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"No. You're perfect for this medium. Elegant, statuesque, your every movement precisely choreographed. You were the first person we thought of when we came up with the idea, which is why I'd like to know what you think of it. I don't know of a tougher customer at The Zone than you. " He raised her hand to his lips, pressed her knuckles to his mouth. From the look in his eyes she thought he was suppressing the urge to nip. Perhaps to keep the wariness she was feeling from evolving into full-blown retreat.
"It's all. . . fantastic. " She gave him honesty because she didn't see any reason to dissemble. This was not about the two of them. "Literally and in the complimentary sense. Your detail. . . " She looked toward the dancers, was amazed to see the occasional gleam of skin that suggested perspiration, pulled off by some miracle of light and shadow. "You'll have people lining up to use this room. "
"I hope so, because the capital cost is steep. We brought in guys who do work on movies that pull in millions but I think it will be worth the experience. We're going to try and offer five different playing scenes and add five more every year, make them even more interactive. "
"The cost doesn't matter to you. " She shook her head. "You've got more money than Kuwait. What matters to you is how people react to it. Will it have a glass ceiling?
Will they be able to see the images up there?"
"Some of the rooms will have the glass ceiling. Some of them will just have cameras to project onto the large screens upstairs, because of the wiring we need to run through the ceiling. But in either case they won't see the holographic images. Just the suggestion of lights and shadows. "
"Good. That's the way it should be. The focus remains on the actual people in the room. Seeing their movements without the images will be intriguing. Absorbing. " She pulled her hand from his grasp and backed to the center again, closing her eyes briefly as a couple, the woman in a colorful red strapless dress with flared skirt and her partner in jeans and a black T-shirt, rumbaed across her, the flickering light making a canvas on her white outfit, her pale skin.
"You should do an exhibitionism scenario, for couples that don't want to do it for real, or for a Master or Mistress trying to break a sub into it gradually. You could have a tight circle of people watching. Do a soundtrack of whispers. " She stood next to one man taking a break, hands on hips, deep breaths expanding his bare chest, his pants snug enough that the bulge of his genitalia was impressively noticeable. His shaved head gleamed, dark eyes vivid in the flickering light as he watched his partner nearby bending over in a tiny miniskirt to adjust her shoe, her dark hair falling forward to cover her face. Though he was somewhat transparent, Marguerite put out her hand to touch, trace air, imagining what that gleam of muscle might feel like. Then she turned on her toe, stepping into his body, facing the imaginary circle of faces, visualizing a sub in the center.
"The sub could be stripped naked while 'they' all watch. The score is a jumble of whispers mixed up with a jazz piece. . . Murmurs, suggestions and you could change the background tape to the Dom's specifications. 'Make her play with her pussy. . . ' 'Look what beautiful nipples she has', 'I want to fuck him next. . . ' Adding to what the Master or Mistress is saying. "
Tyler nodded, his eyes moving over the open expanse of floor, seeing what she was seeing. Imagining it the way she was imagining it. "Maybe you could help me plot out a script, be part of the production process. "
"Maybe. "
He smiled. She found herself needing to swallow, feeling t
he press of those firm lips on her hand again.
He moved back to the control room area, in its wooden open frame that would one day be hidden behind finished walls. She found she might like it better like this, where she could see what lay behind the magic. Seeing all the genius and sweat that had gone into it made it a far greater magic, more valued than the ability to wave a hand and make it happen without conscious effort or commitment.
When he looked up at her, her gaze drifted to the line of his shoulders, the strong line of his throat, the way his shirt stretched over his chest as he moved his hands over the controls. The smooth slope of his waist where his trousers were neatly belted, the lean curve of his hips beneath the cloth as he shifted his weight to one hip. She wondered what Tyler would look like in jeans, the snug fit at the crotch. She rarely watched him perform at The Zone. For one thing, he rarely opened the ceiling screen, preferring privacy. His skills were relayed by the subs who experienced them. Nothing about Tyler suggested they were exaggerations.
But none of that explained why he made her breath quicken when he looked at her.
Or why, after all the men she'd Dominated, her confusing sexual and emotional images about Tyler were never about Dominating him. Instead they lingered over touching his skin, getting close enough to inhale his scent at her leisure and feeling his arms around her. Simple, romantic images. Other more darkly sensual images sometimes beckoned to her from the shadows of her subconscious but she refused to go there.
She had a crush on Tyler Winterman, that was all. A two-year obsession that she'd been able to keep under control by keeping her distance. A crush.
He'd stopped the club dance music. A low note pierced the quiet of the room, stilling her thoughts with its clear, beautiful pitch. As it built in strength, it blended into a melody of female voices, all crooning the same note. Then one broke away, began a soft blues song of longing, of lonely need. Bass kicked in, thumping through the room like the heartbeats of all the souls of shadow and light slowly undulating around her, moving to the rhythm in sinuous motion against one another. She saw hands move down low on hips, grip, rock together, breasts pressed tight against male muscle. The woman who had sung that first long note came back in, a strong R&B talent that gave romance to the primal sound. Every beat of it, every stroke, seemed to be urging lovers to take that step toward movement, toward each other.
Up on the opposite wall, the silhouette of a different woman lay on her back and a man lowered himself onto her, penetrating her as she arched up. Slowly he began to rock his hips in and out, in and out, taking her up.
Tyler was behind her, his breath on her neck. So close the curves of her buttocks brushed the front of his trousers, the tops of his thighs. His hand came up under hers so it was raised into the air, curved over the top of his. Flexing his fingers so they came through the spaces of hers, he crossed them so they were over the top of her knuckles.
He brought their now laced hands in to fold them across her body, low on her waist.
With his other hand he gripped her opposite wrist but didn't lift it. Her arm was sandwiched between her thigh and his arm, both arms in a straight line pointed toward the floor. He closed the gap between them so his body was pressed completely against hers, chest to her shoulder blades, waist to the small of her back, his hips against hers.
The shape of his cock rubbed against the sensitive cleft of her buttocks such that she instinctively tightened there. She felt him harden further. His thigh moved forward, pressing into hers. Before she could decide to bolt, he began to move.
"Dance with me," he said huskily. "Follow my movements. " An early training session. At least that's what she told herself to make it acceptable.
His thigh shifted again, his hand pressing against the hand on her wrist. He rocked with her, shifting hips, moving them in rhythm with the beat of the R&B score. Tyler kept them in the open circle area into which the dancers did not come, though on their turns the light flashed over the women's hair mere inches from Marguerite's face. They were on a crowded nightclub dance floor, surrounded by bodies responding to one thing. The sound of the music, the message of it, too demanding to be denied.
He took her down lower and her hand curled up into a fist in his as his thigh rubbed the back of hers, as their knees bent, then straightened. She leaned back against him and he lifted the hand he held by the wrist to the side of her face. Threaded her fingers through her own hair and then up, bringing her touch and the strands of her hair alongside his neck.
Marguerite closed her eyes, felt the beat of his pulse, dug her fingertips into his skin and her hair as he turned them. When she opened her eyes, she had a brief impression of bodies, light, shadows. She could feel his heart beat against her back, the press of his cock firm against her. Every time the bass thumped, it vibrated through their bodies, meshed with their heartbeats.
The hunger broke through like a wind tearing loose the lock on a shutter, slamming it open. She mewled, a soft cry of aching want as he laid his lips on her neck the way he had last night, only this time he didn't move or even bite. Just kept the pressure of his mouth there as she realized he was bearing almost all her weight. He rocked them and spun, shifted them in the steps of the dance.
Without thinking, she tried to slide her hand free, move down her waist for that throbbing scream for fulfillment. Instead of letting her go, he went with her, went down her body. She quivered in his grasp, arching in rigid, silent passion as his hand and hers covered her pussy through her tunic. With his clever fingers still laced through hers, he shoved away the tunic material impatiently and touched the soft lips of her pussy through the thin white fabric beneath. Brushed over them, and though she knew her fingers were there too, it was his firm touch that her body reacted to like a starburst, sudden, explosive.
