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’r
e 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 cla
sped 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.