The walls were paneled with dark wood rather than wallpaper. Cowhide rugs were scattered on the gleaming hardwood floor. An antique chest served as an end table to an oversized black leather armchair. A handwoven Navaho rug in dark-red and black brightened one wall. The other held a mounted buffalo head—and she really, really didn’t want to know if it was real or not. A wagon wheel chandelier provided light. Toys were stored in an aged walnut armoire.
Barely loud enough to be heard, country-western music came from the speakers.
She smiled as she saw Ben relax slightly. Big guys tended to prefer rooms without fragile glass and furniture.
When he saw the decorations surrounding the armoire on the far wall, his eyes widened. Welded horseshoes had been turned into hooks to hold a variety of floggers and whips.
She’d noticed how Z enjoyed using implements of pain as artwork.
After setting her toy bag on the chest, she took out some thin Velcro strips. “Strip, then stand under the chains, please.” She pointed and watched Ben’s shoulders tense as he sighted the two heavy black chains hanging from the dark, exposed ceiling beams.
He silently stripped, still too subdued, still so far into his own head and emotions that he was almost separated from the world.
She could pull him out of that place. But if she didn’t effect some change in his thought processes, he’d fall back into his funk afterward.
Her lips pressed together. There were times that being a Domme was like driving up in the mountains. In the dark. On a tiny, curvy road.
Mistakes could be very, very bad.
He trusted her not to screw up his body; he didn’t realize she was more worried about his mind.
She tossed one of her subbie blankets over the leather chair and set a bottle of water on the trunk.
As she buckled heavy leather cuffs on his wrists and ankles, a tremor ran through him. Being bound was one of his triggers. One she planned to use—not abuse. “Arms up.” She stood on the carved miniature steer footstool to attach his cuff’s D-ring to one chain, using a half-inch-wide Velcro strip.
“Pull down,” she said.
He gave a slight tug on the restraint and nothing happened.
“Harder.”
The Velcro gave with a ripping sound. Just right. He’d know he was restrained—and that he could get free if needed. Silently, she secured that wrist again as well as the other. Once finished, she wrapped his fingers around the chains. “You can hang on for support.”
After stepping off the stool, she pushed his feet apart. “Keep your legs wide open for me, Benjamin. I don’t want to see them move.”
Down on one knee, she ran her hands over his tight calves, the leanly contoured muscles of his thighs, inhaling his masculine musk. His cock was almost flaccid—significant proof of his state of mind.
Let’s see how long that lasts. She unzipped her leather jacket and skirt. Beneath them, she wore an elastic black tank, a thong with ribbon ties—and thigh-high boots.
His eyes widened.
“I intend to beat you, subbie,” she said, keeping her voice husky—which wasn’t a problem. He really did have the sexiest body she’d ever seen. Her usual slaves were classically gorgeous males possessing streamlined, beautifully sculpted musculature. This oversized body in front of her was scarred. With heavy slabs of muscles. With forbidding, blunt features.
The man simply radiated power and strength.
And he’s all mine.
For tonight.
To erase her own tenseness, she went up on tiptoes, arched her back, and reached toward the ceiling.
His pupils dilated slightly.
But the stretching wasn’t all for show. This scene wouldn’t be a short one, and a good flogging took time and work.
They were both in this for the long haul.
Leaning against him, she rubbed her body over his and let him catch her scent, as she would with a wild animal. Slowly, she ran her hands over his back and ass, waking his skin up with pats and strokes and scrapes of her fingernails.
“I do love this body you’ve given me to play with,” she murmured. “Are you ready for me to start?”
It took a second for him to respond. He still wasn’t fully with her. “Uh. Yes, Ma’am. Sure.”
He was so not like her Ben, and his palpable despair simply broke her heart.
Taking his face in her hands, she gave him a slow kiss. Not for the scene, not for control—just because she needed to remind him she cared. And that he was alive.
Mistress Anne’s lips were a touch of life in what felt like a dead world. Ben knew he was letting her down, but he just…couldn’t…get with the program. He felt as if he were trudging through the Everglades, his boots heavy with mud. The muck pulled him downward, the air was too thick, the dense foliage blotted out the sun. There was no escape. He would walk and walk forever and never get out.