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"Would I wear anything special?"
"Whatever you think might bribe me to punish you less. It won't work, but I'll enjoy the attempt."
"Pig."
He winked at her. "Go grab yourself a cup of coffee from behind the counter. I'll take it out in trade."
At that provocative statement, he turned, responding to the call of a customer. Truth, thinking about it, having him talk point blank about it, anxiety took the lead on anticipation. It was clear Troy wouldn't be there. Or would he? She wasn't sure if she felt safer with Troy present, or if she preferred to evolve the intense cycle of emotions that seemed to happen when it was just her and Logan together. But this time it wouldn't be in her home. It would be in that room with the unfinished concrete floor, naked lights and a wall full of floggers, switches and metal things she couldn't identify.
She'd gone on the Internet to refresh her memory about how this all worked and shut it down just as hastily, horrified by pictures of women tied up like pretzels, tearstained expressions of seeming anguish on their faces while large, fierce men stood behind them with raised whips or cattle prods. Jesus. She knew how the Internet could be. He'd been in her home, and it hadn't been like that. Far from it. But then . . . there was an undercurrent when Logan was in full-on Dom mode, something unpredictable and dangerous, and there was some of that in those pictures.
She didn't have to do any of it. The choice was hers. She could take her time, talk to Logan about it. He was as much a teacher as a practitioner when it came to BDSM. Yet he'd warned her more than once that overthinking it wouldn't really help. It might make her more apprehensive than when she was just following her feelings, and those feelings said she longed to be around him, wanted him to take control again.
Just tell him you'll do it, Madison. What are you waiting for?
Returning to her store, she put the frog out on the counter. Surely a man who sold cute, whimsical frogs wouldn't do something too terrible to her.
Fortunately, she was distracted by her post-lunch customer surge. She had a steady flow until late afternoon, including some of the men next door, buying for their wives and seeking cake. Just when she thought she had a lull to go check the Dungeon Room and see if the cake was all gone, a woman slipped in the door, barely opening it enough to trigger the music that played whenever a customer entered or exited.
Prior to taking ownership of Naughty Bits, Madison had held a variety of sales positions, and that experience had given her a radar for hustlers. When she sold cars, shabbily dressed people pretended to be homeless, wandering onto the car lot to hit up browsing clientele for handouts. When she worked in the appliance section of a department store, other undesirables tried to scratch the merchandise unseen to secure a discounted price, or worked scams with the generous return policy.
While her newest customer didn't give her the hustler vibe, the shift of her dull eyes, the nervous movements of her hands, put Madison on alert for shoplifting, perhaps to fuel a drug addiction. She was too thin, which made her look younger than Madison suspected she was. Her hair was pulled back from her face, enhancing her strained countenance.
Then Madison noted her only jewelry. The girl wore a steel collar with a small padlock threaded through the screw holes, and the heavy metal had abraded her skin.
She'd met collared subs who had a decorative collar, something that passed as jewelry in public. It gave them the personal pleasure of wearing a subtle statement of their Dom's ownership. This one was overstated, a la Planet of the Apes, to look exactly like what it was. If worn by someone in Goth or punk garb, it might have blended better, but the woman wore plain jeans and a red knit shirt that hung on her sparse frame.
She could be here to steal, but since she was the only customer in the store, she had Madison's full attention. If she was a shoplifter, she wasn't a very sensible one.
Madison came out from behind the counter with her usual warm smile, though she suspected her gaze was sharper than usual. "Hi, I'm Madison. Can I help you?"
"Um . . . yeah. Yes." The customer fingered one of the peignoirs. "This is so beautiful."
"Yes, it is." If the girl had more meat on her bones, it would look wonderful on her. Her eyes were focused, so she wasn't using. At least not right now. "What's your name?"
"Veronica."
"Veronica, would you like some lemon cake? I baked it this morning." She hoped she had some left. If not, she'd find her a pack of crackers.
"Uh, no. But thank you." However, the girl's eyes latched on to the direction Madison had pointed. Then they stayed there, studying the archway of the Dungeon Room. "I thought you were just a lingerie store." Relief crossed her face, and her attention came back to Madison. "I'm not allowed to eat unless my Master says I can."
So her trepidation might be about going into a store unaccepting of the BDSM lifestyle. It didn't seem to abate, however. Though Veronica kept her gaze on Madison, it was as if she was being forced to look at her. She swallowed noisily.
"He sent me in here to . . . he told me to tell you . . . to ask . . . what's the best outfit you sell for whores, because that's what I am."
Humiliation could be part of BDSM, if that was what a sub enjoyed, though the Dom or sub that pulled a third party into it without permission or forewarning was showing poor manners, at the least. Beyond that, Madison thought of how Troy had responded to her stern teasing this morning, with a blush and a bright, healthy light in his eyes. He was demonstrably eager to be back with his Mistress, even to try out the cage she'd had built for him. Compared to this poor thing in front of her, the difference was black and white.
"Let's get you some cake," Madison said firmly. "It will be a good way to talk about what you really want."
She took her arm, but Veronica flinched. As she pulled away, the sleeve of her knit shirt shifted, giving Madison a glimpse of healing cuts, as well as bruising around the wrists. Perhaps from steel manacles that matched the uncomfortable weight and cut of the collar?
In the next blink, a red haze had covered Madison's eyes. Though they'd had their differences on many things, on one thing she and Alice had never disagreed. They had no tolerance for abuse. As teenagers, they'd joined forces to kidnap more than one neglected dog from a terrible life on a short chain in a backyard. When they'd stumbled on two boys behind the school beating up a kid with Down Syndrome, Madison had hesitated, not sure whether they should go get help or do something to stop it. Then Alice jumped in and she joined her, the two of them beating the ever-loving crap out of the bullies.
Madison remembered later that same day of the time she'd put peroxide on an abrasion on her sister's arm. The scrape had come from rolling around in the gravel, grappling with one of the boys. Alice would stand for Veronica without thought, making sure she was protected in whatever way necessary. Madison led with that feeling.
"Where is your Master?" She headed for the door, but this time it was Veronica who reached out, held her back.
"Please don't," she said plaintively. "If you get mad at him, he'll get mad at me."
