across them. He suppressed the urge to unbutton her shirt, fondle them in whatever underwear she'd chosen to wear beneath it. If she'd dressed to the skin in the same theme, it would likely be something as practical and nonsexual as the rest.
Clothed even in armor, her breasts would attract him. "The strongest drive inside of a submissive, underneath all their emotional wounds, is for the Master to push aside any curtains or walls they may have erected to separate them from their true self, the naked, vulnerable soul. Because that soul wants only one thing. Do you want to know what that is?"
She tightened her jaw, looked through him until he touched her face. Not with forceful compulsion but a whispering caress that drew her gaze back to him.
"You'll answer me, Marguerite."
"I don't want to know. That's not what the training's about."
"Wrong. That's what submissive training is all about. Getting past those shields so she feels truly bound to her Master, a part of him as he's a part of her. The ultimate connection, where thought isn't necessary. They're together in the most elemental and perfect way there is."
She stared at him. "Let me go, Tyler. I can't do this."
"You can. You will." He framed her face, leaned forward, pressed his lips to her cheek, her forehead, the curve of her ear. Her body shook under his touch and he kept his touch soothing, gentle, stroking the wisps of hair around her face. He'd gone to one knee to accomplish the nuzzling caresses. His leg pressed against the inside of hers, the front of his shirt brushing hers, his breath warm on the side of her neck. "It will be all right, Marguerite. I won't let anything happen to you. I promise." He drew back, just a space. Marguerite saw that his eyes were almost gold in the room's light. To his right she saw the brown statue she liked so much. The woman who could just be in the moment, a part of her lover, worrying about nothing further.
She closed her eyes, looking for something solid but the only thing she could feel was his touch on her body. "Why is my key still in ice?" She opened her eyes.
His lips curved. "I put it in a bigger ice cube."