True, she hadn’t had very much experience with “love” relationships. She’d dated while in the Corp and been thoroughly unsatisfied…until a Domme had introduced her to the lifestyle. Her lips tilted up. The initial rush of discovery had been amazing.
Out of the service and in college, she’d fallen for a great guy—one who wasn’t submissive. But vanilla simply didn’t work for her, and as their relationship slowly failed, they’d both been hurt.
Lesson learned. To her, sex without being in control was like…like the desert. Dry and flat and barren. Sure, there were moments of beauty, but she was a tropics gal—she wanted the lush scenery and the changing violent weather of a D/s relationship.
Being a Mistress was who she was.
Like any new Dominant, she’d gradually worked out what she liked, testing out submissives and slaves, and found she preferred utter control.
The beauty of receiving everything.
She enjoyed the responsibility of caring for her slaves and making the decisions.
And she’d gone through a fair number of boys over the years.
At first, they’d lived with her, sometimes more than one. But then she’d moved into the beach house, owning her own home for the first time, and somehow hadn’t wanted anyone else in her space.
So for the last two or three years, her slaves had been less than 24/7, which also let her demand strict protocol when they were with her. They asked permission to touch, to sit on the furniture, checked with her before doing anything.
In return for their devotion, she helped them grow, learn new skills, advance their careers, improve their social abilities, deepen their slavery. But before a slave grew too dependent on her, she’d find him a new Mistress.
She sighed. That was what had taught her that she didn’t have much of a heart. She’d never had trouble breaking the attachment. When each slave left, she’d miss him for a bit—not long—and soon start the search for someone else.
Perhaps she wasn’t a typical Mistress, but her ways worked for her—and who was to say her nay?
Ben wouldn’t understand her limitations, that she could give only so much and not more. And since the thought of hurting him was intolerable, she’d simply keep her distance.
Chapter Ten
On Thursday, the sultry evening was so humid with the approaching storm that moisture filmed Ben’s arms as he walked the two blocks to his neighborhood tavern. He stepped inside, enjoying the blast of air-conditioned air. After nodding to the handful of regulars, he swung by the bar and bought a draft. Beer in hand, he took a small table by the window where he could enjoy the view.
The way the sunlight filtered through the heavy air made him wish he’d brought his camera.
On the sidewalk, people were hurrying home from work. Others strolled more leisurely as they took their dogs to the small block-long park. Maybe he should start a new series, focusing on humans rather than wildlife.
He’d always enjoyed watching people. In fact, back in the beginning, Z had given him grief about observing instead of participating.
But over the last few years, he’d returned to status quo, although he still took his time in making friends. Military friendships were a tough act to follow. He’d known his team would have his back, no matter what.
Seemed as if ties born in blood and pain went deeper. Maybe that was why he felt so close to Anne. He’d trusted her to take care of him, and she hadn’t let him down.
At least not physically. Emotionally though?
He hadn’t seen her since last weekend.
Staring out the window, he drank his beer and watched the darkness eat away the light. Watched the rain begin and trickle down the dirty glass.
Anne didn’t trust him to guard her back, that was certain. She’d let him fuck her, but not know her.
His mouth twisted. What was his next move? A woman had the right to establish the boundaries of a relationship; a Mistress even more so. But where did that leave him?
“Yo, Longshot.” Danvers crossed the bar. He was a short, tough guy, rather like a sawed-off redwood. Discharged a year before Ben, he’d found Ben the warehouse and helped convert it into a studio and living space.
“What’s up?” Ben shoved a chair out in invitation.
His friend dropped down hard enough the chair let out a protesting groan. A glance at Ben’s pale beer earned a sneer.
“Miss,” Danvers said to the waitress who was wiping down a nearby table. “Can you bring me the darkest beer on tap?”
“Of course.”
The tavern rotated the draft beers with the seasons, something the locals had come to enjoy.
As Danvers slouched in his chair, Ben frowned. “You look like hell. You okay?”