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"Now," Marcus picked up the brush when he was satisfied with the skin temperature and level of swelling on her ankle. "Let's get you tidied up for supper. "
Before she could utter more than a sound of surprise, he was freeing her hair from its banana clip and pins and spreading it out behind her to take the brush through it and unsnarl the tangles.
"No protests, my dear. " His voice dropped an octave. "If I recall, you enjoy being served. "
Lauren's gaze jerked up to him. The sensual mouth and soft fall of hair was the type of face a woman did not forget. Even as she had the thought, it was there, the vague familiarity sharpening onto a distinct memory.
"I remember you. You were. . . sitting with another man. A younger man. " Her eyes danced at Marcus's quick, wicked grin.
"Close your eyes, dear," he suggested. "And just lay back and enjoy. "
* * * * *
It had been during a pediatrics seminar on asthma and allergies in New York City. She had slipped away after the official dinner and visited a club recommended by Maria.
The place had been called May I Have This Dance? . IT had a hundred dollar cover charge to step into grace and elegance with a kink flavor.
Men dressed in black tie. The women wore formal wear heavy on corsets and long flowing skirts reminiscent of the Victorian era, and four inch stiletto heeled boots that were not. Diamond chandeliers sparkled, dimmed so they threw moving circles of light onto the ballroom dance floor but allowed the shadows to keep their secrets. Near the orchestra, bubbles drifted out onto the floor like schools of fish and dispersed among the diners like fairies alighting on flowers, touching a shoulder, a lock of hair, kissing a face before vanishing into moisture.
There was gallery seating, for those who preferred to watch the floor and sip a cocktail. Lauren had chosen that option. The mid-thigh sheath of black fabric shot with silver sparkles was somewhat inappropriate, in her estimation, for such a fantastical landscape. She wore seamed thigh highs beneath the dress that revealed a hint of their lace tops when she crossed her legs, and silver high heels fastened to her ankles with a swag of slender silver chains. It was fetish wear only to those who recognized it as such, in case she met one of her colleagues in the lobby of the hotel, on her way in or out. She hadn't even
meant to go out, intending to skip Maria's suggestion. But something about a hotel room on a business trip, its odd combination of loneliness and temptation to indiscretion, had driven her to explore the boundaries of her world in a new place.
Marcus, though of course she had not known his name then, had come in from the bar. He had caught her eye, as he would any woman's, and she watched as he opened the door for the young man with him, guiding him through with a solicitous hand to his elbow. Marcus was wearing a tux with a swallow-tailed coat and white silk bowtie, his dark hair falling back onto his shoulders in perfect ebony waves.
She watched how he spoke to the waiter, while the young man looked about him uncertainly. She suspected it was his first time in such a place. He also had that anxious, anticipatory air of someone awaiting a Master's bidding, not sure what that bidding would be, and aroused by the very thought of what it could be. It was in Marcus, too, the studied, casual way he spoke to the waiter while keeping a proprietary hand on his companion's back. Behind the casual expression was something more, a still fascination, another form of anticipation. How would his companion react to what he would ask of him?
The waiter led them to the table directly beneath Lauren. Marcus pulled out the chair for his companion, seated him, then sat to his left, his arm laying along the young man's chair back, his fingers playing absently with the boy's nape. His companion was looking about, drinking it all in, his smiles quick and easy, and Marcus chuckled often during their murmured conversation.
They fascinated her, and at first she was not sure why, did not question why her gaze could not leave them. Marcus ordered for them both, and the waiter brought them drinks.
The young man picked up his napkin, but Marcus's hand closed over his wrist. "Leave it, Thomas," he said.
His words reached Lauren, a murmur rising above the undercurrent of noise around them. Marcus laid the boy's wrist on the table and his own hand dropped, a palmed caress of the boy's inner thigh that suffused his face with color. "I want to be able to see what I do to you. "
Thomas nodded, settling his hand around the wine, but it trembled slightly. Yes, Lauren decided. They had played at home a good deal, enough that they knew one another's signals, but this was likely Thomas's first debut in public as a sub. It was enough to rivet any Dom's attention, watching a Master acclimate a sub to serving his pleasure before the eyes of strangers, though of course in a place like this,
"stranger" was a relative term.
It was not just her thighs that tightened at the interchange, but something in her throat, her heart. That dual sense of belonging, in the way of being equally possessor and possessed, the intimacy of it. She saw it in their tender play with one another and it made her miss Jonathan keenly, or rather, what she had wanted to have with Jonathan, and never had.
"I've a gift for you," his words drifted up, penetrating her pain, and Lauren gazed down upon them again.
"Your company is gift enough," Thomas said, touching his glass to Marcus's.
Marcus chuckled. "And here I've no hip waders for such flattery. " At the other's cheeky grin, he fished something out of his jacket and laid it on the table.
Lauren leaned forward. It was an elegant gold chain, something a well-dressed man might wear, its simplicity and gleam speaking of its quality, but it appeared long for a man's neck.
Marcus leaned forward, and his voice dropped, husky. "It goes around your waist, my love, and you will feel its movement with every twitch of that delectable ass of yours. It will ride on your hip bones, reminding you of how my hands feel there, digging into your flesh when I'm driving into you, whispering your name, telling you to come for me. " He lifted it, held it at eye level. "It symbolizes your willingness to be bound to me, obedient to me, for it is not my will alone that holds you, but yours. "
The young man grasped Marcus's hand, the gold between their palms.
"Tell me you understand," Marcus murmured, his eyes on Thomas's, "And tell me in the way you have been taught. "
"I understand, Master. "
"And do you willingly belong to me?"
