“Okay, girl, serious? Are you gonna go there?” Mirabelle asked, causing Amélie to turn and look up to Talia.
She had one slim arm up, one long, slender finger pointed Bryan’s way. She casually shifted it to the side, indicating one of the doors to the playrooms.
Very cool, and not the cool of the frosty variety.
She’d learned well from Aryas.
Amélie looked back to Bryan to see him up, his big body in its dark suit moving toward the door.
“Big, naughty boy stretched over my knees, getting his spanking, fuck yeah,” Talia answered Mirabelle’s question and Amélie again turned her gaze. “And I’ll spank that fine, firm white ass until he vows he’ll never utter that word again.” The cat’s smile came back. “As Ary taught me, there’s infinitesimal ways to skin a cat. Give that baby what he needs in a way that doesn’t make me feel skeevy.”
There was the green.
Daddy and Mommy play was not frowned upon. Amélie didn’t get off on it but she’d seen daddies do wondrous things with their babies, and the same with mommies, and she knew it had absolutely nothing to do with a psychological complex a vanilla needed to use to shove that square peg into their desperately round hole.
It was not okay in any sense to cast aspersions on any type of play.
Express surprise someone did something, went somewhere with a sub, coaxed something out, went to a place that was unexpected, most definitely.
Pronouncing it as “skeevy,” no.
It was a novice mistake and Amélie knew either she, or Mirabelle, would be having a word with Talia about it in the future.
Aryas would be livid.
Therefore, he could not know.
Now, though, Trey was there and you didn’t speak to a Mistress that way in front of a sub.
“Best go top that,” Talia murmured and looked down to them, doing this looking through Trey and finishing on Mirabelle. “Enjoy your night.” She turned to Amélie. “Happy hunting, honey.”
“Have fun,” Amélie replied.
Talia moved away.
Amélie watched her, wondering if her slim neck or her round ass was the key to Aryas’s infatuation with the rookie Domme.
She’d never know and understanding that, she lost interest and was about to turn away when Talia switched directions, heading to the booth where Stellan sat.
Stellan was a Master who had been a member of the club nearly as long as Amélie.
And in some ways, Stellan was Amélie’s Talia.
Not that she’d trained him.
That she’d always wanted him.
Physically her type, perhaps a little shorter than she’d like (but not much), a little leaner, but nevertheless powerfully built with dark hair and strong features so excruciatingly handsome, in weaker moments, she had to quell the desire to look away.
He’d slipped in without her seeing him and hadn’t come to offer her a greeting.
This would normally have annoyed Amélie.
At that moment, for the first time in years, she was paying no attention to Stellan.
This was because Talia’s tall frame shifting out of the way offered an unhindered view of something else that had slipped in without her notice.
And gazing at him, Amélie went still.
As did her breath.
And her heartbeat.
Leaning a shoulder against the wall beyond the edge of the bar, six or seven feet from the door to the playrooms, he was surveying the scene as if he wasn’t part of it.
Or as if it was he who was on the prowl.
But although a Dominant could mingle freely in the open space, this would be done with some intent.
If they were on the hunt, they’d be at a booth.
Subs were not allowed to sit in a booth unless the invitation was extended. They populated the floor, on display, it was requisite.
In the mesh of bodies, a sub could be identified in a variety of ways. The cast of their gaze. Their bearing. Jewelry that declared their status.
And their position in the hunting ground.
No Dominant would linger there like he was, partially for that reason. Clear communication and transparent messages were key in their world. No Dom would give the impression of being a sub.
This was explained at length during membership orientation.
That magnificent beast was a sub.
An alpha-sub, assuredly.
It came from his sheer size, like a cloak stitched to his skin he had no hope of shrugging off (not that he’d wish to).
He had to be six five, perhaps taller. His dark suit and monochromatic shirt necessarily tailored for his physique for there were very few men on this earth that had it. His shoulders as wide as a log. His chest a veritable wall. The muscles Amélie had no doubt were hidden under his clothing apparent in the exposed line of his throat. It wasn’t that he had no neck. But that lethal shank of corded, sinewy muscle could not be established and maintained if the rest of him didn’t match precisely.
She knew he was alpha beyond that. His stance at the wall, casual and self-assured, it was openly cocky. He knew his allure. He knew his beauty. He knew even if he wasn’t exactly your type, every being would understand with base instinct his attraction.
He also knew how to use this. All of it. It was his art as sure as reading it on him was Amélie’s.
From what she could tell, his hair was dark blond, the thickness of it, how it was longer at the top, clipped short at neck and ears was so appealing, she was willing to make that single allowance for she preferred her toys to have dark hair.
She made that allowance, but if she had her way, and she often did, he’d grow it longer so there’d be more of it to fist her fingers into as a means to use to make him serve her will.
His facial features only heightened his appeal that already, with the rest of him, defied belief.
A strong brow over eyes she couldn’t see the color of from her distance. Hollowed cheeks under high cheekbones and over a firm, cut, clean-shaven jaw. And a large nose that was openly pugilistic, the dent at the top of the bridge not created by God but by a break that he didn’t deem important enough to have set properly.
Staring at him, utterly incapable of not doing it openly, she felt the insides of her thighs tingle. And her nipples were hard buds, the restriction of the lace of her bra suddenly excruciating.
That …
Now that was whisky.
“Oh my, Leigh, are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Mirabelle asked. And before she could answer, her friend went on, “It’s like he was made for you.”
It was, indeed.
She watched in fascination as something caught his attention, shifting the half-amused, half-bored expression from his face and pulling him away from the wall.
His eyes focused on something a beat, two, three, then dropped.
That small movement, the respect of a sub given to a Dom, barely discernible from the distance, still convulsed the walls of her pussy.
“Trey, find a member of staff.” Amélie heard Mirabelle order.
“At your pleasure, Mistress,” Trey muttered in return.
Amélie didn’t look away. Now not because she couldn’t, but because what captured his attention was Mistress Delia.
“Fuck,” Mirabelle hissed the word that flitted through Amélie’s mind.
Stunned still again, Amélie watched as, within five seconds, words were exchanged. Words that made Delia toss her head, lift her hand, snap, and stomp toward the door to the playrooms, Tiffany following.
But that male sub did not.
Crash and burn.
The beast didn’t even look over his shoulder to watch them leave. His expression settled into blankness again as his attention turned back to the gathering.
“You ladies wanted something?”
Before she was caught staring, feeling like a greenhorn Domme on her first prowl, Amélie tore her eyes from the beast and looked to Heather. She was a staff member of the club,
none of whom had titles and all of whom were paid very handsomely because all of them had a variety of roles they could be called on to play—from server to someone who needed to mop a puddle of cum off the floor so a recently vacated room could be reused.
“That baby, against the wall, the one who looks in dire need of a lesson or seventy,” Mirabelle stated, not pointing even to jerk her head his way. “He’s new.”
“O.H.,” Heather stated, smiling big and giving them the code they needed. “He was approved two weeks ago. Not here every night, but as far as I know, he’s been in three times. A number of takers gave it a shot. So far he hasn’t felt up to playing. Think his profile is burned into the screens of pretty much every Dom who’s seen him.”
This was without a doubt, but even if it weren’t, Mirabelle digging in her purse would have proved it.
“Thanks, chérie,” Amélie kindly dismissed her.
Heather nodded, shot them another smile, and moved away.
Amélie attempted to unobtrusively deep breathe.
The system was set up as such that, if subs wanted to know about Doms, they went to the secure computer in the room behind the foyer. They could not access data anywhere else.
Hidden behind a site that you had to access through a username, a secure password with the requirement to change it monthly as well that it be twelve characters long, answering a security question and entering a captcha, Dominants could look up subs on their phones in the comfort of their booths.
These did not have full names or photos or anything of an identifying nature. In fact, the data provided was offered via code so if someone happened onto a hack, they wouldn’t know what they were seeing.
It wasn’t the enigma machine but it did offer another level of security.
What those profiles didn’t have were the notes a member of staff or another Dominant could add to a sub profile. All notes were approved by management, namely Aryas’s operating manager, Tina Marie, so catty, sulky or other inappropriate notes would not be communicated.
If there were notes, the profile would indicate this. And to get to this information, a Master or Mistress would have to go to another one of the computers on the premises (this in the Dom lounge) to read these notes that also weren’t networked, even locally.
These notes in most cases included such things as toys who were owned, either literally (life partners or husbands and wives), or the agreement had been noted that a sub would serve only one Dominant at the Honey, a circumstance which Mirabelle and Trey communicated that very evening.
They also could provide information essential to a Dominant that a submissive would need to relinquish prior to being approved for membership. This could be anything from the sub being in counseling for a reason that a Master or Mistress would have to understand and appreciate before selecting them for play. It could be the brief description of a tragedy that could affect the scene, the loss of a loved one in an extreme way, a history of domestic abuse, a survivor of rape.
“Here you go, Leigh.”
Mirabelle was extending her phone, which was good and bad.
Good because Amélie had not managed to unobtrusively deep breathe, her shallow breaths making her feel light-headed, and she needed something else to focus on.
Bad because what she was focusing on would be the profile of that beast.
She took Mirabelle’s phone and turned it her way.
O.H.
Security: Kitten
Hobbies: Everything
Limitations: Nothing
Notes: None
Translated, this meant:
INITIALS OR OTHER IDENTIFIER
Safe word: Kitten
Inclinations: Into anything
Boundaries, Rules, Unacceptable Play: None
Even with those few words, it was a surprising profile. Experienced subs, the only ones allowed on the floor, knew their boundaries and most had them. In this club, the vast majority were extreme, such as branding, marking, scarring, strangling, sensory deprivation, and so on.
But they had them.
She hadn’t seen a profile that open in a long time.
And the safe word “kitten” showed the beast had a sense of humor. He had the look that just uttering that cute word, which would bring images of the adorable creatures, would make him violently ill.
“Go hit that, tigress,” Mirabelle urged, and Amélie looked to her.
Before she could say a word, Mirabelle continued.
“Get in there. Three times here, he’ll have heard of you. He’ll be holding out in hopes you’ll be extending the invitation to initiating him to our playrooms. I know it.” She leaned across the table. “Rock his world, lovely.”
She studied her friend, the open excitement, the budding love she was experiencing with her submissive, that time when life takes on clarity so pure and extraordinary, you want everyone to experience it with you.
She turned her head to the beast.
Years of experience only marred twice by two toys she’d had who held great promise, but who eventually fell short of the real thing, taught her that tonight, she would definitely enjoy herself.
But he might be champagne. He might be bourbon. He might, surprisingly, be cognac or port.
The bottom line was that she had to keep expectations low so she wouldn’t be devastated when he didn’t turn out to be top-shelf whisky.
two
Rainbow?
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.