To Command And Collar

south side. After we finish here, I’ll give you a tour of the house.”

Color returning, she followed him into the brightly lit exercise room and wandered around, looking at the bench press, the squat machine, the pulleys. “If you didn’t know what this stuff was, you might think you’d entered a dungeon.” She eyed the cables.

“I suppose,” he said noncommittally, not even tempted to tell her how nicely some of the equipment worked as restraints. Attach that pulley to a submissive’s wrist cuffs, add weight… A couple of the subs he’d entertained actually preferred playing in this room to the dungeon. “We’re going to build up your muscles and endurance.” He eyed her loose shorts and T-shirt. Good enough for now. “In a couple of days, I’ll start you on self-defense.”

“I know a little. My father made me take karate classes as a kid.”

“Really. Why did you stop?”

“I-” When she shrugged, her breasts moved in interesting ways, diverting him for a second. “I…didn’t want to be a tomboy anymore.” Her mouth firmed as if she were remembering old battles.

Odd. Something else to investigate.

“But at this point, I don’t think I could learn quickly enough to worry even a ninety-ninepound weakling,” she added, her brows drawing together.

Had he ever seen a woman who was so pretty even when frowning? “With karate, no. I’m going to give you the benefit of my years of street fighting. We’ll start with some of the nastier tricks-the ones they don’t teach martial arts students, since explaining to a mama why her son’s eyeballs are on the floor is most difficult.”

“Ew.” She stared at him in horror.

“Or why his few fingers now bend the wrong way.”

Her disgust turned to a speculative gleam as she undoubtedly envisioned slavers who could no longer grip a flogger. Exactly the concept he wanted in her head. She wasn’t a victim; she was a survivor-and one who might do some real damage if the chance ever came.

* * * *

An hour later, Kim’s legs wobbled when Master R helped her off the leg extension machine. His hard grip on her arm was all that kept her from flopping onto the rubber mat like a landed trout. “I won’t be able to walk tomorrow,” she moaned.

Dammit, why did he have to have such a great smile? “You will, although you’ll groan all the way out of bed.”

“Thanks a lot.”

His laugh was deep, resonating in her bones. “Now I want you to be clear on the rules we discussed earlier. When working together like in the weight room or cooking in the kitchen, I don’t expect you to be formal. Everywhere else, you will ask permission to speak. You will use my title and be respectful at all times. If I am sitting in a room, kneel before you speak to me, and wait for permission to sit anywhere except the floor or on a pillow.”

“Yes, M-master.” The same rules they’d gone over at breakfast. No contradictions. Did he realize how wonderful his consistency was? She winced, remembering she’d sat on the couch in the great room. He hadn’t said anything. “I was on the sofa before.”

“Ah.” He frowned. “Many masters don’t let their slaves on the furniture at all, but I found that awkward and unnecessarily strict.”

“I found.” Every time he reminded her that he’d had slaves before, the pit of her stomach dropped away.

“If there are no doms in the room, use the couch or chairs and be comfortable. If I enter the room, you stand. If I sit, you kneel. Any questions?”

“No, Sir.” So she should have stood up when he came into the great room. “If you break the rules, you will be punished-probably with a spanking. Is that clear?” “Yes, M-master.”

“Very good.” He rubbed his knuckles over her cheek, his gaze tender. “Is there anything you need now or want to say?”

Why would a master ask a slave something like that? And why did it make her feel…off balance? “No, Sir.”

“No? Then let me show you the parts of the house you missed.” He took her hand in his, leading her.

On the second floor were three guest rooms and the master bedroom. At the end, he opened a door and showed her a sitting room overlooking the ocean. “This is your private area for when you need a place to be quiet. If you’re in here, I’ll know you want time alone.”

Before her relief had taken hold, he set a finger under her chin, lifting her face to give her a level look. “Having a space to use doesn’t mean you’ll be permitted to hide in here, Kimberly. As with all things, that is up to me.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” His hand cupped her cheek, and gaze on hers, he lowered his head. A flutter like butterfly wings tickled in her chest, but she didn’t move. A brush of his lips, a slide of his tongue on her lower lip followed by the nibble of teeth. Her mouth softened, and a tiny flicker of heat sparked to life low in her belly.

Not forceful. Gentle, teasing kisses from firm, velvety lips. His palm was warm against her cheek, his knowledgeable mouth on hers, but nothing else touched her. He didn’t even try to push his tongue in, just led her, step by step, into responding to the kind of kisses she’d experienced as a girl, before French kissing had come along.

He pulled away as slowly as he’d advanced, his gaze still intent but…oh, so much warmer. As was she.

She stared at him, setting her hand over her quivering stomach.

The corners of his eyes crinkled, but he didn’t speak, just ran his thumb over the moisture on her lower lip and then took her hand.

He led her downstairs to areas she’d already seen. The foyer and great room, dining area and kitchen, TV room. When he headed toward the south side of the house, her skin went cold. His dungeon. No. I don’t want to go there.

Ignoring the way she hung back, he opened the door and flipped on the overhead light, filling the area with brightness, erasing some of the menace. “Walk around the room three times. Look at everything,” he said in exactly the same tone as when he’d instructed her to do leg presses.

Every fiber in her urged her to flee, but she took one step through the door. Her knees shook as she forced herself to continue. He didn’t follow. She glanced back.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, just watching.

Okay then. Hands fisted at her sides, she managed to get one foot to move, then the other. The taste in her mouth, the way her skin went cold-at age six, she’d gone in a Halloween haunted house. Screams and moans, cobwebs and skeletons. She’d frozen, unable to move until her furious and shamed father had dragged her out and yelled at her for being a coward. “Moores are not cowards.”

But they are sometimes. Yet she pushed herself on, across the empty side of the room, then toward the equipment. Her feet stopped. Breathe. Breathe. She forced her legs forward, tasting blood from where she’d bitten her tongue. She made it past the St. Andrew’s cross and a bondage table. Her stomach almost revolted when she saw whips-so many whips-coiled snakelike on a shelf. A glass-fronted cabinet displayed gags. Masks. God. Pass that one quickly. She came even with Master R.

He held up one finger. “Two more.”

A throne chair with no bottom. A sink and counter. She detoured about chains dangling from the ceiling rafters. Then reached Master R.

Two fingers.

The room was well-equipped, nicer than some of the clubs she’d played in. Leather padding on almost everything. A sawhorse spanking bench. Master Raoul.

Three fingers.

She stopped in front of him and shivered, thinking of all the horrible things behind her. Now what?

“Kimberly, we’re not going to play today.”

Oh, thank you, God. Her shoulders loosened as the tenseness disappeared. “Thank