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She screwed the top back on the peroxide. His words surprised her, but so did he, when he collected the assortment of stained gauze pads she'd left next to him to toss them into the trash. The fighters were probably required to clean up after themselves, part of the deal of getting their cut from the fight. However, letting her do it would have been an excellent way for him to snub her, the way he had when he cut in front of her at Tyler's office. This time, he hadn't taken the opening.
"Why don't you drink? Recovering alcoholic, health nut, control freak, or you just don't like the taste?"
He blinked. The silver and red beads threaded through her hair seemed to have caught his attention. His eyes tracked the sparkling movement as the black locs spilled over her shoulder. "What do you think?" he asked in the unreadable monotone he was favoring.
"Control freak, definitely." She put the first aid supplies back in the cabinet. "I can't imagine what amount is worth going through all this, but I hope you get paid well tonight."
He grunted. She wondered if it mattered to him if he was paid at all. Whatever his day job was, it didn't visibly pay him well, if the condition of his car meant anything. During his playtimes at the club, he wore street wear and stripped out of it. If he wore any "fetish wear," it was either the clingy style shorts, or an outfit provided by the Domme. For his job there, he wore The Zone staff shirt with his jeans.
So he didn't spend his money on fancy sub outfits like some of the other males. He didn't seem to spend money on much of anything. Except the tattoo. She wondered what had inspired him to get it, because she was sure something had marked the occasion. He had no other body art.
She touched it with light fingers after making another pass with the gauze to wipe a missed smear of blood off the shoulder. "That's some good work there."
Another grunt of assent and an irritable twitch. She stepped back. "You'll do. I suppose you know a hot shower when you get home is the best remedy, on top of the ibuprofen you just took. Though I'd highly recommend a tetanus update and having your head examined."
He kept staring at her. He wanted to make her nervous with his silence. Tough luck with that, boy. You want to self-gag, it doesn't bother me.
Answering
in kind, she tossed one final wipe into the trash and headed for the door. Embracing her Mistress side meant understanding there was an energy flow between Dom and sub once a connection was made, even if the connection was the rope in a tug of war. She rode that energy the way it was meant to be ridden, not forcing her own expectations on it. It worked better that way. She'd accomplished what mattered most to her here, which was confirming he'd released that surfeit of potent energy from his session. He was leveling out. While he could use a lot more aftercare, they were quite a distance from him welcoming or earning that kind of treatment from her.
"You don't want to talk about what happened in Tyler's office?" he said abruptly. "Or why you followed me here?"
"No." She continued to move toward the opening between the panels that would lead back to the cage and, even better, out toward the parking lot. She didn't need to stay any longer, and what she really wanted was a deep breath of clean air.
She didn't anticipate that he would do or say anything to hold her there longer, so it was a pleasant surprise when he did.
"You didn't say what you thought of the fight."
She pivoted at the opening and met his gaze. "No, I didn't. Would you like to know?"
He could look wary, like an animal being baited into a trap. He had thick, dark lashes. Though he'd let his face get pummeled too often, nothing could dim the impact of his eyes. They were like the mirror surface of a lake. "Yeah," he said at last.
"Okay." There was a pen sitting next to the tray of gauze. Returning to him, she picked it up and extended her hand, looking pointedly at one of his. When he offered it, she clasped his wrist and wrote an address on the inside of his forearm, along with Friday, 6:30pm.
His fingers flexed above her grip. She was aware of his breath stirring tendrils of hair against her cheek. Her hip pressed against his knee. She let herself imagine sliding between his spread thighs, tasting the metallic flavor lingering on his lips, feeling the flex of his shoulder muscles under her splayed fingers and firm palms. His hands would curve over her hips, his own fingers digging in, showing he wanted and needed her.
Careful, girl. Don't fuck with your own head. He'll do enough of that without your help.
"Meet me there and I'll tell you." Setting the pen aside, she laid a hand on the side of his face. "Get some rest. Take care of yourself."
When he tried to clasp her arm, she drew back and shook her head, a denial. His lips set in a thin line. "That a command, Mistress?" he asked tonelessly.
"Take it however you want."
He curled his fingers around the edge of the table, body leaning forward, eyes suddenly cold and hard. "It wouldn't matter anyway, since you don't really like me."
"No. I don't," she responded frankly. "But I care about you. That doesn't require that I like you."
Maggie O'Day was a woman of considerable wealth. Currently in her seventies, she'd decided a decade ago to establish "The Preserve," a Dommes-only playground of over seventy-five acres. The property was populated by trails and woods perfectly suited for primal scenes, slave hunts and capture fantasies. The two roomy barns were stocked with stalls and a few carriages for pony play, adjacent to a dirt track for Mistresses to race their "ponies." Covered shelters scattered throughout the property offered other outdoor setup options for equipment, or there was a fully stocked dungeon room in the "clubhouse," along with sitting areas, kitchen and wide screen TVs with full cable hookups. A library of adult films catered to female tastes.
Like The Zone, The Preserve's membership was intended to weed out dabblers. The vetting process was handled by Maggie's savvy personal assistant and collared slave, Emile, but Maggie always had final say and reviewed his every recommendation. If she took a shine to a Mistress of lesser means, she would offer a membership proportionate with the woman's income. She'd been known to say, "I don't really need the money, but people appreciate what they have to pay for or earn. If they don't," she'd add, "they'll be out the door. With my size ten Army boot up their asses."
Maggie had been out as a lesbian since her teens, and was a vast resource of laywoman history on lesbian rights and struggles to be accepted by mainstream society. She was also a strong champion of women in general. From the beginning, The Preserve welcomed Dommes, gay or straight, but the only men allowed through the gates were submissives under the supervision of a specific Domme. "Children must be accompanied by an adult," Maggie would quip. The men and women who maintained the grounds were all submissives and slaves loyal and bound to Maggie.
She'd imposed The Preserve's gender restrictions with an unapologetic and succinct explanation. "Girls need a place to be girls." Twice a year, she held an eclectic fertility festival that also honored the Greek poet Sappho. Regina was on the invitation list, along with about a hundred other Dommes Maggie counted as her friends. They could each bring their chosen subs for a weekend of fun, frolicking and debauched revelry.
But Maggie believed in committed relationships, and it concerned her that Regina didn't have one. Sometimes her grandmother and mother side emerged, as much a part of her matriarchal personality as her Mistress traits. At the last event, Regina recalled Maggie cornering her about her long-term relationship plans.
