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The girl shuddered, her mouth open on a silent scream of pleasure under soundproof glass. Through the duration of her surrender, her Dom kept up the strike count. Her response, caught by the candlelight illumination of the chamber, glistened down her thighs through the silver chain leg openings of the chastity belt. Moving to her side, her Master released her arms and let her hold him at last, stroking her hair, his face lit with pleasure and devotion.
That expression absorbed Mac, held him there a few moments more than he anticipated. When at last he turned toward his original destination, a quiet corner in the shadows, he found his way unexpectedly and deliberately blocked.
The obstacle had spike-heeled boots that followed her legs like a second skin, so they were as feminine and delicate as the dress she wore. Whereas most Doms preferred black and leather for the strong message they conveyed, this woman had chosen a dress of hunter green velvet. The decolletage was an elegant, low-slung drape that revealed the tops of her breasts and the lace along the edges of the dark green satin bra cups sewn into the dress. The skirt hugged round hips and flared out in a little garnish of slashes just below mid-thigh, giving him a glimpse of the lace tops of her silken thigh highs beneath the boots.
He had to stop at her face much sooner than he anticipated. She was a woodland fairy, a pixie. With the heels, the top of her head reached his shoulder. She wore a simple silver cross around her neck, and a pair of earrings that were a fall of silver stars. Silver glitter sparkled on her skin over her breasts and sternum.
The raven black hair falling to her waist was not hers, but a beautiful wig that did great things for her small oval face, her skin looking like cream in his coffee in the morning, liquid and smooth. He'd bet those lavender eyes were contacts, but her beauty couldn't be disguised. Whatever her hair and eye color, she was a knockout. Her lips were liquid red and full, just like he liked them.
The smell of lavender clung to her, with an underpinning of vanilla, and his nose was interested in having him take a tasty bite, even if the rest of his body was being sternly admonished by his mind to stay in check.
She was so delicate, it was hard to believe she was a Dom. But it resonated off her. A less experienced sub wouldn't know, but he did, from the direct way she met his eyes, assessing him in a manner so potent he found himself fighting the urge to please her by casting his gaze down.
"I have a room below," she said, and it wasn't a request. "I want you down there." She pointed through the glass and he saw the room provisioned like a horse stall, complete with cross ties, bridle bit gags and other equine accoutrements modified for human sexual play.
"I'm nobody's pony, sweetheart," he said, and made to move past her.
"I'm not looking for a pony," she returned. "And I don't recall giving you a choice about it, slave."
She was green. It was obvious from the shift of her eyes, the pulse pounding high in her throat. He could smell her nerves. He bared his teeth in a smile.
"Make me, sugar."
"What does that mean?" Confusion and irritation crossed her features.
"It means I don't go down easy." He flicked an impudent finger under her chin and delighted in watching her eyes narrow in anger. Oh, yeah, she had it in her. His cock stirred, like a dog catching the scent of something interesting crossing his yard. "You've got to prove you can tame me.
"Go practice on Billy over there," he gestured to a table where a young man with an open face sat, bare-chested and in tight pants. "He's friendly and eager to please."
"I don't want a cocker spaniel." The pixie reached up, caught her long-nailed fingers in the open collar of his shirt, dug into his flesh. She jerked, bringing him down a few inches, not because he wasn't strong enough to pull back, but because she made it clear she'd take a piece of him with the fabric if he didn't.
At the same moment, he felt the hard length of the riding crop she carried thrust home between the crease of his thigh and the heavy weight of his testicles. She exerted a pressure that was uncomfortable, not painful, but the motion definitely caught his attention.
The violet eyes and black wig hid her true looks, but not the satisfied set of that sinful mouth. The tip of her tongue came out, wet her lips.
"I want the pit bull, the one who runs his yard." Her crop hand slid down to grasp him firmly by the balls, still keeping the prop in the equation so he felt the insistent shove of the weapon as well as the curled clutch of her fingers against his hardening cock. "Get your ass downstairs into that room. And I want this shirt off."
Her eyes were inches from his. The music and crowd noise faded away and lavender took over his senses. A vibration rippled his nerves, sending a shudder through his body before he could prevent it. She felt it under her touch, he could tell from the surprised triumph in her expression. Her grip eased, her fingertips brushing a light caress over his nipple.
Mac reached up, closed his hand around a wrist as slender and delicate against his strength as blown glass, and he was the one that was shaking.
She could push his limits, despite her inexperience. But that wasn't why he was here.
"You honor me with your attention," he said quietly, meeting her gaze and then lowering his own, following etiquette to convey his respect that she'd won the point. "But I can't attend you tonight, much as I'm already regretting it."
He shifted his grip to her hand, lifted it to his lips, still not raising his lids, not daring to do so. Damn, how had the little minx gotten under his guard? He usually preferred a much more physically intimidating Dom.
Of course, his preferences didn't always dictate his choices. Tonight, despite his best intentions, they were trying to do so.
With the right amount of time, she was one of those who would be a true Mistress, able to break a man down physically and emotionally under her will. He'd already surmised that she chose a sub for more than just the packaging and what that packaging could do for her. Mac wasn't looking for a Mistress that dug that deep. It said something though, that he'd caught her eye. He guessed her to be in her late twenties, early thirties, very early, but her level glance was an unsettling match for his own maturity.
He brushed his lips over that soft skin, felt the glossy surface of her nails press into his palm, and he didn't want to let go. But he did.
"A good evening to you, Mistress," he murmured. He stepped backward several steps, again observing etiquette, and did not turn his back on her until he was at a respectful distance.
*
Good Christ, what was that? Violet felt like she'd been hit in the solar plexus with a head butt. Fire slithered over and around her arm, radiating from where his lips had pressed to her knuckles, that moustache tickling her skin. Her fingertips, which had given him that intimate caress inside his shirt, along a nipple that had hardened instantly beneath her touch, were vibrating with need.
