French Quarter, New Orleans, Twelve Years Later
Lyle shook his head in a slow arc, scratching across his chin with the tip of his thumbnail as he studied the man in front of him.
Jonah Warner was someone he trusted. Ruger, nicknamed for his preferred type of iron, stood as tall as Lyle but twice as broad. Not a man to be trifled with, he was known for being slow to anger but quick to respond when pushed. “Man, you know it ain’t right.”
Lyle shook his head again, flattening his palm on top of the table they shared. “Ruger, it might not be right, but it ain’t wrong, either.”
“There’s only so much a man can stand.” Ruger turned and leaned straight-armed and stiff against the railing in front of him. Lyle stepped up next to him and surveyed the scene below. They were on an external balcony on the second floor of a building in the French Quarter. The street in front of them was flooded by the typical weekend mass of tourists milling, drinks in hand. They’d been called to the place earlier in the afternoon by Torment, the president of the Common Enemy, a motorcycle club both had been hanging around, the reason for the call still unclear.
Sure the club was partying in the room behind them, but that was not much different from the open clubhouse parties they’d attended. If anything, the group had been less welcoming than normal, murmurs of surprise accompanying their arrival.
Then the girls had shown up. Bought-for-the-night whores from a known cathouse, experienced women for the most part. One girl was obviously new, claiming a barely legal eighteen as her age, but her blushes and shy stammering labeled her more innocent than not. The club president had latched onto that one, and from his persistence, would not be letting go. The girl had been schooled in how to comport herself, not resisting or complaining, even when the man’s hands turned rough underneath her clothing. But her physical flinches of pain were visible, and Ruger wasn’t on board with what was clearly going to happen tonight.
Shouts of laughter filtered through the closed glass doors behind them, and Lyle turned around in time to see Torment strip the girl’s dress from her body, leaving her standing in a scrap of fabric for panties.
Ruger snapped upright at Lyle’s groan and whirled around. He’d taken two steps before Lyle stopped him. “She signed up for this.”
“You cannot tell me she knew what this party would bring.” Ruger’s neck twisted, and he glared at Lyle. “She’s just a fuckin’ kid.”
“Give me ten minutes. All I ask. I’ll have a distraction here, and you can whisk her away if you want.” Lyle shoved past him and opened the door, looking over his shoulder to return Ruger’s glare. “Ten minutes, brother.”
Inside the room, he scooped up a jar of the potent moonshine the members had been drinking and lifted it to his nose, suppressing a shiver when the rancid scent hit him. “Torment.” His call was calculated to distract, loud enough to reach the president, not sharp enough to warrant alarm. “Thought I could do a demonstration for y’all.” He shrugged, lifted the jar to his mouth, and pretended to take a drink. Rolling his head back, he shouted towards the ceiling. “Whoa, Jesus. That’s the good shit.” Lyle shook his head as if disoriented, then took another step towards Torment, reseated now with the naked girl on his lap. “Heard you were interested in my…interests, so to speak.” He dug in his pocket and withdrew his phone, wagging it in his fingers. “One call, and you’ll see it all.” Lyle tipped his head to one side and pursed his lips. “Interested, or nah?”
“Oh yeah, brother.” Torment slipped out from underneath the girl, letting her settle into his seat as he stepped towards Lyle. “I’d be very interested in a little demonstration.” The hunger on the man’s face was vicious and dark. “Been asking for this for a while. What do you need?”
Lyle made a show of looking up, marking the high ceiling. “Nothin’ special. That’s about twelve feet, wouldn’t you say? Plenty of room for what I need.” He tapped a number on his contact list and put the call on speaker as it rang the second time. The call connected, and he spoke gruffly, tone strict and hard. “Monique, this is Master Lyle.” He rattled off the address, conveniently close to his sometime playmate’s apartment. “I expect you prepared and here in five minutes. You and I will be providing the entertainment for the night.”
Smooth as silk, she responded, “Yes, Sir.”
Lyle disconnected and locked gazes with Torment. “I gotta get something from my bike.”
“Of course.” Waving his hand magnanimously, the president granted permission. Behind him, Ruger had maneuvered the girl out of the chair, retrieved her dress, and was already walking her through a door on the far side of the room. Torment had heard the door closing and whirled around, a slow rage beginning to roll off him as he realized what had happened. Do I really want to be part of what this guy stands for? He wasn’t patched, not yet, but if he didn’t change trajectories, Lyle knew he’d become part of the club in days, not months.
Lyle left the shouting man behind and made his way downstairs. He grabbed his small bag from where it was strapped on his bike, then waited in the doorway. Monique strode up soon after he’d taken up his position. He watched her from half a block away, her hips swaying as she stalked the sidewalk in her heels. A camel-colored coat was wrapped around her torso, tightly covered from throat to knees, regardless of the heat of the New Orleans evening. That’s promising.
Monique stopped in front of him, chin to her chest as she threaded her fingers together behind her back. Her posture was impeccable: shoulders back, breasts lifted, the language of her stance spoke of a confident submissive. Open, ready, and patient. Waiting.
He reached for her and drifted the back of a single finger along one cheek, smiling as she subtly leaned into the touch. “Monique, you’ll use the stoplight system tonight. But you know me well enough I hope you’ll trust me to push you as far as I think you can go. These men who will be observing will not touch you. From the moment we walk through that door, until I say the scene is over, you’re mine.”
“Yes, Sir.” Her breathing was shaky and shallow. From the flush in her cheeks, he read it as excitement, not fear. Her tongue darted out, slipping across her bottom lip. Oh, yeah, she gonna be all the way into it.
As long as he could remember, he’d enjoyed having total control over his sexual partners. Since Florida. That was a thought he couldn’t afford tonight, and he cast it out. Shelly had fulfilled the emotional portion of what he’d seen as a perfect relationship. She might not have wanted his natural, untrained dominance, something he’d had to tone back for her, but he’d been deeply bonded to her. Long ago and far away.
Lyle had been in the scene since one of his more memorable attempts at forgetting had resulted in being introduced to the broad world of BDSM. It was at that moment Lyle had found his casual interest in that all-important control had bloomed into an exploration of pleasure and pain, paired with tenderness. Safe, sane, and consensual was the backbone of what he enjoyed and the tenet of various clubs he’d frequented. That was how he’d first encountered Monique, scening at an exclusive club in New Orleans.
Pleasure was a major factor for Lyle. He liked pleasure for himself, but even more, he liked turning on his partners, and as a chaser, also had a deep enjoyment of denying them when it suited his mood. All part of the lifestyle’s control aspect he found so appealing. Part of what Monique enjoyed was impact play, which was what they’d be demonstrating tonight. Lyle had already intended to go to the club after the party, and the bag he’d retrieved held everything he needed to put on the scene Torment would be expecting.
As he continued to caress Monique’s cheek, then trailed his touch down her throat to the collar of her coat, he tracked her emotional state. She settled, steadying underneath his hand, until she blew out a long, deep stream of air, releasing the last of her nervousness.
“I plan on fucking you.” From the sound she made in her throat, he knew Monique was on board with the idea. “And beyond that, I have a couple of surprises for you, but my intent is to make you fly, sub. Do you want to fly tonight?”
“Ye—” Monique’s mouth dropped open, forming a perfect “O” of arousal. “Yes, Sir.”
“Remind me of our agreement.” He knew her desires by heart, but giving her a direct order to voice them would empower her while also framing her expectations for the scene.
“Impact play with intimate contact, Sir. Restraints permitted if it pleases Sir.”
“And the rest?” There was a longer list of desires, but she’d previously also communicated a group of hard limits. He wanted to know for certain there’d been no shifts in her boundaries. No surprises for the Dom, darlin’.
“No breath play, no fisting or double penetration, no humiliation, no incest role play, and no bodily fluid exchange.” Underneath his thumb, her heartbeat still pounded away, even as her shoulders relaxed and lowered. “Sir.” The simple statement of the rules affirmed not only that she was in control of her emotions but also that they were about to do a scene that would turn her on. Turn them both on, something he’d do his best to minimize on his side of the line so he could stay alert to potential threats in the room. And the fact I gotta do this shit with a group of men I’m considering patchin’ with says a lot about the quality of my friends. Ruger excluded.
His palm grazed her shoulder, traveled down her fabric-covered arm until his thumb and fingers encircled her wrist. He gave a sharp tug, and she flowed with the physical demand, swaying as she took a step towards him.
Without a word, he turned and strode into the building, pulling her along behind him.
Time to pay the piper on his diversionary tactic. I just hope Ruger knows what he’s doing, pissing off Torment like this.