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He wanted to see it, wanted to see her lose control. She gave her subs mind-blowing orgasms, so totally focused on their pleasure they seemed to overlook that she herself remained cool and unflappable through the process. Like she was a guru guiding them to spiritual enlightenment. For spectators, it increased the sensual mystery, but he had sensed the heat beneath it, as if it were stifled and unable to find expression.
A compulsion he could only thank God for had made her look up at him again. As she fought to stay fully in control of the situation, of herself, barely moving, he'd formed the words with his lips, not thinking, just acting.
Come for me.
A gasp broke from her lips. Despite the obvious struggles of her mind, so vibrant he could see the swords clashing in her eyes, her moist lips parted and a sound escaped.
The audio was not on but he guessed that sound would have been small, plaintive, like the cry of a dove cut short.
Triumph filled him, and more. Sudden, raging desire, so primitive that he did not have the rationality to question the fury that rose in him, wanting the sub's lips off her cunt. He wanted his lips, hand or cock there.
Yes. His lips moved again, his eyes burning.
When her lips drew back from her teeth, her throat contracting, he had a sudden uneasy moment, thinking her fight to deny the natural reaction of her body would cause her to go into a seizure. A hard convulsion jerked her on the man's mouth, taking her to an almost painful culmination, everything in her resisting the pleasure, the inevitable.
As he returned to the present, Tyler acknowledged that it was problematic. The Ice Queen was a Dominant. No. THE Dominant, the Domme of all Dommes. She didn't belong to anyone, though her lovers, temporary though they were, belonged to her for all time. He suspected that like a sorceress, after leaving her emotional mark on them, she could summon them back to her with a spell as an army to do her bidding.
Even more ironic to him was that the women who had always drawn him, intrigued him, were acknowledged submissives. But that one look, that one connection and he knew that he wanted Marguerite Perruquet with a hunger that couldn't be called anything else or explained away.
He knew there was a whole spectrum of psychological analyses on the BDSM
culture and its adherents. Much of it judgmental, colored by the moral biases of the researchers and some abhorrent excesses of their complicated lifestyle. He had understood a long time ago that BDSM was a faith you had to feel to understand. Many of those who felt it even then denied its pull on their senses because it was so counter to what was considered normal sexuality and political correctness. He took pleasure in unexpected responses in himself but watching her climax had exceeded pleasure. It was pure, predatory need and it was growing stronger, telling him he had to have her.
He settled into his favored spot in the mezzanine where he would have the best view of the room she had reserved for the night and ordered a drink.
* * * * *
Marguerite stood in the corner, motionless. She was to Brendan's right. He could see her with some eyestrain. For the moment she was letting him struggle for it, though she kept her own gaze forward, focused on the air, focused on her own breathing.
Nothing existed outside her and Brendan, just the heat and life of their two bodies. The glass above displayed Brendan well to a couple hundred attentive people, clustered around the opening. The Doms would watch from the upper mezzanine. Jeremy was in the room with her, The Zone employee and trained paramedic who was here to assist.
But all of that was just a buzz of blurry sensation around the sharp clarity of Brendan's naked body, bound securely on his stomach on the spanking bench. His knees and calves were strapped to the floor so he couldn't move, his muscular ass tense. The bare back gleamed, th
e canvas she would mark. A permanent reminder of her presence in his life for all time.
She wondered how many people carried similar brands inside where no one could see. At least this was a brand that would not be susceptible to infection forever, as some internal brands were. Wounds that never healed, that could always be torn by something as simple as the persuasion of a man with amber eyes. When he'd arrived she'd felt his presence through the glass as easily as if she could see him the way she saw Brendan now.
She didn't freeze up. Accepting that her clarity would include three rather than two tonight, she let the thoughts of him pass through and out her consciousness.
When she moved at last, she stepped out of the shadows in supple thigh-high white boots with lacings up the back and four-inch heels. She'd perfected the art of sauntering in them, heel, toe, heel, toe, pause, one heel digging into the floor as she idly let the toe rock back and forth in the air. She ran her hands over the grips of the three irons, resting at the moment in a bed of glowing briquettes. Lifting one iron, she noted the hue of the metal, set it back down. Not hot enough yet. The safest brands were ironically third-degree burns, because they cauterized the wound, deadened the nerves forever.
She would be doing a trio of brandings across the small of Brendan's back, just above the rise of his buttocks, using strike irons not cautery pens for the maximum amount of pain. The design would be a fleur de lis with two decorative elements on either side of it.
"Not quite ready yet, Brendan. " She dipped her knees to trail her fingertips up the back of one of his thighs, felt his shudder. From talking to other Dommes who sought more real-life information from their subs than she did, she knew that he was an amateur swimmer who removed all his body hair when preparing to compete. Tonight he'd done it for her as well. It felt odd, the way his leg was smooth like a woman's but so much harder from the lean muscle tone. She wondered what threading her fingers through the hair on Tyler's leg would feel like, combing through the coarse strands, feeling his muscles shift under the heat of her palm.
Turning abruptly on her heel, she paced away. Became motionless once again just outside Brendan's view. Breathed. Closed her eyes. Breathed. Yes, there it was. The center. And it again told her that the thoughts of Tyler must be accepted, allowed to flow and mingle with this moment's impressions. By actively trying to shut them out, she would drain the energy she intended to provide to Brendan tonight, to make him capable of attaining a level of focused devotion that would cause any Domme to crave him for her own.
Of course any Domme would count herself fortunate for that privilege now.
Brendan was bisexual and beautiful, living with a male lover who was also into the submissive scene, was likely part of those in the audience tonight. With glossy dark hair that fell to tanned shoulders, Brendan had an ancient Greek athlete's physique and green eyes so pure in color they were like smooth jade stones. His body was unmarked, not a single piercing or tattoo. But he wanted her mark. Had begged for it.
* * * * *
She'd had her night with him and she never went with a sub twice. Regardless, two months ago, he'd knelt before her, where she sat at a table at The Zone with two other Dommes.
He'd waited, kneeling at her side for a good ten minutes until she'd given him permission to address her. Brendan never crossed lines. His pleasure was in absolute service, not rebellion, so his manners were impeccable. She'd heard that he taught drama at the community college, which she suspected explained how effectively he adopted a courtly demeanor in all his interactions with Mistresses at The Zone.
"Please, Mistress Marguerite. I know your rules and I would never offer any disrespect to you, but I've thought about this long and hard since our night together. "
