He wanted to run, to turn his back on The Zone and pretend, at least for twenty-four hours, that it, and Violet, didn't exist. That the shameful moments had not existed.

But he made himself stay, made himself talk to other club members, find out more about his fiery little Dom. Everyone knew Violet. She went to many of the outside private parties, where D/s couples got together in their latest pairings. Here several times a week, she often interactively played.

She was perfect.

She also terrified him, and he didn't know why. Why was she different? He'd had Mistresses do all manner of things to him. He'd tolerated it, and most of it turned him on. She had overwhelmed him, shot him up and over a pinnacle with her clever fingers before he'd even had a chance to catch a breath. Her sultry voice teased his mind, the faint smell of lavender still on his body from where she pressed against him.

He didn't go home. He went to the office. Nodding briefly to the dispatch officer, he went back to his desk, switching on the lamp. There were several new reports on his desk. Psych profile, forensics for the last victim, the latter not telling him more than he already knew. He knew the method of restraint, how a bullet tore through flesh. The profile was disappointing, a generic analysis.

It is possible the subject was traumatized by a sexual betrayal or rejection, and has had to pretend the betrayal or rejection does not exist, therefore leading to suppression of an enormous anger... by calling the parent, the person they perceive as responsible for their pain, they are likely punishing the authority figure.

He didn't blame the Psych department. Likely very accurate, it was a standard evaluation of motivation for crimes of sexual violence. Most serial killers weren't terribly original in that area, just in their methods of expressing that pain. It was her way of killing that would lead him to her.

His gut told him the frustrating truth; that he only had one piece of the jumbo brand 10,000 piece puzzle. There was something odd about this murderess, a secret she hadn't yet revealed with her actions. He lifted the list of regular Doms provided by The Zone in exchange for a confidentiality agreement. They hadn't forced the issue of a warrant. Connie had been visibly impressed when she relayed the manager's message to Mac: "If our people are getting hurt, we want to protect them. If that gets someone's nose out of joint, their snit isn't worth someone's life." Because of that, he didn't regret the personal funds he'd chosen to invest in The Zone guest membership, rather than requisitioning a reimbursement. He'd even consider going for a full membership, if it weren't for Violet being there. What was it about her that made his gut clench in anxiety, even as his cock jumped up like a dog waiting for a treat?

He ran his hand over his face to the side of his neck and froze at the thump of his pulse in his jugular. So caught up in what she was doing to him, he hadn't even registered until now the blood staining her neck when she left him. Jesus. He had bitten her. He'd never used his strength against a Mistress, though the throbbing bruise on his cheekbone told him she'd handled him all right. No fear in that one. A porcelain doll with a core of iron.

The thought made him smile, but it worried him for her, that she was too green to know when she should back off. But had she needed to back off from him? Or had she done exactly what she should?

Would he go tomorrow night? Of course he'd go, he was on assignment. But the question was, would he go to that room, wait for her, accept her as his Mistress for another night?

Mac picked up the photo of Jesse Rodriguez, a twenty-three year old accountant, stared into his dead eyes. Yeah. Yeah, he would go to The Zone tomorrow night, because Jesse was never going to get to enjoy the anxiety and anticipation again. He had died because he'd taken the risk with someone who killed him, and that offended Mac deeply, on a personal level he felt too raw to explore.

On the computer reports Consuela had run for him, he saw that there were no related crimes in the fifty-state area for the past two years. It looked like his murderess had just started her killing spree. They needed to find her soon. Six weeks between her two victims meant she was a fast learner. She'd found a release for the pain she nursed inside. The hunger would keep growing, and she would go after whatever would ease the craving.

Just like him. He muttered an oath and slapped the file shut. Violet was not the murderess, but she obviously had the power to destroy him. He'd go to The Zone, but not to her. There would be other, less distracting Mistresses with whom he could hook up and mingle, watch the play beneath the floor. He'd follow that strategy. See if he could start zeroing in on a killer that he was certain was already stalking her next kill.

* * * * *

Violet had a hard time sleeping, and found it even more difficult to focus on doing her job throughout the next day. Her body ached with unsatisfied desire, but the idea of relieving it with a toy after she'd left Mac had left her cold. She wanted to build her own anticipation as well as his, though she knew it was entirely possible she'd pushed too hard and he wouldn't be there. Or worse, he'd be there and not in that room. A flat rejection.

No. She stood in front of her bathroom mirror, pulled her hair from her face, pinned it up so the curls just brushed the nape of her neck, and tucked the black wig over it.

Not a rejection. If he shunned her, she would think of it as a retreat. She'd unsettled him, knocked a sizable dent in that arrogant attitude of his. Was he man enough to admit it and come back to her?

She certainly wanted him to do so.

The phone rang and she picked it up as she leaned forward to apply her eyeliner.

"So, did you take my advice?"

She grimaced. "You have spies everywhere, Tyler, so don't pretend you don't already know how last night went."

He chuckled. "Oh, I know you picked up a prime target, but word is you engaged the privacy screen, so no one but those who won't be bribed know how it went. I do have reports that you came out alone. Mistress Marguerite reported that he came out a quarter hour later, looking like he'd had the carpet of his world yanked out from under him. Was that a good or bad thing?"

"I won't know until tonight, if he shows up again."

"Your boy socialized a bit after you left."

"Did he?"

There was a significant pause, and Violet cursed mentally.

"There was definitely a jealous note to that, maybe even a tad possessive. He got under your skin."

"I got under his more."

Tyler laughed, dropping all the slyness from his tone. Violet couldn't help but smile at her own reflection in the mirror.

"Fuck you, Tyler."

"Anytime, darling, but it would be like two tigers. We'd rip each other to shreds. So you liked this one, then. All those months playing with me, you don't find anything more than casual playmates. Your first night out on your own, you find one you want to keep. "

"Just a virgin reaction to her first solo scene."

"Spoken like a crude cynic, and not like the sweet Violet I know. Don't get worried, kitten. Let it happen."

"I have to worry, Tyler." She put down her mascara and leaned against the counter, rubbing a finger over her forehead. "I can't take risks. I'm already daydreaming about taking him places, for heaven's sake."

"Well how about something safe to ease the craving? My plantation house, this weekend. I'm inviting four lady Doms, including yourself, for an overnight of play with the sub of their choice. I'll have Mark and Stacey from The Zone staff there to be chefs and domestic help, and to join in if we need some free agents. You can take a side trip to Lilesville, use that gift certificate your friend Sarah gave you. To decorate him, or yourself. Or expand your toy chest."

"I wasn't ever going to use that, Tyler. It's for five hundred dollars. It feels like a bribe."

"Her new husband gave it to you because, thanks to you, he gets to sleep with Sarah every night for the rest of his life. I've seen Sarah. He should have given you ten times that much."

"Pig. I'll think about it. And he's got to want to go, anyhow. Will you bring Leila?"

"Absolutely. In fact, I think this is the perfect weekend to break her into the joys of interactive play. Maybe we'll see how far we can push your boy."

"You'll need to take it easy on him, Tyler. He comes off tough as nails, but if you find the way in, he can be hurt."

"We all can, love. We all can."

* * * * *

She didn't look to see if the ceiling darkening feature had been engaged or not for her room. She went to the changing room. It was nearly ten-thirty. If he had obeyed and prepared himself for her as she had told him to, he'd been on his knees for almost an hour and a half.

Shedding her overcoat, she put it in a locker. Tonight she had worn a dress she'd picked up in the Asian district. The blue satin with a touch of Lycra to cling to her curves had side slits in the form fitting skirt and a pattern of black dragons with delicate long whiskers and sharp curving talons done in black and silver embroidery thread. A stiff line of ribbon sewn at the base of the bodice lifted and underlined her breasts. Her heels were black satin with braid trim, and she wore sapphires at her ears. No underwear beneath the dress, just a pale blue satin garter belt to hook the sheer hose.

The deep vee of the neckline revealed the path of the silver nipple chain across her sternum, strung with sapphire and black beads to weight the pink tips, keeping them stiff and pushing against the snug fit of the bodice.

It was her most sensual dress, and she was uncomfortably aware of how deliberately she'd chosen it from the closet. If he was here, but spurned her attentions, she was going to make damn sure he regretted the choice.

Closing the locker, she took a deep breath. Let it happen.

She took the stairs down to the lower level, comfortable in the high heels, and moved into the carpeted entry hallway, lit with candelabras.

The hallways of the playrooms felt like her own private world. A calm settled over her shoulders, and she soaked it in. Painted with an ornate tapestry of images, the vaulted ceilings offered equal visions of pleasure and pain, silhouettes of bodies, the gleaming curves of exposed skin, a ready hand or brushing of lips. Nearly two hundred scenes painted along the arched hallway interlocked into a mural, a masterpiece created exclusively for The Zone by a famous artist patron who chose to remain anonymous.

She went to the door of the room she had reserved, keyed in the access code, then hesitated, hand on the latch. It was cowardly, but she needed another moment before she faced the potential of an empty room, the slap in the face it represented. In that moment, she knew that more than pride was involved. With that thought came the realization that, if he was in the room, she was risking her heart, a far more dangerous sacrifice than her pride.

"Two nights in a row. He must be worth it."

Masters at taking arousal to the cutting edge of pain and then pushing their sub a little bit past that, Tamara and Kiera were twins, Mistresses who chose to work exclusively as a team. A unique commodity, even in the fetish world.

When Tyler had first introduced Violet to T&K, he had told her, albeit under his breath: "Most subs don't know whether to beg for more or run screaming after spending ten minutes with them."

Tonight they were dressed in white latex mini dresses. Tamara's had a high neck and long sleeves, whereas Kiera's had a neckline plunging almost to her waist in an imitation of the Marilyn Monroe classic. Tall, elegant black women with dark hair streaked with deep red highlights, their lips and fingertips were painted in the liquid red they favored, perhaps to remind subs of the blood they were willing to draw in the name of pleasure.

"Are you going to Tyler's this weekend?" Tamara asked, turning a cane through her long, elegant fingers like a baton. In her other hand she held a group of electrode pads.

"Tell us yes, flower girl," Kiera chimed in, "and tell us you're bringing that sweet baby waiting in the stable for you."

"To share," Tamara added, a gleam in her eye.

With Herculean effort, Violet suppressed the urge to pump a victory fist. Her emotions surged through her, making her want to spin like a top.

"Maybe."

Kiera ran a caressing nail with a lethal metal tip down Violet's forearm. "Well if you do, we hope you'll consider letting us play with him a bit. It would be fun, and you could test how he obeys you when you're in a generous mood."

"Ease up, girls." Marguerite joined them. She had her sub on a leash and he was following her on all fours, naked of course, the leash attached to a collar with metal spikes that turned inward, pricking his skin. When he sat back on his heels at her command, to display himself for the pleasure of the other Mistresses, Violet saw a strap ran from the collar ran down to a restraint of a similar make at the base of his cock, the spikes pressing into his scrotum, a state that could get much worse if Marguerite chose to yank.

However, Violet knew Marguerite was rarely cruel, though she made her slaves submit to many things, like this, that made them vulnerable to the possibility of much greater pain. She could establish a level of trust with her one-night subs that many Mistresses could not achieve in months with a regular partner. Violet suspected it had to do with the absolute command that poured off of her, like the aura of an all-powerful Goddess. The long blond hair was almost pure white and tied back on her shoulders, the clear blue eyes as direct and penetrating as that of a Saxon deity.

Marguerite, while friendly with all of them, did not welcome camaraderie. She was soft-spoken and helpful, would welcome observers to her sessions with a sub, but there was much about her clearly posted with "do not trespass" signs. She came every Tuesday night. No more, no less, staying exactly two hours. Picked out a sub, a different one every time, and for those two hours used him in a way that apparently helped her deal with whatever darkness lay within her. Whoever or whatever she was outside The Zone walls, Violet expected it was a very different person than who she was within them.

"It would be fun for you to watch as well." Kiera was still making sly suggestions.

Violet pulled her attention away from the attractive slave on the floor, with his stiff cock in its cruel restraint and his eyes directed toward the floor. Marguerite caressed his hair with tenderness, her expression quiet, tranquil.

In contrast, Violet wasn't sure if 'fun' or 'tranquil' would describe the way the twins operated. While watching the two of them work was undeniably a visual orgasm, Violet preferred her mastery in the area of emotions, not the realm of pain. She had seen T & K

take a sub to the limit of both and beyond. It was disturbing, and yet so potent it felt like witnessing a sacred ceremony. Or a session in a Baghdad torture chamber.

She realized suddenly that, if they knew he was in the room, then he had left the ceiling screen open. He had not done anything to protect himself, a message that he was leaving himself open to her desires. She nodded to the others, closed her hand on the doorknob, took another steadying breath. She'd kept him, and herself, waiting long enough.

"Enjoy, flower girl," Tamara's chuckle caressed her spine as Violet turned the latch, stepped into the room.

* * * * *

Mac kept his head lowered as the door opened, but it was difficult, particularly when that lavender and vanilla scent wafted into the room, tightening his cock in the harness instantly, painfully, increasing it with every step she made across the wood floor. She was wearing a dress again, he could hear the rustle of the soft fabric, and he saw the shadow cast by the light, but she wasn't close enough to show him what shoes were making that crisp tap against the slick finished wood.

His back and legs ached from maintaining the straight-up kneeling position; her punishment, he was sure, for his behavior last night. He hadn't moved an inch, had left the ceiling clear so anyone she asked could tell her, so she'd see he could take anything she'd dish out. His shoulders throbbed from keeping his hands laced behind his head for the entire time.

The whir of gears and a flicker of shadows told him she was closing the screen, making it just the two of them again, and he stifled the sense of relief.

"You've done well. I'm pleased. You may lower your hands to the floor, knuckles flat on the wood, please."

Her voice, soft velvet, told him she was indeed pleased with him, and his heart tipped in his chest, ridiculously. She was coming back toward him. Tap. Tap. Pause.

"Keep your head down."

He obeyed, but his muscles trembled with the effort as her small hand reached down, came into the field of his view and grasped his cock in firm, gentle fingers.

Through the openings of the harness, her skin touched his, and his cock jerked, responded, leaked a drop of semen onto the delicate pulse point of her wrist.

"My apologies, Mistress," he said.

"For what?" Her hand released him, rose, lifted his chin.

He had seen many beautiful women. After thinking about her for nearly twenty-four hours, waiting for her on his knees over two hours, and then, the longest time of all, these few moments she had been in the room, letting him hear her body move but not permitting him sight of it, he expected he had exaggerated the appealing quality of her features and form.

If anything, he decided he had not done her justice.

He supposed there was some standard for beauty that model agencies used, somewhat the same way dog breeders did it. Legs must be this length, proportion of torso to arms must be this, nose this shape, eyes this color. He was sure she might not meet all those standards. But her lips were a deep, wet burgundy, and those violet eyes beneath slim brows and the mass of upswept raven curls held him, affected him so that he knew he would have waited on his knees for her until he lost all feeling in his limbs.

"For dripping on you, Mistress."

She was bending forward, for if she had squatted, he would have been taller than she was. The bodice was snug enough that it did not gap, but the low neckline showed him she was wearing jewelry to stimulate her breasts. He saw the shape of her nipples pressed against the tight fabric and wished he could see how lovely they looked, enclosed in the silver rings which he was sure would match the beaded chain strung between them.

Her face came closer. Just as his lips anticipated the brush of hers, she turned her head away and licked delicately at her wrist, tasting the drop he had left there. He could see the pulse in her neck beating in time with the rapid pulse in her wrist, felt his blood heat further, knowing she was aroused.

"You exercise control when I tell you to do so. If you hold back when I haven't commanded you to hold back, it's as much an insult to me as ignoring a direct order.

Now, where was I?"

Her touch slid away from his face, caressing it before she curled those clever fingers around the full length of his erect cock again.

"You are nicely equipped. I like that," she purred. "But that big cock of yours may cause you problems in serving me as I wish tonight."

"I won't let it," he said, meeting her gaze, so close to his. Her lips seemed even closer, and he thought he might lose all control and kiss her in a moment, just to suck on those lips and see if they tasted like a perfectly ripe plum, as they appeared to.

"We'll see. But first, I need you to tell me the rule I imposed last night." Mac tightened his jaw, averted his glance. "Mistress will not need - "

"It is not Mistress's needs the rule serves, but her desire to protect her possession.

Don't fuck with me, Mac, or we're back to where we were last night, and I walk out of here."

His attention shot back to her and he cursed himself for the involuntary protest his expression conveyed. Even though he knew she'd seen his moment of alarm, of need, he made himself go deadpan. He didn't want her more than ten feet from him. Hell, he might tackle her bodily to keep her here with him, where he could just have the bliss of smelling her, aroused woman with lavender and vanilla highlights.

"If I'm thirsty, I should let you know."

She considered him, and the silence stretched out between them. It wasn't enough, he knew it wasn't, but damn it, he didn't need it. He wouldn't break. He couldn't.

"For tonight, that will do. But I know you can do better. What surprises me is I don't think you know that. No one's ever broken you, Mac." Damn right. He couldn't keep it out of his eyes, so he lowered them, but knew she'd seen it flare there.

Instead of getting aggressive with him, as he expected, her gentle touch stroked his hair, caressed the nape of his tense and screaming neck, disarming him.

"You deny yourself the pleasure of surrender. I suppose I'm just going to have to force you to see what you're missing."

After that cryptic remark, she backed from him two steps. She lifted her foot from the floor and placed the point of her heel against the muscle between his shoulder and pectoral, used him as a stool to bend forward and adjust the garter fastening at the top of her stocking.

Mac lifted his hand without permission, but it was an automatic gesture to curl his arm over her leg just above her knee to steady her so she didn't fall. She appeared to have perfect balance, but it certainly gave him the excuse to feel the texture of those sheer hose and the hint of smooth skin beneath. The heel dug into his flesh as she shifted her weight forward, but the discomfort only heightened his body's response in that odd way that certain levels of pain could do.

A small frown line puckered her brow, made him want to kiss it. "This pair of hose has a tendency to roll, but I do like the color of them," she murmured, then flashed him a small smile. She straightened, lifting her foot clear of him, not dragging it down his skin. The motion gave him a quick glimpse into the shadows beneath the skirt, a fleeting image of the pale petals of her pussy just beyond the silk of the stocking and the garter. She wasn't wearing any underwear, and the brief exposure brought the scent of her arousal to him. He wanted to seize that leg, bring it back to his shoulder, bring both of them to his shoulders. He'd scoot her forward with both hands gripping her soft cheeks and hold her waist to make her ride his face, work his mouth up between her thighs until he reached the heaven he had just seen.

He knew he could, knew he was ten times stronger than the little pixie, but he also knew what happened in these rooms wasn't about physical strength, not always.

She did not tell him to lower his gaze again, so he had the full pleasure of watching her walk across the room, the shift of an ass he now knew was buck naked beneath that skirt. It had to be a stretch material, because otherwise she had to be sewn into that dress. But it was classy, the dragon pattern across the blue, the soft flutter of ribbons as she moved. She knew how to tease a man to insanity and yet keep him back at the same time. Like a goddess. A tiny fairy goddess.

She brought a wooden chair over to face him, the kind a stable hand might tip back against the wall to draw on a length of straw and catch a nap, but this one was not old and scratched. Like all the accoutrements of this room, it was a finished expensive dark wood, a valuable antique.

"Not your usual barn chair," he observed.

"Because this isn't a barn," she said. "It's a suite for thoroughbreds to be petted and pampered by their Mistresses or Masters. Or disciplined as needed." She sat the chair less than two feet from where she had him kneeling, tethered by his cock.

"Let's take care of those hands now." Violet moved around him, touched another control, and he heard the eyebolt in the ceiling engage, lowering itself on a wire. He didn't look up, he knew better than that. This was the challenge, every time, and he had learned not to show the fear, but it was there, nipping at his vitals. He'd gotten to the point he could be anyone's sub, allow any woman he chose to play Mistress to him. To him, but not over him. The similarity of the thought to what she had expressed to him last night struck him, raised his trepidation.

"Lift your wrists above your head," she said. "And put your hands through the cuffs."

Mac obeyed, his heart thundering in his chest. She pressed another control. The cuffs tightened, a hydraulic control like the powering of a blood pressure cuff. She stepped forward, her knees brushing his back, and tested the fit. She'd got it right on the first try. He couldn't get loose, but the blood still circulated, pumping with a vengeance.

"I'm going to take you up, now," she said. "You tell me if you get thirsty, Mac."

"It won't happen, Mistress."

"I'll remind you of that when either your arms are dislocated or your cock gets ripped off."

"You won't let that happen, Mistress. You have plans for the latter, at least."

"Yes. Yes, I do." Her tone was slightly amused, in a way that made him somewhat ashamed of the desperate attempt at charm, though he didn't know where the shame came from.

"Spread your knees for me, Mackenzie. I need them about three feet apart." He moved his legs apart, feeling the cock harness strap that ran between his legs lift and divide his balls. A moment later he felt the straps of the ankle restraints bolted onto a slide rack on the floor tighten on his flesh. She added a second set of restraints to his calves just above the knees and tied them to rings in the floor parallel to the outside of his legs, leaving just a touch of slack. He didn't have long to wait to find out why.

The gears whirred, and the cable above him began to retract, taking his arms up higher and drawing his upper body into a straight, stretched line. He'd obeyed her orders and made sure he was back far enough from the ring in the floor that there was little slack in tether between his cock and the harness, so when she anchored his legs to the floor and began to raise him up, the line between cock and floor became even tighter. His knees left the floor a half inch, pressing against the knee restraints, and he grunted despite himself.

The switch locked him into position, and she came around and ran her hand over his scrotum and bound cock, testing the tension of the line between the harness and the floor. It was taut enough to cause him apprehension, but not painful. With his ankles spread and shackled to the floor behind him, his body suspended in the air by the ceiling tether, his calves bound and his cock tethered to the strap pulled taut to the eyebolt in the floor, he was counterweighted on all sides. Gravity would not twist or pull him in any direction that could injure him. However, the position itself was excruciating and left him vulnerable, and there was a knot of tension low in his gut that he had not experienced since his first time being trussed by a Mistress. He was also hard as steel and getting harder, his desperate lust and the emotions she was somehow driving in him giving him one of the most enormous hard-ons he'd ever had. In odd contrast, she was methodical, gentle in the way she touched him, her fingers brushing his naked body lightly as she passed him, fondling his shoulder, his throat. He tried to nip her fingers as she passed, but she just smiled at him and went back to her chair.

She sat down like a lady at tea, crossing one ankle over the other, folding her hands in her lap. She took a long moment studying him, erect and suffering.

"I know making you sit there and do nothing while I look at you may not do much for you," she observed. "Men aren't very psychological when it comes to stimulation.

Suggest the erotic to a woman in a voice rough with passion, or on the written page, and she'll become wet. But a man needs visuals." She uncrossed her ankles, and inched up her skirt with a finger following the line of her thigh, tracing the garter. She put the middle finger of her other hand to her mouth, wetting it. He followed that finger as if it were the last crust of bread for a starving man. Her knees spread wider, displaying those soft pink cunt lips again. With barely a hesitation, she slid the wet finger deep inside herself, up to the last knuckle, and he heard the sucking sound of her eager pussy, soaked already, taking her in and craving more. Craving something he would kill to give to her.

She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, her gaze still on him. "Now what are you thinking, Mac?"

He stared at that finger, wet his lips as it came out and went back in. "How much I want to fuck you."

"How crude, Mackenzie. Where's that polish? Your control? The charm you wield so easily?" Two of her other fingers got involved, started rubbing her clit in slow circles.

Her hips lifted, accommodating her, starting to move in sinuous circles, building with her reaction.

"I think I might just keep doing this until I come. Would you like that?"

"No, Mistress."

"No?" She arched a brow. "You don't want me to feel pleasure?"

"I want to give it to you, Mistress." He bit back a groan as her finger came out, glistening with her juices. He could smell her strongly now, in his nose, in all his senses, coursing through him like the effects of an illegal street drug. Mac struggled to summon a rational thought. "I can give you far more pleasure, Mistress. With any part of me you desire."

He'd rip someone limb from limb just to win the right to put his smallest finger inside her, feel that heat and silk clamp down on him. He gasped as the harness buckle bit into his cock, ruthlessly pinching the engorged flesh between the stiff strap and the metal.

"Mackenzie  - " Her sharp eyes went from his face to his cock. "Ask."

"Let me make you come, Mistress."

Her pretty jaw flexed. "Stubborn son of a bitch. Ask." He shook his head. His Mistress stood, withdrawing her hand from herself and straightening her skirt with a quick shimmy of her hips. She raised her fingers high, brought them to his eager mouth. He latched onto them without hesitation, drawing them in, sucking her taste off them and making sure he made it enjoyable for her too, taking care to slide his tongue smoothly along the line of her knuckles, the tender web of skin connecting her fingers, rather than slobbering over them like a Saint Bernard like he wanted to do.

"Ask," she said in precise, angry tones. "And I will let you make me come with your tongue, let you bury your face in my pussy and eat your fill." As bribes went, it was the best he'd ever been offered, but there was more at stake than that, a wall he didn't dare go over. The pain was lessening the size of his erection.

Not much with her scent so close, her taste in his mouth, but enough to give him some focus.

"Please, Mistress, let me bring you pleasure." He met her look, aware that his own was defiant, challenging, but there didn't seem to be anything else he could do. The fear was pumping too hard behind it. It was the last defense he had.

Violet moved across the room from him, to the wall. She chose a braided crop and threaded it through her fingers, her back to him. She put it down, chose a cat with metal tips. She shook it out, testing its weight on her arm, nodded to herself.

Mac waited, his breath clogging in his throat, thick with the fury of a cornered, dangerous animal and the lust of a powerful man. He wanted loose. He wanted to bend her over the chair, take her ass with hard thrusts that would have her screaming for mercy and more. He didn't want her beating him.

Violet turned, walked back to him. She left the cat on the chair, squatted, unsnapped the leash holding his cock tethered in its harness to the floor, giving him some relief. Then she moved around him, removed the ankle shackles, lowered the taut line holding his wrists above his head, loosened the cuffs on his calves.

"Free your hands."

If she was thinking of walking out on him again, she'd have been smarter to leave him bound. Knowing he wasn't thinking rationally, but unable to help the violent bent of his feelings, Mac nevertheless remembered to stay where he was, though he wanted to struggle to his feet and seize her. His cock ached like fire, screamed for release on a couple different levels. His back, shoulders and thigh muscles had hours of tension in them, and yet he was sure sinking into her body would make all of that go away.

She stepped away from him, in front of him, four steps past the chair. She kept her back to him and he watched, stunned, as she shrugged the clinging material off her shoulders. With the black wig in an upswept style, it exposed her nape, emphasizing the beauty of her bare upper torso, the sweeping line of her shoulders, arms and back.

Her back was smooth and golden, the spine a shallow valley drawing his eyes down to the beginning rise of her buttocks, visible because she pushed the dress low on her hips.

He saw that tiny mole on the inside of her shoulder blade.

"Mackenzie?" She tilted her head so he could see her profile just above her right shoulder.

"Y-yes, Mistress?" He cleared his throat. Why had he thought she was green?

Because she didn't have much experience? He had forgotten the wisdom that all subs knew, that great Mistresses were born, not made, and the really great ones relied as much on intuition as training to do what needed to be done.

Most Mistresses had respected his boundaries, would have good-naturedly moved past the sticky point of his pride and gone onto something they both found pleasurable.

Not this one. She wasn't here for recreation. She wanted to crawl into his soul, or rather make him crawl into hers. Hadn't she as much as told him that?

"Mackenzie?"

He froze. He'd done the unthinkable. "I'm sorry, Mistress. Can you repeat that?" Her lips curved, but he wouldn't have called the expression a smile.

"I said, pick up the cat, and lash me with it. Ten strikes."