Natural Law

Five times. God, her knees were too weak to get her out of the car and take her into her house. She'd stayed, stuck to the shadows alone with her glass of wine, and watched over him as the hour passed. No way would she ever leave his care to someone else, unsupervised, but he hadn't needed to know that. The plug had brought him to orgasm five times, a tremendous response rate, and she had sent Mariah down with water for him at two twenty minute intervals instead of only once. He'd mesmerized the club crowd, positively stolen the show of other open rooms. Who could resist watching a powerful man, a gladiator restrained, sexually stimulated to climax again and again? The build up of the sensations until he could not help himself, until he had to let his ass plunge and clench as if he were thrusting into a woman, the broad shoulders flexing, back muscles rippling, the head pressed down hard against his chest, refusing the natural desire to throw it back and let them see his face. On the fourth time, he had ten minutes left to go and she didn't believe he could go again, not without full collapse.

The body was the locked gate to the soul. Break the body, and the soul would have to defend itself. She wanted that vulnerability, wanted to show him what gift that truly relenting to a Mistress would bring him. She believed she'd done the right thing, but then the fifth climax took him and his body merely shuddered through it, a man too tired to resist the inevitable. When Mariah released him, he simply lay down on the floor. She felt eyes look toward her, felt judgments being weighed as to what she'd done.

She wanted to be down there helping him, but with a grim smile through the tears welling in her eyes, she watched him shrug off Mariah's help, snarl away the two male attendants she'd sent down. He snapped at them like a pit bull in truth, struggled to the room controls on his own and darkened the ceiling, shutting them all out. But not her.

She could feel his exhausted heart pounding in her own chest, feel his trembling muscles in her own thighs. This was either battle or courtship, or both, and though the ultimate outcome was uncertain, she knew she had won this battle. At least she thought she had, unless he didn't show Friday. Then she would have lost the war.

Her body actually shook with pent-up desire all the way through the drive home.

When she walked up her stairs and let herself into the house, she felt as weak as a person with the aftermath of the flu.

She chose a hot bath as her release, wanting its comfort and the sensual, deep bone pleasure and tranquility it offered. Her emotions were too wrung out to seek her toys.

Toys sought for non-playful reasons simply heightened stronger, more painful yearnings. She had no desire for release except through means of the man she had just left.

Violet had taught herself to accept that someone with her proclivities would likely always have relationships only within the confines of a place like The Zone. Two sessions with Mac, and she wanted more. She wanted it all again. Despite his easy invitation, she knew it would actually shock Tyler to the bone that she'd invited her new slave to do something outside the club area so soon, invited him to get to know her life, because she wanted to know his.

You're setting yourself up for such a hard fall, baby. But she'd done it, so she'd ride the horse until it tossed her, and hope she hadn't gotten a mean bronc that would trample her or toss her into a wall.

She decided on lavender bubbles with a touch of aloe and left her clothes in the bedroom, sinking down into the water with a blissful sigh.

When the phone rang, she reached over, hit the speaker button on the unit next to the tub.

"Hello, Tyler."

"Checking caller ID again?"

"No, I just knew it was you. You know, stalking is illegal."

"But spying isn't. Within reason. You okay?"

She closed her eyes. "Complicated question. I'll take the next one. Better yet, no questions. You talk, keep me awake so I don't drown."

"I thought I smelled bubble bath. Need someone to come scrub your back, darling?"

"You offering?"

"I would, but you'd just be imagining I was that poor bastard you wrung out dry.

The consensus is you are one scary bitch."

"He's goading me, Tyler. He wants me to test him with the macho stuff, the floggings and pain. That's easy for him, way too easy. I want the stuff that gets under the skin and makes him vulnerable. He always falls in with Mistresses that want his cock."

"You want him."

She paused. "Yes. Yes, I do. I don't want anything less. If he won't give me that, I don't want him. So how long do I keep trying?"

"As long as he keeps showing up, I say he's interested in giving that to you. That's the way the really difficult subs can be. They don't know that's what they want, but their unconscious does, so they keep coming back for it. In the meantime, you're getting very popular. A couple of subs have practically begged me for an introduction." Another pause. "Violet? Any interest?"

"No," she admitted. "I just want him. I'm bringing him this weekend. If he shows on Friday."

A startled stillness on the other end of the phone. Violet waited, watching bubbles run down her thigh when she placed her foot on the rim of the tub.

Tyler's voice was soft when he spoke, reminding her why she considered him one of her closest friends. "If he doesn't, he's nuts. You're doing great."

"Am I? Or am I pushing too hard? I remember all the things I've learned and seen, but when I'm in there, something else takes over. Gut, or instinct."

"You've always trusted your instincts, Violet. It makes you good in the vanilla world, and it makes you the kind of Mistress no sub can refuse in this world. It's an art form. How often have you heard a writer or painter say 'something just takes over'?

Maybe there's a Domination muse."

She snorted with laughter, sending a paw of bubbles across the tub. "Idiot."

"An idiot who cares a lot about you. I think it's good you're bringing this guy. If you're falling this hard, this fast, I want to check him out."

"That may even be part of why I'm bringing him. To get an objective opinion."

"Fair enough. Get out of the tub before you fall asleep. Now, while I'm on the phone. Just remember, Vi, my objective opinion isn't going to matter two damns if it turns out you're already gone on him."

"Yeah, but you'll be able to say 'I told you so' when he stomps my heart into little pieces."

"That's what I love about you. Always looking on the positive side. Night, Vi."

"Night, Tyler."

* * * * *

Mac stared at his ceiling and listened to the clock tick. The case file for the S&M

Killer, as she'd been dubbed, was scattered at the end of the bed, the crime scene photos fanned out on the floor. He'd tacked several key ones to the ceiling just below the skylight window, angling the neck of the bedside table lamp up so he could spotlight every detail.

Serial killers sometimes liked to take trophies, leave a mark. For this killer, it was how she left her victims. Both cuffed on the floor by the footboard of the bed. Arms spread and manacled to the top railings, ankles to the posts, so her victim was pulled out to an uncomfortable angle. His point of gravity was forward, hanging by the weight of his arms because his legs were spread out too wide for him to keep his balance under stimulation and there wasn't enough slack to let him be on his knees. She'd climbed up on the bed behind him, leaving her knee prints in the spread, and shot out the back of his head with a hollow point. She hadn't wanted to look in his eyes in that last moment.

Why?

Maybe she didn't want him to see it coming. Maybe she didn't want him to suffer.

Perhaps she was killing some part of herself, and didn't want to see him as a separate identity. Both victims had suffered a light flogging, had reached climax shortly before the kill. She'd given them pleasure before death. She wasn't interested in torture, not yet. But if she kept doing it, and everything indicated she would, that would change.

She was all-powerful, had him at her whim. Why not push the boundaries, see what it felt like to push past where he was willing to go, if it was the same rush to push past his pain threshold as it was to take his life?

Mac had tracked killers long enough to know that eventually the blood lust had a dark power of its own that took over. Its only blessing was that it dulled the wits of the sharpest murderer. But he'd rather not wait until this one reached that point.

She'd already chosen her next victim, he was sure of that. She would be in the process of winning his trust, working toward this ultimate goal. The ultimate surrender.

He blinked. He'd covered this ground for an hour now. After he'd slept for six solid hours. When he'd gotten home, he'd had no choice. He had abandoned pride, fallen across the bed and let exhaustion take him where it wanted to go while his body built back up a reserve. His lips twisted.

He'd made the decision to seek out another Mistress, one less distracting. That resolve lasted for about an hour as he did some mingling, checking out a few leads he'd identified from the previous night, following up on some promising conversations.

Then, right at the time she had dictated, he had turned his feet toward the downstairs area. He'd stopped at the top of the stairs, managed to fight with himself for a good solid minute before he went down, straight to the room she'd reserved, and done as she'd told him to do. And he knew without a doubt he'd be outside The Zone on Friday, waiting for her.

He'd done it for the case, because he hadn't found another Mistress that suited his purposes as well as Violet. However, he knew he had done it for a hell of a lot of other reasons besides, reasons that had nothing to do with the case at all.

She had drained him. He had almost cracked, almost begged her not to leave him that way, a performing act for the others of the club. But he had managed. Mostly. She disturbed him, deep down, the things she said, the way she was making him feel. She made him furious, but not in a way that made him want to turn his back on her. He wanted to show the little minx she might be tough, but he was tougher. That he could please her beyond her wildest dreams, if he could just figure out what the hell it was she wanted, and why he felt like he couldn't stay away from her, even though he'd never been so apprehensive under a Mistress's hand as he was with her.

He wasn't in control with her. That was it. Mac forced himself to face it, face that there might be some truth to what she'd been telling him about his previous Mistresses.

She saw through bullshit, and she wasn't hesitating to reach right through it to curl her little fingers tight around his balls. He didn't know what she'd ask next. What if she wanted something that he couldn't handle, that would break him down completely? He could turn away now, before that happened, but everything in him strained toward her, as if she were a drug in truth. He was afraid he wouldn't refuse her anything.

* * * * *

Violet wished she'd had more time to unwind after work. She'd run over shift, and it had been a hellacious day with an overabundance of assholes. She had planned on a long bath so she could come to The Zone in the right frame of mind, but had only had time for a quick shower. She cursed herself for not deciding to go up to Tyler's on Saturday, so she would have had Friday to prepare herself. The plain and simple truth was she'd been too eager to see Mac again to wait.

But there were other ways to regroup. She pulled into the convenience store parking lot across from The Zone and sat there a moment, just gazing across the street at the front entranceway of the club from her screened position.

He was there. He stood, waiting for her, talking to Richard, the front doorman for The Zone.

Just seeing him there made her feel like a sailboat catching an evening wind.

Certain parts tightening up, others loosening as the sails strained forward eagerly with the wind. The captain relaxed at the helm, knowing she could ride this tack for awhile, just enjoying the beauty of what lay before her. Leave the cares of land far behind.

The last two times she'd left him, he'd been pretty much naked. But even seeing him in clothes - the black jeans he seemed to favor and a blue dress shirt with sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows - made her instantly, noticeably wet. The way he stood, leaning against a column of the entranceway, arms crossed over his chest. He smiled at something Richard said, and she let out a soft gasp as her pussy vibrated in response. Maybe she should have used one of her toys this week. She'd gone from work stress mode to high arousal mode with barely a pause in between. She knew what those silky curls on his head felt like now, twining over her fingers, and she wanted to be touching them. Black, silver and white. He would smell good, as he had the past two times; soap, a touch of aftershave or cologne, and heat. That heat had its own scent. If they could extract an oill from it, they'd have an aromatherapy candle any woman would want.

The sun had not yet set, and so he wore sunglasses, which just drew attention to his mouth, the strong jaw, the smooth beard. She wanted to see his eyes.

He turned his head and though he shouldn't have even noticed her, his attention slid into the parking lot of the convenience store, found her and her car in a matter of several seconds. He said something to Richard. The other man grinned, offered an appropriate male gesture of farewell. Then Mac was walking toward her.

She couldn't help smiling at him as he crossed the street, and she kept smiling, an easy thing to do, until he stopped at her open car window, leaned in. He took in her casual appearance, a snug pair of blue jeans and deep hunter green placket shirt. "You look like you have a secret." He touched his finger lightly under her chin.

"I do, Mackenzie. You're it. Take off the sunglasses." And because it pleased her to do it, the moment he complied, she curled her fingers in the open neck of his shirt, brought him in for a kiss, a touching of lips that she deepened, or maybe he did. Their tongues tangled, and she felt the heat of it rush up from her toes to the point of fusion, enervating every part of her, erasing any weariness or stress she'd carried from the mundane world. His hand came up, cradled her face, his fingertips in her hair in a romantic, protective gesture she liked very much. When she broke the kiss, she was smiling still.

"I missed you," she said, and his eyes crinkled in an attractive way, returning her grin. They were looking at each other like a pair of foolish teenagers, and though she knew she should be appalled, she wasn't. She was just...happy. Excited.

When she lifted her leg over the gear shift and moved into the passenger seat, she could tell she'd surprised him. "I want you to drive. If you can handle a stick." He laughed then, and it coated her like melted chocolate, a warm sound. She wondered if he had any idea how deeply sexual a creature he was. Not the prettiest or most handsome man she'd ever seen, but beautiful and sexual in the way predators were. Mesmerizing.

He opened the door and slid one leg in, ducking his head to take the pilot's seat of the black Stealth. He gave her a sidelong glance, and she leaned over, reached down between his legs and released the seat lever so it eased back, making room for his longer frame. Taking her hand back over his leg, she caressed his thigh with her palm, enjoying the feel of the hard body beneath the denim.

"Talk about a ticket magnet," he observed, familiarizing himself with the controls and readjusting the mirrors.

"I have a Fraternal Order of Police sticker," she informed him, poker-faced. "I give regularly."

"Mmm-hmmm. I'm sure that stops them from pulling your ass over." She grinned, reached over and took the sunglasses from the open collar of his shirt where he had hooked them, put them back on his face. "Just shut up and drive. Take I-75 to state road 48. It's not the most direct route, but it will be less traffic." When Mac glanced over a moment later, she had taken a brush out of her purse and removed the wig. He missed a gear and winced at the resulting complaint from the engine. Fortunately, a stop light caught them at the next major intersection so he could turn and look at her without risking both their lives.

Short, sassy auburn hair curled wildly around her face and stopped just above her shoulders, enhancing the impression of a forest fairy he'd had when he first saw her.

She looked toward him with that big, beautiful violet gaze, and he felt his heart skip a beat and stumble, just as he'd made the engine do. "What color are your eyes?"

She rummaged in her purse again, withdrew a lens case. She pulled the contacts from her eyes, put the case away, then blinked at him with irises that were a soft blue like the Caribbean, so close to the lavender of the contacts he suspected they were more enhancement than a different color.

"The light, Mackenzie," she said gently.

He jerked his attention back to the road when the guy behind them blared his horn.

He missed another gear accelerating. She raised a brow. "Are you sure you've driven straight gear before?"

He chuckled. "Sugar, last time I drove one, there were a lot less distractions. You've got to give me a moment to catch up."

She smiled, and he could tell his reaction pleased her. "So, what do you drive?"

"I've got a pickup for hauling and a bike for everything else. A Honda VTX." She frowned. "Motorcycles are very unsafe."

He shot her a pointed glance. "And I suppose you got this thing so you could drive Miss Daisy around?"

She relented. "A motorcycle, hmm? Those long legs with all that power between them." She ran her nail down his thigh and his cock tightened against the crotch of his jeans. "Will you take me for a ride sometime?" He grinned. "Sure."

"Will you let me drive?"

"You got a bike license?"

"No."

"Then, no."

"Oh, that's just an excuse. You just don't want me handling your wheels." He looked her up and down. "You can handle anything you want of mine, sugar, but when we get to the bike, that's in the same territory as marriage."

"Have you ever been married?"

Violet knew the answer, even before he shook his head. Not her slave. She was sure he'd never let a woman get that close. And it made her woman's heart wonder why, though she suspected she already knew a large part of the reason.

"Want to explain that?"

"I can't." His gaze shifted, and his voice was quiet, telling her he wasn't avoiding the question. "It has to do with some things I just can't talk about."

"Ever?" She reached out, touched his face so he would look her way.

"Not yet," he said.

"An honest answer, so I can live with that. "

They drove in companionable silence for some time, and she enjoyed watching the capable way he navigated the car through Tampa's traffic to the interstate, the way he shifted gears, the movement of his long legs as he maneuvered brake and clutch.

Actually, she thought she could make a pastime out of just watching him. He was aware of her intent stare, she could tell, but he handled it well, his sub training kicking in so that he did not try to make conversation. That would have intruded upon her obvious, deliberate perusal and been considered rude.

Nevertheless, her scrutiny aroused him. She could tell by the flicker of his eyes, the press of his lips, the occasional swallow that moved the muscles of his throat. It wasn't until they merged into the interstate that she relented and broke the silence.

"Would you like to turn on some music?"

"Sure."

She opened the console, held up a handful of CD's for his inspection.

"Smashmouth? Matchbox 20? Avr...Avril Lavig...Ay-ya-ya-ya."

"Avril Lavignon," she said, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Well, thank God." He plucked out one of the choices. "At least you have a Credence Clearwater Revival tape."

"I'm sure my father probably left that in here."

"Brat."

"Old fogey."

She considered him as he put in the CD, the teasing look in his eyes doing amazing things to her pulse rate. "How old are you, Mac?"

"Depends on the day."

"Mackenzie."

He glanced at her, relented. "Forty-three. You?"

"I turned eighteen a month ago, I swear."

He let out a low whistle. "Well, you're out of luck then, sugar, because I only date high school girls." He lifted her hand, pressed an open-mouthed kiss on her knuckles that shivered through her. "I'd guess twenty-seven."

"Would it make you happy, me being that much younger than you?"

"You make me happy just being near me, sugar. But if I'm right, it would scare the shit out of me."

She smiled. "I'm thirty-two. And I know what scares the shit out of you, Mac." She leaned forward, pressed her lips to his neck. "It's not my age."