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When that happened, he focused on the anger, not the pain.
For tonight…for tonight he kept walking, and with the ease of practice he shut down all thoughts and questions related to her. He was already at the club, so he would take advantage of it. He’d find a submissive, someone he knew, to scene with for the weekend.
He’d find someone to play with.
Someone to distract him.
It took several hours for the various public spaces and courtyards to fill, but he knew how to be patient, and once there were people milling about—the club was packed—he found a free sub who wanted to play.
Saffron’s checklist partner hadn’t contacted her, so Benson claimed her for the weekend. She was chic and effortlessly sexy. A submissive who knew what she wanted.
He left the doors to their playroom open and ordered Saffron to drape herself over a chaise, legs spread, collar around her neck and cuffs on her wrists. Then he slid a vibrating egg into her pussy and commanded her to play with her breasts.
Drawn by the sights and sounds of a sub being tormented with pleasure, a transient audience formed. Benson watched the onlookers gather and told himself he’d opted for this type of scene both because Saffron was a bit of an exhibitionist, and his own kinks meant he enjoyed putting a submissive on display.
There were those for whom an audience played no role in the scene. Benson used them as another tool, another toy. When he scened with an audience, they were another leverage of pressure he was applying to his submissive. Pressure at once subtle compared to the tightness of a collar or cuffs, yet overtly impactful since the submissive was exposed in a more obvious sense.
Saffron gasped and wiggled as he ordered her to pinch her nipples to, and then past, the point of pain. He used the vibrating egg to bring her to the edge of orgasm again and again.
The scene suited Saffron, but in the spirit of full honesty—and Benson demanded honesty, especially from himself—he had a secondary reason for keeping the doors open. Saffron drew attention, luring people to stop and watch, if only for a moment. Benson sat off to the side, in a position to watch both Saffron and the door, but where he wasn’t readily visible. Anyone drawn to the display wouldn’t know he was there, that he was the one topping Saffron, unless they actually entered the room. While everyone else watched Saffron, Benson looked for Malvia, scanning each face in the crowd with grim anticipation.
Months of mental control—forcing himself to never even think about Malvia—destroyed by seeing her name and picture in his packet and knowing that, at least in theory, she was his. Studiously cultivated avoidance—immediately turning around and heading in the other direction when he caught sight of her—obliterated in a single evening.
Once again, she belonged to him. Even if it was only for the duration of the game. Every time a dark-haired woman stopped to watch, his whole body tensed. A second later, that tension would release when he realized it wasn’t her.
By the time he sent Saffron to bed, a low, simmering anger pooled in his gut. He hated this.
Hated that seeing her photo and the tantalizing, horrifying thought that he could top her one more time was enough to make him unbalanced.
If he’d been someone else, he might have said that the game announcement, learning who his partner was, made him lose control. But Benson wouldn’t say that, wouldn’t even think it. He never lost control.
Sometimes he wasn’t at his best, didn’t have a firm enough grip on the reins, but he was never not in control.
He topped with analytical precision. Saffron had once memorably said he looked like a biker, but topped like a billionaire. He didn’t fully understand what that meant—he was neither a biker nor a billionaire—but the other subs who’d heard the statement had agreed.
Benson was on his way to the sleeping rooms—a whole building slightly removed from the main courtyards that functioned as a hotel for people who didn’t want to drive home after a long night of BDSM—when he saw them.
Mistress Faith stood on one of the small stages in the Sub Rosa court. She wore a long black wrap coat and heeled boots. Paired with black gloves, her skin was covered except for her neck and face. As striking as she was, Faith wasn’t what held his attention.
The woman kneeling before Mistress Faith had soft, dark hair piled on top of her head in a loose bun. Her skin was silvered by the moon and shadowed blue-gray thanks to the light that filtered through the canopy of vegetation overhead.
She wore a sheer white robe, and even with the heatlamps that kept the ambient temperature in the open-air courtyards ten degrees warmer than normal, she looked chilled.
Benson’s mouth went dry when Faith reached down and tugged the robe off Malvia’s shoulders. The fabric pooled at her elbows, her chest and bare breasts exposed. She shivered, her already hard nipples tightening even as goosebumps broke out over her chest.
He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her, protect her from the cold.
He wanted to tie her down and apply ice to those already cold nipples until she screamed for mercy.
Benson looked at Faith, who met his gaze, one brow raised.
Benson shook his head, hard.
Faith bent over Malvia, her lips moving, but Benson was too far back to hear. He should walk away.
He moved closer, shoes crunching softly on the packed, sandy ground.
“You want to be a good, obedient girl, don’t you, Malvia?” Faith slid one hand around Malvia’s neck, nudging her chin up. Malvia raised her face, but kept her eyes submissively lowered.
