AMÉLIE
She slid out of the booth with murmurings of “good night” and “have fun,” taking her stiletto-heeled-sandal-shod feet with the will of steel her mother had begun the process of instilling in her and her training as a Domme had completed.
She could not have her legs give out on her and she could not expose her nervous anticipation.
And she wouldn’t.
But, God, she had not felt like this in years. That sub she’d spied or she’d had who was so promising or such a transcendent experience to play with that she could barely control her own reactions to exploring that promise or again feeling the wholeness, togetherness, oneness with another.
She moved in his direction, no game playing. She didn’t even glance at Stellan in his booth.
Amélie didn’t participate in those games, not ever. There was no reason for her to be coy with a sub.
And she moved with the gait and bearing that it was solely her mother who’d ingrained in her in the sporadic times they’d had together, doing it with an unrelenting fervor that it would take the threat of death to force her to move any other way.
Chin up. Shoulders straight and slightly back. A sway of her hips so subtle, it was elusive. Long, confident strides.
Amélie could walk a catwalk.
She could also make a specimen she was approaching get so hard his cock was aching by the time she made it to him.
She hadn’t even gone halfway when he sensed her approach and she was gratified that his response was instantaneous.
He pushed from the wall. He turned fully to face her. And she felt his eyes drop, not with the respect a sub owed a Domme, but to take her in from sandals to hair.
Then his gaze locked on hers and he didn’t look away.
He didn’t look away.
He watched her approach not like he was taking the risky liberty he was taking but like it was his God-given right.
Amélie felt her clit quiver.
She arrived at him, stopping several feet away, knowing that the minute her body language made it clear she was going in for the capture, most eyes in the room, if not all, were on her.
She did not care about this. Not that she’d ever care about this (which she wouldn’t), but because, now close to him, she found to her enchanted surprise, he was not big.
He was colossal.
A mighty beast.
A magnificent beast.
Exquisite.
He was not six foot five. He was at least six-six, more likely six-seven. A mountain of compacted muscle encased in a very fine, very expensive suit.
Taking him in, in proximity, she wanted him more than she’d already wanted him. She wanted no boundaries. She wanted everything. Her diverse skill set, experience, imagination, creativity, and if it came down to it, sheer determination and grit, she’d utilize it all to wring him dry in a way he’d contemplate murder in order to have the opportunity to come back for more.
She was on the verge of speaking when he did.
His direct gaze appreciative, an arrogant smile curving his full lips, he asked, “How you doin’, sweetheart?”
She froze.
Full eye contact. Speaking without being spoken to. Using an unconsented and unearned endearment.
The already damp gusset of her panties soaked to the point her wet crept up the silk of her front and back sides.
But her brows snapped together, her censure clear, and her lips ordered, “Follow me.”
She shifted on her sandal and strode toward the door to the playrooms.
She did this and did not look back to see if he followed.
A feeling so foreign she almost didn’t recognize it, that being fear of rejection, stole through her belly as she moved unerringly toward the door.
The feeling melted and elation replaced it as she felt him following.
She stopped at the door, moving slightly to the side, and he finally demonstrated his understanding of the game. He opened the door for her and held it as she moved through.
However, he did this with his eyes firmly planted on her breasts.
He was deliciously unbelievable.
He was not green, even though his actions might communicate that. Aryas didn’t allow beginner subs to roam the hunting ground. He allowed membership to them and they were available for play to only a small cadre of Aryas-approved Dominants who would guide them through the submissive experience with unerring attention to detail.
Amélie was an approved Domme. Even so, she had long since stopped partaking. She had a wealth of patience, but she also had a wealth of practice.
If she could not find what her heart and pussy desired in a sea of practiced subs, putting the effort into training one would be an exercise in futility. A gesture of benevolence she simply no longer had any interest in offering.
So she didn’t.
Knowing Aryas would not approve him for the hunt, or accept him without references from two Dominants who’d worked him, that gave light to three possibilities for his behavior.
The first, he liked punishment and from the get-go wanted her to know that.
The second, being aware of his uniqueness in any realm, definitely this one, and his attraction to the opposite sex, not to mention his natural alpha bent, he thought he could top from below (this, incidentally, would be in his profile as a note, something which would be shared by one or both of his previous Mistresses … or Masters).
The third, he’d thrown down the gauntlet. He felt he was unbreakable but he wanted to see her try.
She hoped like all hell it was the third. The first, she could do … and enjoy it. The second, she had no interest in (obviously).
The third would be nirvana.
She entered the darkened hall that led to the maze of playrooms. There were forty-five. Some small, almost closets. Some large, for group play. Most a uniform size but equipped for different types of scenes.
When Amélie came to the club and did not know which toy she’d be selecting, she always reserved two rooms.
One was utilitarian. Perfectly appointed for its purpose, it didn’t offer anything special.
The second, Aryas actually had designed specifically for her. Even so, she rarely used it for she never took a new sub there and it was with disheartening infrequency a sub earned the reward of the wealth she could offer him there.
Not thinking about why she chose as she did, she made her decision of where she intended to take her beast. Only glancing into the floor-to-ceiling-windowed cube rooms that had their blinds raised for display of play, Amélie strode purposefully along the wide, plush burgundy-carpeted passageways that made up the cobweb of playrooms.
In one of her glances, she caught Talia with Bryan. He was naked, ass in the air, ball gag in his mouth, stretched over her legs getting his spanking.
The ball gag was a creative solution, one that almost made her smile.
She did not smile.
She led her brute to her special room.
There were two others appointed for its purpose.
This one might be used by others, but it was still hers.
The silhouette blinds were drawn. Through them, due to her reserving it, she saw the lights were on and this time, she did not wait for her selected specimen of the evening to open the door for her.
She opened it and took only a moment to flip the switch by the door that would tell the control room this space was now being used, a mandatory requirement of all Doms the instant they entered a playroom. This was so staff could turn on the cameras and open the other room she’d reserved.
That done, she walked right to the center of the room.
She turned to him and saw him automatically duck, as if the top of the frame of the door could not always be assumed would be one he wouldn’t run right into.
It was a sight that made him even more alluring.
As he slowly closed the door behind him and moved his eyes to look through the room, taking it in, she watched them get wide.
They dropped to her and his amusement was clear. Not only radiating from his gaze but twitching at his lips.
Another unusual—and unacceptable—reaction.
He thought this was funny.
She hoped like fuck she had the opportunity to prove him wrong.
She crossed her arms on her chest and slightly put out a foot, like she was about to start tapping her toe. In the wrap dress she wore, she knew this opened the overlap, not exposing anything, but the promise for him was impossible to resist.
His attention dropped to her legs.
“In the playrooms,” she began with a snap, and his gaze cut up to hers, “I want eye contact. Unless otherwise instructed, you should not only feel free to look me directly in the eyes, if I’m in your line of sight or I’m not giving you something that your body’s natural reaction would make it difficult to meet my gaze, I require it.”
She stood there staring as he did nothing but dip his chin in acknowledgment.
Cheeky.
Exceptionally cheeky.
Fabulous.
“Unless I’ve asked for their silence or for them to ask for leave to speak, I also require my toys to respond when they’re spoken to. Even if it’s only a ‘yes, Mistress,’ or ‘no, Mistress.’”
His stance relaxed, like he was settling in at the beginning of a show he found vaguely intriguing, and his deep rumble of a voice bounced like boulders through the room. “Yes, Mistress.”
Christ, even his voice declared his challenge.
“Excellent,” she allowed. “Your name?”
“Olivier,” he answered.
French.
Also unusual, at least in this country. And interesting.
She liked it a great deal.
She studied him.
He let her, holding her eyes.
“I’m Mistress Amélie,” she eventually informed him.
“I know. You got a lotta fans out there … Mistress.”
The hesitation over him saying “Mistress” gave less of the impression he was testing her and more of the strange impression the word was unpracticed when, with any experienced sub, it would slip right off their tongue.
She made no comment to that.
“There are things we should go over,” she remarked.
“Right,” he stated, his big body adjusting again, now like he was settling in further, intent on giving her the same attention he would a flight attendant who gave the safety address.
That being no more than a courtesy.
She fought the shiver his actions created but allowed the irritation.
“Your safe word is kitten,” she stated.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“You’re open to any kind of play,” she went on.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“It’s important and now’s the time to share should there be anything you wish me to shy away from, Olivier. Especially as this is the first time I’ve played with you.”
Something in his eyes flashed. Blue eyes that were the color of nothing and everything. Not sky. Not sea. Not midnight. A pure blue that only existed in the unchartable depths of a rainbow.
She felt that flash snake up between her thighs, taking residence in her womb.
He wanted this conversation done so she would play with him. He wanted the preliminaries over so they’d get to the good stuff.
He wanted her.
She stared into those blue eyes and for a moment felt mesmerized.
For God’s sake, Leigh, she berated herself in an effort to pull it together. Rainbow?
“Olivier,” she prompted.
“I’m open to anything,” he confirmed.
She threw her hand out, indicating the padded vault, the displayed tack … the stall.
“Anything?” she pushed.
He held her gaze like a dare. “Anything.” Again his lips twitched. “Mistress.”
She quieted and took him in.
Aryas would not let a voyeur past the front door. Amélie fancied he’d paid secret spy guys like the gentleman in the Bond film who created all the devices that got James out of a bind to set up a force field that would instantly eject anyone who wished to use the Bee’s Honey as a curiosity or to get their rocks off observing and not participating (thus not embracing the lifestyle). Certainly not someone who found the whole thing amusing.
“Am I amusing you?” she whispered, the whisper holding a tremor that was not of fear but of anger.
His face set hard and his two words were so firm, the boulders again came tumbling.
“Absolutely not.”
“Then can you explain your humor?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Sure. You are un-fucking-believably beautiful. You’re also un-fucking-believably hot. But I wouldn’t guess with the acres that make all of you, every inch of it so damned sweet, you’re a walking wet dream, that when you get riled you’re also un-fucking-believably cute. And there is no way in fuck five minutes ago, you told me a gorgeous redhead was gonna lead me to a room and make me her pony, I would be cool with that. But standin’ here with you, I’m totally fuckin’ cool with that.”
It took a good deal, and she expended every bit of effort she needed to accomplish it, but at his final two points, Amélie didn’t blink.
Instead, she decided to finish this part up.
Immediately.
“I must confirm you have no boundaries or rules.”
“Got no rules or boundaries, babe.”
Her voice held ice when she demanded, “You will refrain from calling me endearments I have not expressly allowed or you have not earned the right to use by pleasing me.”
He was ready to roll, too, so he didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, Mistress.”
“And I’ll remind you not five seconds ago you mentioned you wouldn’t be…” she hesitated, as if using slang was beneath her (when it wasn’t), “cool with pony play and I would mark words like that as a boundary.”
“Mistress,” he said softly, “there is a lot of shit that goes on in rooms like these that, if you told me somewhere out there in the real world I’d be deep in it, I would not be cool with it. That’s the point of this gig. Am I right? You close yourself off to anything, you put your own damned self in a situation where you might be closing yourself off from everything.”
He had a point.
An excellent one.
And that point proved he was no newbie.
She nodded.
“Right then, is there anything specific you don’t particularly enjoy?”
“Humiliation,” he stated instantly. “And, obviously, Mistress, if you agree, I don’t wanna be on display.”
There was a good deal there.
The instantaneousness of his first reply smacked the room like a boundary he refused, for some reason, to admit he had.
The second part of his reply—precisely the way he communicated it—was not in the normal language of an experienced sub. If you agree would be if it pleases you.
Again, it gave the uncomfortable impression of an untried toy.
However, watching him closely, the ease with which he held himself, the line of his frame that only tightened when he’d said the word humiliation, the obvious changes happening at the bulge of his groin as they moved through this conversation, bringing them closer to their purpose for being there, she suspected he did it deliberately.
That play was unusual. It was affecting, furthering his clear stamp as an alpha-sub, something she found magnetic. It was respectful and thus it didn’t earn her censure.
But there was something wrong.
Before she could put her finger on it, he finished, “And I’m not real big on ass play.”
It took more of an effort to control her reaction to that.
Not everyone enjoyed that.
In the outside world.
In the D/s world, full access, especially to places that had significantly heightened senses of vulnerability, was not only given, but toying with and manipulating them was entreated, yearned for, craved.
In fact, the foundation of their practice was losing control, or acquiring it, gaining access, exposing vulnerabilities, pushing boundaries, redefining comfort zones (repeatedly), leading, guiding, following, resisting your limits and then settling into understanding them.
For a sub, this boiled down to letting go.
For a submissive, letting go meant offering the gift of trust to their Dominant, a gift that was all the sweeter when you offered up your most guarded vulnerabilities and allowed another to exchange that gift with physical and emotional rewards that were beyond your comprehension.
For another moment, Amélie took him in. All of him. What she felt coming from him. The way he held himself. Harking back to his even tone, the matter-of-factness of confirming and sharing information. His easy acceptance of her mild remonstrations and quick corrections, adhering to her rules.
An untried or inexperienced sub would be a ball of nerves. Even with this powerhouse, he couldn’t hide it. The anxiety would be palpable.
And again, there was not a chance Aryas would have allowed him to be open to selection without at the very least putting a note in his profile.
But he simply wouldn’t do it. Aryas didn’t believe in the art, he practiced the religion of the Dominant/submissive world from neophyte to high priest and priestess.
She made her decision.
“Very well, Olivier. Take your clothes off, please.”
And it was a decision well made for there it was again. A flash in his blue eyes, there and gone, exposing his excitement, communicating his readiness, and if she had anything to do about it (and she was going to give it her all), an early indication of his need.
His need that would become her need.
His need that was not needy, it was just pure, flawless need.
His need that only she, in this moment, in this session, during this scene, could satisfy.
He shrugged off his suit jacket.
The revelation of his shoulders covered in nothing but his blue-black shirt made her mouth get dry.
She forced a swallow.
“Place your clothing on the hooks by the door,” she ordered. “Shoes with socks tucked inside lined up beside the door.”
She found herself curious when he turned immediately to the two hooks in the narrow area of wall by the frame of the door (most of the rest of the wall space that weren’t beams where useful implements were hung were windows).
Her curiosity was that she would assume with a man of his beauty, he’d at the very least display himself to her.
And during play, he would know she wished him to do that.
But more basically, any sub knew they didn’t turn their back on their Mistress, especially not in such close proximity and most especially not during a scene.
Instead, he’d done just that, moving to the hooks, putting his jacket there. His hands going to the buttons on his shirt, making light work of them.
Then, with a phenomenal shrug of his massive shoulders, the shirt was gone and Amélie didn’t care if she had his front, back, side, or he was undressing behind a screen.
She struggled to keep her legs from trembling as her pussy started clenching like his cock was driving into her.
This struggle continued after shoes came off, he did as instructed with them and his socks, and down came the pants with his underwear.
She saw his thighs.
She saw his ass.
He was a beast.
A brute.
An incomparable steed.
The dents at the sides of his ass carved into full bulging globes that made her fingers actually itch to drag her nails over them.
And do much, much more.
On that thought, he turned.
And when he did, she gathered everything she had to keep her legs and hands steady, her eyes impassive, her face mildly interested, even as her heart beat a tattoo so deep in her chest, it seemed to thrum in the room.
She’d been very right.
He was a brute, an incomparable steed.
Hung long and thick, his hard cock stood out proud, but heavy. The mammoth length of it hard weighted his erection down, so much it nearly blocked her view of his sac.
However, his sac was as impressive as his cock, hanging high and tight between his legs, nestled with his impressive phallus in a nest of burnished brown curls. But his balls were so big, they, too, hung tight but heavy.
It was instinct and training that made her voice strong when she took two steps backward and commanded, “Come here, Olivier. The middle of the room where the ring is in the floor. Stop there, please.”
The flash from his eyes again, the degree of heat emanating from it hotter, the length longer.
He moved as told and stopped where instructed.
“Lift your arms, hands clasped behind your head.”
As she’d ordered, his gaze came to hers.
No flash then.
He was gone.
He was hers.
Amélie knew this because the pure blue of his eyes had darkened considerably and she saw no rainbow.
All she saw was night.
She dropped her gaze and noted the angle of his cock had dropped considerably as well. It was longer, harder, heavier.
She noticed his movement and watched with extreme pleasure as he lifted up his arms and clasped his hands behind his head.
She took him in, in this pose, all of him. The bulge of his biceps that she was certain she could wrap both hands around and the tips of her fingers would not meet. The chest scattered with the same burnished brown hair as between his legs, a good deal of it, but it was short, blunt, almost like it had been shaved and growing back, but she suspected, even so far as hoped, it was natural. This gathered and thickened in a line just above the navel in his flat, ridged belly, the line opening, widening, melding into the hair that based his cock. The hair was longer on his legs, but still relatively short and blunt, decorating the trunks that nature had appropriately seen fit to support his bulk, providing perfect appendages to complement a package that was an overall thing of beauty.
The hair on his head was not blond. It was not brown. It was lighter than it was darker, definitely lighter than the hair that adorned the rest of his body, and it had the same burnish of the hair between his legs.
She moved around him slowly, continuing to draw him in, memorize him, for if they only had this one session, she wanted to remember it forever. Savor the Adonis fate saw fit to drop into her sphere, even if he broke in fifteen minutes, which meant she’d never have such a moment again because she’d never select him again.
She slowly made her way around him, inspecting the dizzying array of muscles on his back, again appreciating the curves and hollows of his backside, allowing her eyes to caress the wealth of visible sinews carving along his forearms.
And his hands.
Strong. Capable. Long fingers that matched the rest of his body, ending in squared-off tips. They were oddly elegant and at the same time virile, and she fancied in studying them they were longer than most cocks.
Which meant just with the length, if he knew how to use them, he could bring her to orgasm thrusting them inside her.
He was no Adonis.
He was Zeus.
She drew her lips in, wetting them, feeling the saturated soak in her panties that was beginning to coat her upper thighs, gathering her wits as she finished her slow circle and came to stand several feet in front of him again.
His eyes were on hers.
Her eyes dropped to his dick.
Yes, he enjoyed this. His balls were even tighter in his scrotum, his cock hanging so heavy, it looked painful.
“Do I pass inspection, Mistress?”
Again with the cheek.
But there was now a thread to it, an edge. Not pure impudence. He could no longer pull that off.
He’d been affected by her perusal. He tried to hide it but he’d failed.
Amélie gave him her gaze.
“You do know…” she said softly and took a step toward him.
She allowed her eyes to roam his face.
God, she wanted to touch him.
Please, please, please do not let him break in fifteen minutes, she begged the fates and moved her attention back to his eyes. Or ever, she ended her plea surprisingly.
Before she could allow that thought rising unexpectedly to tear into her concentration, she took another step toward him.
He flicked his gaze down, it came back hungrier, and she watched him draw his lower lip between his teeth and slide it against that white ridge until it was free.
At the sight, her breasts grew heavy, her nipples strained the fabric of her bra, his exposure of his desire, to have her closer, for her to touch him, the baring of those teeth, oh yes.
She wanted very badly to touch him.
“That your opening line out there was unacceptable,” she finished her earlier thought.
He looked boyishly confused for a second, it was intensely endearing for that second, as he muttered, “Uh … what?”
“The ‘how you doin’, sweetheart,’” she explained something they both knew didn’t need to be explained. She drew infinitesimally closer, the barest of leans, but he was already so attuned to her, his eyes darkened further and he reciprocated her lean, drawn to her like the pull of a magnet. “Stand strong, Olivier,” she ordered quietly.
She watched the beauty of him baring his teeth in a snarl of frustration he controlled before he swayed back and did as told.
“You know that’s unacceptable,” she repeated. “And obviously,” she drew in breath, locking his attention on her, “I must do something about it.”
He stood there, caught in her focus, hands behind his head, and said nothing.
“As I mentioned before, unless I forbid it, you’re welcome to speak, just do it respectfully,” she invited. She went on to prompt, “Don’t you agree?”
“You gotta do what you feel you gotta do … Mistress.”
The words were respectful, mostly.
That said, they weren’t entirely acceptable.
What they were was voiced in a tight, thick rumble like each was a piece of gravel, and his mouth was full of the same he had to force them through.
At the same time she liked his acute reaction to her, she grew concerned at its quickness. She was taking her time, to be certain. But she hadn’t been at him an hour and she’d done nothing to him but make him stand naked for her perusal.
He was going to break.
Fuck, she thought.
“Drop to your knees,” she ordered.
Her extreme relief was only part of her reaction when he treated her to another of those bitten-back snarls, not a look of desperate neediness, eager to jump at her command.
In fact, he was so not eager to jump, it took several very long moments before he bent a knee, his big body teetering in a controlled fall that, when he hit that knee, it was a wonder everything in the room didn’t jump at his landing.
His other leg came down.
And the new depth of emotion in his eyes as he looked up at her was astounding.
He did not like to look up.
She checked the expanse exposed below.
His cock had grown past impressive to legendary.
But he definitely liked to be made to look up.
Not easily broken, then.
Oh yes, her mind whispered.
“Behind you, Olivier,” she said gently, “on the floor, there’s a series of steel eyes set into the wood. They’re in a number of lines. I want you to place your left calf against the outermost line, the same with your right on the other side.”
He twisted to look behind him. She saw his chest heave mightily once as his predicament assailed him. He seemed to still and she watched avidly as he struggled with the mental constraints that separated him from his true nature.
She felt almost compelled to clap when he shifted his calves to where she’d told him she wanted them.
This left him still on his knees, a wide stance that would give him a nice stretch up his inner thighs but would cause no real pain.
What it was, was awkward and it made him vulnerable.
She went to the table where the bag she had packed for this room sat, put there by staff when she’d reserved the space. She riffled through it, finding what she needed. She riffled through it further, finding the things she’d need in a moment, setting them aside, at the ready.
Then she moved back to him.
He was twisted at the waist, hands still behind his head, watching her.
She nearly stuttered in her step, such was his beauty.
She finished her approach successfully, and in a closed-leg crouch, her knees shifted to the door so he couldn’t even see them or any view her position could afford him, she started clamping down the straps.
A wide, fleece-lined one just above his ankle. Another fleece-lined one at the bulge of his calf. And, she had to shift and reach so she was still as distant from him as she could be, the same at the bend of his knee.
Repeat with the other calf.
And her steed was strapped to the floor.
She stood, looking him over, avoiding his face but feeling his eyes on hers, and nodded smartly.
“Lovely,” she murmured crisply then moved back to the table.
She re-approached at his front, standing several feet away.
“You’ll know how to put this on. Do that now,” she commanded, tossing him the black leather with its mess of thin straps that had gold buckles, and in a variety of places, gold catches.
He caught it.
She stood back to watch.
He didn’t move.
She finally looked at his face. “Olivier, now, please.”
His head tipped back.
“Mistress—”
“Now.”
“But Mistress—”
Please no, it couldn’t be.
“Is there a word you wish to say?” she asked disbelievingly, her tone hiding disappointment that felt like acid burning through her veins.
“No,” he replied immediately.
“Then put the cock harness on now, please.”
“Mistress, I can see just looking at it, this won’t fit me.”
This could be true.
“Do your best, beast,” she ordered.
His head jerked in silent response to her address for him. He recovered from that without comment but hesitated, his frustration clear, and also clear was that it was mingled with an edge of anger.
She hadn’t had the latter in one of her playrooms in a good long while.
She liked both.
He strapped the harness on and Amélie thoroughly enjoyed watching him do it. It was a snug fit, the buckles on their last hole, and even so, he’d had to do some tightening which she could tell by the hardness in his jaw, the tensing of his frame, caused a twinge or two.
It wasn’t just the harness along his shaft. There was a ball harness, too, a strap down the middle that separated each testicle, stretched them slightly, this connected to the strap of leather sitting snug at the base of his cock.
And trussed in this, his testicles were so large, they bulged out the sides beautifully.
He wore it well. So well, it took an almost torturous self-discipline not to rush through the rest.
But she didn’t.
“The steel eyes in the floor, Olivier, to the front of you. Bend down please. Forearms lined up with the innermost eyes.”
This hesitation lasted longer—not having the use of his hands, being strapped down completely, at her mercy (unless he could pull those eyes right out of the wood, which was a possibility).
She rode it through with him.
It was her wont to be patient, she was known for it.
Demanding respect from him, the proper address of Mistress was simply a play in response to his, one that communicated she would not be topped from below.
In future sessions, if they had them, as was also her wont and something else that was well known, Amélie would allow lapses in all the formalities. Her domination would be made clear through actions, trust garnered through affection, punishment thoroughly administered only when earned—not words, not strict adherence to the rules.
But their first session, she had to practice more than the usual amount of patience even if she could feel the need to see him strapped to the floor on his forearms and knees gliding down the inside of her leg.
Eventually, after another mighty battle it was a thing of beauty to behold, he bent forward.
Ass in the air.
Another thing of beauty.
Amélie shuffled her thighs together to wipe away the wet as she forced herself to move slowly to the table.
She came back with the straps, made light work of snuggly fitting them so his forearms were immobilized at wrist and the juncture of his elbow.
His head was back. He wasn’t watching her restrain him. She could feel his focus on her face, the heat of it sensational.
She was an unknown. He’d placed himself in her hands. He had no idea what she would do. All he knew was that she had now wrested away his control. His bulk, his strength, there were likely very few situations, physically, that he would not best.
Now, that was stripped away.
There was fear tinting the air. Lovely, shimmering fear that was even more amazing drifting from this steed.
This mingled with the purple glint of arousal that a quick glance at his cock, which was straining, and not just the harness, proved fact.
Once done with both arms, she moved back to the table before returning to him.
This time at his other end.
The work she did there was practiced and swift.
The result everything she wanted it to be and more.
A leather strap around his hips, two thinner straps running down either side of the crevice of his ass, the other end attached to a catch on his harness at the base of his balls.
There was a distinct growl that throbbed through the air, a corresponding throb hitting Amélie in five places, as she tightened the buckles of the straps, this spreading open the cheeks of his ass, exposing perhaps (and she hoped she would eventually find out), his keenest vulnerability.
“Fuck me, fuck,” he hissed.
She moved again. Settling into another crouch in front of him, she tore her gaze from the gloriousness of his readied ass and turned her attention to his face.
His was already on hers.
Oh my.
Oh yes.
There …
Good God, there …
The backs of his eyes. She saw it.
It flashed fiery, almost too deep to see, but she caught it before he blinked and blanked it, his face a hard mask, this an effort to hide what she was making him feel.
Regardless.
“How are you feeling, Olivier?” she asked quietly.
“You been strapped to a floor with your ass spread open?” he returned, voice still thick and now harsh.
“Another rule, I’m sorry that I didn’t share before, but answering a question with a question is not acceptable,” Amélie shot back. “Now, answer my question, please. How are you feeling?”
“Like my dick is being strangled,” he replied.
“And?” she pressed.
“Pissed,” he bit out.
There it was.
And she gave it to him. “You top from below.”
A quick, blunt-edged, “No.”
And in his face a strange hint of chagrin.
Oh my.
Unexpected.
He wanted to be topped. He just fought letting go.
Oh, she liked this. She liked this a great fucking deal.
In a shuffling step, still crouched in front of him, she came nearer. His attention intensified as he watched, anger melting, hunger honing his features.
He wanted touch. She’d barely brushed his skin strapping him down and he wanted her hands on him.
Even the barest touch might make him climax.
She wanted to test that.
But not yet.
She had other tests to administer. Tests he had to pass and lessons he needed to learn if he was to earn her time in the future.
“You need to let go, Olivier,” she instructed.
Frustration then anger infused his expression.
“Think I did that, Mistress,” he spat the last disrespectfully. “Seein’ as I’m strapped to the floor with my ass, also strapped, I’ll fuckin’ add, in the air.”
She let the disrespect slide.
“You know you bought punishment with your opening line. Indeed, you bought it watching me move toward you. And you know you bought more with your attitude when you hit this room.”
He averted his gaze.
He knew.
“Look at me, Olivier,” she ordered softly.
His eyes came back but the effort was apparent.
She tried not to smile or, actually, howl with glee.
No, not yet broken.
A miracle.
She lifted her hand, fingers curled in a loose fist, toward his chin.
He shifted, seeking the contact.
She stopped him.
“Don’t move your chin,” she commanded, her tone still soft but now also sharp.
He froze.
She held her hand just below his jaw and leaned forward so her face was an inch from his.
More hunger, this stark.
Eyes flickering down and up, knowing what he was giving away, unable not to do it.
He wanted her mouth.
This—the mutual test, the challenge relayed and accepted, the dare, the impudence, the taunts, the battle of wills—this was his favored game. She knew it to her fucking soul.
And it was hers as well, by far the sweetest trip you could take.
Ecstasy.
“And I will punish you, Olivier,” she continued. “What you don’t know, you can only assume, is that I’ll take care of you. And that,” she edged closer but not close enough, sensing his body trembling, feeling that tremble caress her clit, the walls of her pussy, wishing she could hitch her skirt, straddle his hips and ride it to climax, “I promise, chevalier, I … will … do.”
She watched him force back a painful swallow.
“Yes?” she pressed.
“Yes, Mistress.”
The two words were strangled, giving the impression he hated saying them, giving her that even as she suspected he got off on uttering each much, much more, he just wouldn’t admit it.
Perfection.
She straightened away and turned from him, allowing the smile to curve her mouth when she heard his choked-back groan.
Amazing.
This soon in play with her, he simply fed off her nearness. Her attention.
One last piece. One minor adjustment.
Then she could begin.
She walked back to her toy with the length of gold chain in her hand.
She forced herself not to take in the glorious spectacle of his restrained body, which might cause things to get out of hand in a way that wouldn’t test anything, except to see if he could ride her strapped like that, and kept her focus on his face.
He eyed the chain warily.
Handsome. Built. Hung.
And not stupid.
She moved behind him.
His ass tensed, the valleys on the sides coming out in even sharper relief, the muscular rounds fighting against the straps holding it open and exposed, and Amélie’s mouth watered.
Then she crouched again and reached between his legs, expertly attaching the clasp on the chain to the catch at the back of the ring closest to the tip of his cock and running the length to the ring in the floor. Quickly and expertly, she did a mental measurement of how much slack she’d need in order to give him the movement he would need without causing undue pain or even harm. She wound the chain through the ring and caught the clasp at the other end to a link halfway up.
It hung loose, only its weight now pulling down his cock.
“Jesus, fuck,” he clipped out, body unmoving, not about to test that slack.
“We’re almost ready,” she informed him.
He knew what was coming and he knew what it would mean.
She knew this when he dipped down, his forehead to the floor, ass becoming more prominent, back heaving with deep breaths, and she knew something else.
If he could take it, if she could give it to him, she’d have him again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
She moved to the panel by the door and flipped a switch. The multipaned windows surrounding each playroom had air trapped between the inner two panes for soundproofing. In the outer two, two sheets of electronically controlled blinds. One white and not quite sheer, but not opaque, to offer observers outside a view of what was happening inside as a silhouette. Another that was black, which would block onlookers entirely from enjoying the view.
The white sheet was down.
The whir hit the room as the sheet rolled up.
“Amélie—” he started, fear more than an edge in his graveled voice.
She liked her name in that tone.
Indeed, in that voice.
It was lovely.
“Sorry?” she interrupted him, using the word as a reminder, stopping as she made it back to the table.
“Mistress Amélie,” he corrected swiftly.
She turned to him and his eyes riveted to the paddle she held.
“I think fifteen strikes will do. It’s a lot for a first session, though you’ve earned it,” she said conversationally, watching his big body begin to tremble, his eyes never leaving the paddle, her mind wondering if she could give that first crack without coming. “That said, it would be the switch if you were used to me, so I think the paddle is a good compromise.”
She came to a stop at his side and his eyes shifted up to hers.
The plea was there, laid open bare.
He didn’t want to be watched. He didn’t want to be paddled. What he wanted, she was not yet sure.
But she would find out.
And in the meantime, she would make him love everything she gave.
“I said that I—” he began.
“I know what you said,” she interrupted again. “However, this room is mine. When you’re in this room, you are mine. I do as I wish. You submit to any wish. And frankly, Olivier, you are far too magnificent a specimen not to share.”
A flicker of confusion passed across his face.
She had no time for that. He had to know his beauty. He wasn’t blind.
“I would brace, chevalier,” she instructed gently.
When her words penetrated, he had only a second to do so before, two hands on the handle of the long, wooden paddle with holes drilled through the wood, she bent her knees slightly, twisted her torso, and put her weight and a considerable amount of strength in the first strike.
Even braced, his body flew forward, the chain at his cock clinked as the slack disappeared, yanking it down violently.
“Fucking hell,” he blew out, automatically swinging back through his recovery.
Thwack!
The second strike had more momentum and he again flew forward, the chain slammed taut, wrenching his cock at the last moment.
“Fucking fuck me,” he ground through clenched teeth.
Marvelous.
Thwack!
After the third strike, she knew they had an audience, of how many, she didn’t care so she didn’t bother to look.
Her entire world was the tethered, muscled body and its cock harnessed and chained to the floor and the man who owned those (for now) named Olivier.
Thwack!
The fourth strike, as he swung back, his big frame shuddering violently, the visual so splendid, Amélie had genuine concerns she could finish his punishment without coming.
She persevered because she had no other choice.
Thwack!
The brutal forward sway, the vicious pull on his cock that was akin to a ferocious hand job, and he couldn’t bite it back anymore.
His exquisite grunt filled the room.
It was music to her ears. It exposed, not with the lilt of pain, but with the edge of pleasure, along with his quick recovery and the almost imperceptible tilt of his ass, that he wanted more.
Thwack!
Another grunt, another pull, another recovery, his body now quaking in his effort to hold back his response.
Thwack!
And again, her nipples so hard she thought they’d pierce the material of her dress at watching him endure his punishment, especially since, with this recovery, the tilt of his ass was not nearly imperceptible.
He offered it proudly, no mistaking it.
It was a silent plea.
More.
The next one, his hips jerked at more than the pull and continued to do so as he shoved back.
Triumph filled her, and with a quick check, she knew what she suspected was true.
He was coming.
In rapid succession, but with equal intensity, Amélie finished his strikes. She did this watching with a fervor that she knew was complete adoration as he lost all control. Surging forward, grunting, flexing back, offering his ass, his legs shaking, his hips automatically thrusting his cock into the restraining harness like it was a pussy, his extraordinarily large offering of cum gliding down his chain.
When she was done, he was forehead to the floor, body quivering, hips still weakly thrusting through the aftermath of his orgasm.
She went to stand between his ankles and reached between his legs with the paddle, caressing his balls and cock with the flat of the wood.
And he gave his Mistress more.
Promptly angling back, he pressed down, accepting the caress and straining to deepen it.
He’d accepted his punishment so well, given her so much, it was time for a reward.
She shifted the paddle up, adding pressure against his sensitive organ, giving him what he needed.
He rode it, milking his dick in his harness, the final rivulets of cum gliding down his chain, and good God, good God, he was sheer perfection.
She continued to coddle his cock and balls with the paddle as she reminded him quietly, “It’s customary to thank your Mistress for her ministrations.”
His voice came deep and hoarse, spent, pleasured, but fucking blissfully unbroken as he hesitated a delicious moment before he murmured, “Thank you, Mistress Amélie.”
She liked her name in that tone too.
“You were magnificent, Olivier,” she told him.
She watched his shoulders slump and he settled back into his calves, not with shame. He’d come so hard, his body was forced to recuperate.
She carefully glided the paddle out from between his legs, twisted it, and ran the edge of its tip hard along the exposed crevice of his ass, stopping at his hole, pressing gently.
Another test. One it was essential he passed.
He passed.
Going inert at first, he then pressed back just as gently.
Another offering.
She gathered control and when she accomplished this, she whispered, “Well done, my beast.”
His hips flexed, juddering either at her words or an aftershock of coming, but he said nothing.
She removed the paddle from his exposed crease and walked swiftly to the table, her heels making dull sounds against the boards. She dropped the paddle there and then she moved to the control panel.
Stellan was outside at the window, just next to the door, the best view Amélie knew bar none in the house. A female sub was on her knees beside him, leaning against his leg, both were watching.
His eyes were not on Olivier, they were on Amélie.
She lifted her chin in acknowledgment, her friend looked down to it, and she flipped the switch that would bring both sheer and black screens down.
She moved back to Olivier, crouching in front of him.
“Chevalier,” she called.
He didn’t lift his shoulders, just tipped his head back.
Those eyes sated, warming her deep in her belly, the power of this statement when he could only tip back his head that she’d exhausted (perhaps temporarily, but she’d done it) this incomparable steed, was nearly her undoing.
It deserved another reward.
“I have not had a toy make me this wet in longer than I can remember.”
His eyes rounded, his mouth softened.
“You are so beautiful, it’s hard to believe,” she said softly.
“Amélie,” he replied but said no more.
The game was this. There was a reason he fought it. He had clearly not had a Master or Mistress who’d guided him in any permanent way around it (thankfully). He was intelligent enough to recognize he needed it as well as the importance of keeping it and he was courageous enough that he didn’t allow the shame to keep him from seeking it.
He fought it, but when that flip was switched, he submitted to it spectacularly.
She didn’t know if she wished to protect the beast that fought it so she could battle that beast (something she deduced the ones that had gone before her had done) or if she wanted to break him so she could take him straight to where he needed to be.
Or, to be precise, she didn’t know which one he wanted.
It would be a puzzle she’d enjoy solving.
“I’m going to go home, doing this directly, and I’m going to touch myself, thinking of every moment with you. And I will come hard, my beast.” She smiled at him and his eyes locked on her mouth. “Just visualizing that big brute of a cock you’re hung with might take me over the edge.”
“Let me eat you,” he said quickly. “I’ll stay strapped,” he offered, like that was his choice.
Seeing as it obviously was not, it was an odd thing to say.
“Perhaps another time,” she replied.
His reaction was gratifyingly quick, exposing he wanted another time to happen.
As it would at this juncture—his cock still snugly harnessed, his cum still dripping down his chain.
She just hoped he wouldn’t go home and think differently.
It wasn’t about convincing him not to do that. It was his choice. She only had to give him the honest her so he could make the right decision.
It came with a thread of tortured when he forced out, “I can smell you.”
“I’ve no doubt,” she agreed.
“I want that,” he told her.
She was utterly delighted he did. She would relish the time when he’d earned her forcing his face between her legs, commanding him to make her come.
She leaned closer to him. It appeared he’d lift up to increase the chance of contact but he abruptly stopped.
Not stupid.
A quick learner.
“Is your cock getting hard again for me?”
There was the hesitation, the hint of anger at the indignity, before he hissed out, “Yes.”
“A quick recovery.”
“You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, somethin’ I think I already shared … Mistress.”
He was getting his fighting spirit back.
A quick recovery, indeed.
“You please me, Olivier.”
“I’d please you more with my mouth.”
“I hope that’s true, chevalier.”
She lifted a hand as if she was going to stroke his hair, he tensed to allow her to do it, but she dropped it.
That got her the controlled snarl.
Yes, a quick recovery.
“I hope that’s true,” she repeated. “Saturday, please arrive at nine-thirty sharp. Ask the front desk staff to share with you my instructions. They will be fully briefed. I’ll meet you when I’m ready.”
His head jerked slightly. “We’re done?”
Oh yes, he wanted more. Even coming that hard for her, he wanted it now.
Amélie beat back a smile.
“Yes, my beast, until Saturday. I’ll send a member of staff in to untether you. It’s unusual, and only a punishment, when I ask my toys to clean up. So no worries there. The staff will see to that too.”
“You’re leaving me here,” he stated flatly.
“Yes.”
“Like this?”
“The staff is responsive. I’ll make sure they see to you immediately.”
He very much didn’t like that.
“Amélie—”
“They’re discreet, Olivier, obviously. They’ve seen it all. If the room is black-blinded, they’re not allowed to share what they see in these rooms even with each other, much less members. They’re exceptionally professional, and if not, they’re in the middle of a lawsuit.”
“Mistress Amé—”
She lifted a hand, finger extended, taking it a whisper away from his lips, and he stopped speaking, focusing on the promise of a touch.
Incomparable.
Magnificent.
Then, in a fluid movement, she rose to her full height.
With unhurried strides and without a look back, a foolish move that would be too tempting, she walked out the door.