Authors: Maren Smith
She walked out of his office with eyes that were still just as huge as huge could be, her bottom tingling as though his hand were still right there upon it, and every nerve inside her positively singing with arousal.
What in the world had she got herself into?
T
he Wardrobe was exactly what it sounded like—an assortment of adjoined rooms filled to overflowing with a wide array of colorful costumes. One area was dedicated to childish costumes—clothing from the Victorian-period, dazzlingly authentic-looking prince and princess wear, and, of course, every outfit any Disney hero or heroine ever wore. In another section, Chelsea found adult period clothing—Victorian, Edwardian, Roman-style garments for noblemen and women took up entire aisles. Others were dedicated to servant attire, with some looking so authentic it was a wonder Hollywood didn’t have this place on speed dial. Some were so scandalously skimpy, Chelsea couldn’t imagine how one could move around and still keep the clothing on. Then again, keeping clothes on probably wasn’t the point in the Castle.
One entire wall displayed corset after corset after wild, western,
floozy-girl corset. Another wall had nothing but leather and latex. There were stockings and shoes, and package after package of brand new panties that, her dressing assistant hastened to assure her, were part of the clothing allotment price and could be taken home as souvenirs after her stay. There were headpieces, tiaras, and hats of all kinds. She could dress up as a musketeer if she wanted, historically accurate or a seductive approximation that—when out of sheer curiosity she tried that outfit on—left very little to the imagination. There were even wigs—real human hair, styled or powdered, beehived and pixie-dusted. Nothing had been overlooked, not even the jewelry; not even the makeup.
Because Chelsea was in the royal program, the section she was taken to was seven long aisles draped to overflowing with floor-length gowns that would have made any titled Lady of old swoon with envy. She was torn. Some of these gowns were truly, truly beautiful. But if she wanted to avoid getting roped, figuratively or even literally, into any of over a hundred unique and kinky Castle activities, then attracting unwanted attention by overdressing was not something she wanted to do. The idea here, she thought, as she perused through row after row of elaborate and brightly colored dresses, was to skate by the next ten days without getting noticed.
At first Chelsea gravitated to a plain gray dress with bright yellow trim that matched its lacy underskirt. Absolutely no one was going to notice her in that, so really, it was perfect. But, her eye kept straying to something much grander: a shimmering white satin gown with off the shoulder sleeves and emerald green highlights that matched the color of her eyes.
“It’ll look stunning on you,” her dressing assistant tempted. “Are you sure you don’t want to try it on?”
“It’ll never fit me,” Chelsea hedged, trying to sound uninterested. It was so pretty, though. She couldn’t stop looking at it and her assistant wasn’t fooled.
Leaning in close, she whispered to Chelsea, “That’s what corsets are for, honey. Don’t worry. I can make it fit.”
And just like that, the gray and yellow dress found its way back on the rack and Chelsea found herself standing in front of three dressing room mirrors in nothing but tie-in-the-back bloomers while the assistant stuffed and squeezed, and cinched and laced—very, very tightly laced—her into an emerald corset the same color as the trimming on her new gown.
Breathing quickly became a luxury she struggled for, but when the assistant was done and Chelsea stood looking at the results, air seemed a fair exchange for an hourglass figure like this. She looked like a model.
Or a Barbie doll. Her breasts were flippin’ fabulous! The corset all but flattened them to her chest, forcing the creamy mounds up until they nearly spilled right out over the lacy top. The corset made them look so much bigger than they were, and sure enough, when the assistant helped her into the gown, it fit as if it had been tailored just for her.
Chelsea couldn’t stop touching it. While her assistant brushed out her long strawberry hair, twisting it up into a coif of braided loops and bobby pins high on top of her head, Chelsea caressed the stomacher, the off-the-shoulder sleeves and the full bell-shaped skirt. The sparkles in the fabric caught the light with even her smallest movements. It was very beautiful and definitely not the sort of dress a woman should wear when trying not to get noticed. She was going to stand out like ballroom Cinderella at a scullery convention, but when would she ever have the chance to wear something this fancy again? She just didn’t want to take it off.
And so, on her first day at the Castle, Chelsea walked out of Wardrobe wearing both the best and the worst choice of dress she could find. All the way back to her assigned room at the rear of the second-floor wing (“R” for Royal, according to the map), she told herself over and over again that she didn’t look any different from the other “noble” women that she passed on the way. No fancier, no plainer. For the first time in her life, when she noticed people staring at her, Chelsea knew it wasn’t because of her height, but because she was pretty. One man walked straight into a door because he was paying more attention to her than to where he was going. The woman accompanying him was not amused. Fighting to keep from laughing, Chelsea pretended not to notice.
When she finally found her room, she learned two unexpected things. First, the room was every bit as opulent as the rest of the Castle. It was sparsely furnished with a massive four-poster bed (suspiciously studded with metal rings at strategic points all along the posts at the head and foot) and a three-drawer dresser. Everything she’d brought with her fit neatly into the bottommost drawer, which was good since the top drawer was already full of dildos, vibrators, canvas and leather restraints and a variety of other such marital aids, all encased in brand-new packaging with prices clearly labeled and a typed note that invited her to take anything she desired; the credit card on file would be billed at the end of her stay. Chelsea quietly closed the dresser drawer without touching any of it.
The second thing she discovered was there was no Internet available in her room. A study of the map Master Marshall had given her revealed the only room in the Castle equipped with Wi-Fi, television and daily newspapers was located on the first floor near the main entrance. Called the Media Room, it was open twenty-four hours a day and available to everyone. So was the main cafeteria, one of apparently two dining establishments also freely available to all guests. The other, a much fancier establishment, would result in an extra fifty dollars per customer charge, but offered an interactive “show” along with dinner.
Having not eaten yet, Chelsea planned out her next few hours.
Her first stop was the media room. All the computers provided for guest use were currently occupied, so she picked up a newspaper instead and headed for the main cafeteria. Even at two in the afternoon, it was very busy with only a few open tables and a line of hungry patrons filling their plates at the buffet. The food looked really good. Apparently, it was Italian day. She avoided the spaghetti (but only because she doubted her ability not to spill sauce on her new dress) and loaded up on two slices of pizza and… her passing nod at nutrition… a leafy salad.
Finding a chair at one of only two unoccupied tables left in the hall, she both ate and perused the want ads. She circled three potential jobs—delivery driver for a local Chinese restaurant, receptionist for a veterinary office and line work in a pillow factory. She was in the process of looking over a fourth option—welder for an oil company, will train, no experience required—when suddenly a man beside her asked, “Is this seat taken?”
Unaware that anyone had approached, Chelsea jumped. Were it not for the corset already restricting her breathing, she might have gasped, and then gasped again when she realized that the man standing beside her, a tray of food in his hands, was the same leather-clad Greek god she had quite literally run into in the hallway earlier. He was even more gorgeous now, although she couldn’t for the life of her think how such a thing could be possible. “Uh,” she stammered.
He grinned, dark eyes richly amused, white teeth so perfect and straight behind lips that seemed custom-made for kissing. “Is that a yes?”
She shook herself, pulling her scattered thoughts together enough to wave him in. “Sure. Yes, um…if you want. Yeah.” God, shut up already. Blushing furiously, she snapped her mouth closed before she could make any bigger a fool of herself.
The entire table with five other chairs was open, but he selected the seat right next to her and placed his tray on the table. Veal
Parmesan, garlic bread, three green beans—his own passing nod at nutrition. They were such kindred spirits. She melted inside.
“Thank you.” He smiled at her again and snapped his napkin out across his lap. “For a moment, I thought I might have to eat standing up—something I delight in seeing from my submissives.” He winked at her. “Nowhere near as funny when it’s me. I’d hear no end of the teasing.” That knowing smile of his slowly broadened, then he stretched out his hand. “Master Kade, at your very humble service.”
When she hesitated to take it, he stretched a little farther and caught her fingers. Instead of shaking, he brought her hand to his perfect lips (Oh please, just get over it already!) and brushed a sultry kiss into the cup of her palm.
Her whole hand tingled, and the sensation spread outward, moving through her on a wave of overwhelming heat. She was smitten, but not so much so that she couldn’t recognize a practiced pick-up line when she heard it. “Yeah, I’ll bet you are.”
“You’ll bet I’m at your service?” he asked, amused. “Or that I’m humble?”
“Both.”
Chuckling, Kade released her hand. “I see someone’s warned you about me. Let me guess. I’m a devil, a rogue, a dangerous man to play with.”
“A wolf,” she corrected.
“As in, ‘Big Bad’?” he teased. “All the better to see you, hear you…eat you.”
She melted even more. “That’s the one.”
His smile turned every bit as toothy as the wolfish image he was successfully evoking. Her chest tightened, her breasts feeling suddenly swollen, heavy and hot. She could practically feel him nibbling at her from here.
Master Kade eased back in his chair. “Be careful with that paper,” he said as he picked up his fork. “If Grimsley catches you with it out of the media room, you’ll be catching a taste of his switch.”
Chelsea stole a quick glance around the crowded dining room, but no one was bearing rapidly down on her, not with switch in hand or otherwise. Quickly folding the newspaper, she tucked it into her lap out of sight under the table.
“Interesting,” Kade mused, taking a bite of veal. “And here I was, hoping a spanking was what you were angling for.”
“Why would I do that?” she asked, startling all over again.
The dark, gorgeous hunk of man eating next to her flashed a speculative glance. “Are you saying you came here expecting not to be spanked? Unusual behavior for a submissive.”
That heat inside her kicked up another notch when he looked her over. He made no effort to hide it when he looked right at her breasts. They were heaving, rising and falling faster than normal because she just couldn’t control her breathing. “Maybe I’m not a normal submissive.”
He chuckled, stabbed up all three green beans and ate them. “There’s no such animal as ‘normal’ when it comes to BDSM. All submissives are different, both in what they want and what they need. You might be new, but that doesn’t mean I can’t figure you out.”
“New to the Castle, you mean?”
“The Castle’s just a venue. Venues change all the time. No, I mean, new to the scene.” He leaned in close to her, his dark eyes locked with hers, his smile mesmerizing as in the low, silken tones of a lover, he said, “Your inexperience is showing, Red. I can see it.” He smiled. “I can smell it. You’re young in a way that has nothing to do with age. Innocent. Unexplored. Your eyes, the way you’re looking at me says you don’t know who you are at your core and I find that…very arousing.” He winked. “Intellectually, I mean.”
Like hell.
When he leaned back in his chair, taking away with him the subtle spice of his cologne, Chelsea had to fight not to lean back in to him. She smothered her rising sense of loss. She ought to get up and walk away. Now, while she still could. He was doing such terrible, awful, seductive things to her. He felt…dangerous.
Every bit the big bad wolf that Selena had named him.
“What about it, Red?” he asked, setting his fork aside, his dark eyes seeing so deeply into her that she could feel the invasion all the way down to her toes. “Have you ever been spanked before?”
Her bottom crawled, instantly reliving the sensation of Master Marshall’s hand, both the smack and that half-second afterward when his touch had lingered on her flesh. She squirmed, fighting the breathlessness that squeezed at her throat when she tried to answer. “Of course I have. Today, in fact. In Master Marshall’s office.”
“That wasn’t a spanking.” He leaned in close all over again, amusement dancing in those dark eyes.
He was so close now, he could have kissed her. She looked at his lips. “That was a swat.”
“How do you know?”
“I asked. I asked a lot of things…Beth.”
That other woman’s name was like a splash of icy water. “Don’t call me that.”
“My apologies…Chelsea, then.”
Her insides shivered at the way he purred her name.
“I am a man full of questions,” he said, still purring in a way that made her shiver all over again. “Do you know what I’m wondering now?”