For a time, he’d kept most of his high-end dungeon equipment there, but he’d moved it here a couple years ago. There were two or three larger pieces at the other place, hidden behind a heavy plastic construction curtain he’d covered with decorative dark wood screens, since the Warehouse apartment was an open loft. At this house, he kept the high-end equipment behind a closed door. Both measures were to prevent the uninitiated from wandering into those areas.
That’s what he told himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t like coming to either place and seeing the equipment waiting for something he didn’t bring home to it anymore.
He had a discreet maintenance service that came in and kept everything cleaned and oiled, ready for use at any time. It was probably a waste of money, since he had access to Progeny’s equipment and that was where he went now when his cock needed a workout. But questioning costs was Jon and Lucas’ area, not his. He could wallpaper the house with Ben Franklins if he wanted. So he spent the money. Tonight he was glad he had, because he’d put all of it through its paces, testing Marcie far beyond what he’d expected her limits to be.
When it was all over, she’d put her mouth on his foot, called him Master. And for one fucking insane moment, he’d thought, You bet your sweet ass I am.
Jesus. He finished the whiskey, set it aside. Didn’t let himself pour another. You’re in charge of a beautiful girl tonight, buddy. No getting shit-faced. He’d save that for sunrise, when she was going to hate his guts.
He got her out of the tub, summoning a tight smile at her sleepy grumbling. He made her stand while he dried her off one-handed, since the other arm had to stay around her waist to keep her from oozing back to the tile. Guiding her arm around his neck, he lifted her once more. It was ridiculous, how much he liked just carrying her.
He could put her in the guest bedroom, but he needed to watch over her until she was in control of her faculties again. It had been a long night. So he was going to put her in his bed, with him, no matter how bad an idea that was.
He’d been fooling himself about this mentoring shit. He was a one-way track to nowhere, and Marcie was a bright, beautiful star who deserved the whole universe.
He took her into his bedroom, to the king-sized canopy bed that filled most of the room. The ceiling fan rotated slowly. Lowering her to the bed, he paused, studying her. He’d laid her down facing away from him, so he was looking at his handiwork from that angle, every mark, bite, her ass still a brighter pink than the rest of her silky skin. The caning marks, those short lines and stippling, overlaid the faint square impression of the spatula strikes. She’d loved it. Fought it, cried through it, embraced it, come like a damn nymphomaniac from it.
He should put on sweats, a T-shirt. Fuck that. He wanted to feel her against his body, and she had passed out now, anyway. Sliding in behind her, he arranged the covers over her to keep her front warm while he pressed against her back. His cock had ignored him of course, and was hard and eager when it came in contact with the soft pillow of her buttocks. He wanted more, but he didn’t want to cause her any pain.
Lifting her thigh, he slid just the head back into her ass. He’d lubricated her frequently, so there was plenty of oil there to allow him entry. He slid in a few more inches than intended but she made a soft sound, closed her muscles on him, just as he’d taught her, an automatic reflex. It made him growl, a satisfied predator. Cupping her breast, he murmured against her ear.
“Sleep, baby. You did well.” What a fucking understatement.
* * * * *
Marcie woke to find herself comfortably nested in the covers. What she’d hoped might be Ben behind her was instead a brace of pillows. It was about three a.m., the hour when restless spirits were most plentiful, explaining why she’d woken to find herself alone.
Rising with caution, she found she was stiff and sore, but overall moving better than anticipated, since she hadn’t expected to be able to move without undignified yowls of agony. She did yoga and MMA training, and those flexibility and strength workouts helped her, but she suspected the breaks Ben had taken between sessions had a great deal to do with it as well. He’d massaged her muscles and joints with those clean-smelling salves, washed her out with soothing tonics, changed her position at appropriate intervals, double- and triple-checked her bindings. Vaguely, she remembered him putting two pills on her tongue after that hazy bath, telling her to swallow, then making her finish up the glass of water.
Aspirin, brat. That, and the bath, should make things move easier tomorrow.
He knew just how extreme he was, and did the maintenance to ensure he left a lasting impression but not lasting damage. At least on a woman’s body. Her heart was a whole different matter.
His dress shirt was hanging on the armoire doorknob, above a bag of laundry with a dry-cleaning ticket. A reminder to him to drop it off today, she was sure. Things a single lawyer had to do for himself. Fingering the cloth, remembering it close to her face when he carried her up here, she pulled it from its perch, brought the collar to her nose. A combination of aftershave, soap, dry cleaning and what she really wanted to detect—male sweat, earned from his sexual exertion with her.
Considering, she threaded her arms into the sleeves. Oh my. For all her teasing him about his expensive indulgences, the feel of tailored cotton was…luxurious. Particularly if
