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As the fire performers were exiting the stage to further applause, the house lights dimmed, indicating the main show was about to start. Geoff's hand tightened on her, drawing her attention from the stage once more. She didn't know if that was his intent, or if the flex of his fingers was purely in reaction to Chris, but after one look at Chris, she was pretty sure it was the latter. As for her, thought deserted her in favor of a pure surge of I want that.
Chris could have put on the pants but retained his T-shirt, keeping somewhat within his comfort zone, but he'd gratifyingly gone full out. He'd worn the upper-body harness. The straps and metal rings accentuated his impressive upper body just as she'd anticipated they would. As for the pants, they would have inspired a saint to dive right into a vat of sin and happily do the backstroke. They fit him like a second skin, his cock and balls mounded up against the fly in a way that made her fingers itch to touch. Since she had enough detail from the view to tell he was circumcised, she was sure his ass would be just as distracting.
She didn't have long to wait to confirm that. When Geoff gestured to her to do so, she moved to the middle seat so Chris could take the seat on the other side of her. Since it was clear from his smirk that Geoff wasn't relinquishing the aisle seat--probably for exactly the same reason she was thrilled to move to the middle seat--Chris had to turn sideways and sidle over Geoff and her to get to his chair.
There was no way she had the self-discipline not to take advantage of that up-close ogle of an ass so fine. Geoff didn't even try, sliding his palm smoothly over it as Chris moved past him, so she did the same. The thinness of the material let her feel the heated skin beneath.
"Lot of sexual harassment in this row," Chris muttered, making her giggle as he took the seat beside her. "You know, my legs are longer than yours," he said across her to Geoff. Geoff lifted a shoulder.
"But my dick's bigger."
That carried enough to incite a wave of chuckles from the audience members around them. A middle-aged man in front of them, wearing a collar and no shirt, rolled his eyes toward her and Chris. "Damn Doms, right?"
The comment suggested he was a submissive, but the proprietary arm the large bald-headed man next to him had along the back of his chair, and the head slap and gimlet eye he earned from him, confirmed it. "Keep that up, dog," the Master threatened with an amused twist to his lips. "I'll make you lie on my feet and miss the performance."
The sub gave Sam an affectionate, conspiratorial wink, but settled down. "Where did you get their outfits?" A woman behind them leaned forward to speak to Geoff, her long-nailed fingers curving over Sam's seat at her shoulder. "Was it at Naughty Bits?"
Madison would be pleased at the plug. Geoff confirmed it and answered her additional questions with friendly warmth. A question about clothing from a woman would usually have been addressed to the woman in their party--Sam--but they were in a different world tonight. Here, it seemed a Dom was addressed first, by those familiar enough in the lifestyle to recognize the dynamic between them.
The innate qualities that had first stamped Geoff as a Dominant to her hungry submissive nature were pretty obvious in this environment. She wondered if Chris's topping qualities not being so easily identified would bother him, but a glance at him reassured her. It didn't seem to be on his mind at all. Instead, he took her hand with a mock-annoyed look. "You owe me for this," he said. "Big-time."
The ways she could beg to repay him unfurled like a Christmas list in her head. It must have shown in her face, because Chris shook his head and lightly bit her fingers. She stretched them out to graze his mostly bare chest, coming in contact with the intriguing contrast of snug straps and metal links. He gave her another reproving look. "Brat," he muttered. As the lights started to come down, he leaned forward, looked over her at Geoff. "And you're an asshole."
She heard exasperated affection for both of them in his voice. Sam squeezed each of their hands.
A haunting flute piece filtered through the speaker system, quieting everyone and building the hushed sense of expectation. Sam's heart tripped a beat. She had a feeling the things she was about to see would feel familiar, even if she'd never seen them before, and yet those elements might be presented in ways that she'd never imagined. Thrilling, like a darkly sensual circus.
Geoff whispered in her ear. "Put your hands flat on the chair arms and leave them there. Spread your knees so they're at the corners of your seat. Stay that way unless I tell you otherwise."
Though she hated letting go of them, she complied. As if the two men could communicate telepathically, their hands settled over her wrists, holding her arms to the chair with flesh-and-blood manacles. That heart-tripping thing accelerated.
The first performers took the stage. A man clad in nothing but a snug pair of shorts backed toward the audience from between the rear stage curtains. A spotlight followed him, the rest of the stage dark. Handsome and well muscled, he had silky blond hair and a sinuous masculinity that made him an excellent choice for stage performance. He knelt.
The Mistress who came onto the stage from the side wing had lithe, athletic movements and vibrated with sexual power. She was wearing what Sam might expect a sexy biker female fantasy to wear: chaps over jeans, a tight T-shirt, riding boots. She carried a single-tail whip like the other two Dommes, only Sam was pretty sure her target wasn't going to be balloons.
The woman walked around her sub, trailing the whip over his shoulders, tipping his chin up to her with the handle, holding his gaze with a still expression. Then she strode behind him and squared off, whip in hand. Sam thought she heard the crowd take in a collective breath.
Cognizant of the performance aspects of what she was doing, the woman warmed up with a few stylish swirls around herself. Sam had learned enough about using a single-tail to know that it could be painful and dangerous if the user hadn't practiced enough or didn't focus as they should during a scene. She didn't think the woman would fall short in either regard. When she stopped the twirls and settled on her actual intent, Sam could almost feel her concentration narrow, cutting out the audience, the stage, everything but the connection between her and the man on his knees.
She began. The first whip throw landed high on his shoulders, the fall caressing his flesh before it came back to the Mistress, fluid as a snake's movements. It went back out again, quickly and efficiently. Her technique was smooth and rhythmic, the whip singing through the air, touching down, coming back, then returning again.
The spotlight on his back showed the faint red marks there. When the Mistress paused, speaking a low order, the man turned his face toward his shoulder. Sam recognized him, with a thrill of surprise. It was Troy, Logan's employee from the hardware store. His Mistress moved forward as another stage hand brought a wooden frame out and set it up in front of Troy. She locked his hands in the cuffs hanging from it and clamped them so his hands were spread past shoulder width, emphasizing the play of muscles across his broad back.
She slid her hand down inside the thin shorts, rubbing his buttocks with blatant familiarity before she pulled the fabric down to his thighs, revealing a beautiful, tight male ass to the appreciative response of the audience. His fingers flexed in the bonds. He turned his face up to her and she stroked it with her other hand, which was gloved. Bending down, she let him taste her lips before stepping back.
"Do you want me to touch you with my bare hand?"
"Yes, Mistress. Please. Though I don't deserve such an honor." His voice was throaty and thick, and Sam's toes curled. She understood how he felt, even though she didn't think she could put it in words, how his response resonated with her and made her feel it, too. The mirror of it was that raw moment where Geoff had showed her how much he wanted to take, to possess . . . there was a matching hunger for the same level of surrender, submission and giving inside her.
The Mistress's lips tightened. "Who decides what you deserve?" she said sharply.
He hung his head, realizing his mistake. "You do, Mistress."
"Lift your face toward me."
He did. She drew off the right glove, pulling the fingers free with unhurried precision. She slapped his cheek sharply with it. He didn't flinch or try to protect his face, even when she did it twice more, the same cheek, so redness bloomed on it. When she put her bare palm over the spot, Troy swayed toward her in his bonds, his body language conveying his devotion.
This might be a performance relationship only, but Sam doubted it. She was pretty sure this was Troy's actual Mistress.
