Don't... (29 page)

“We—we got it?” Quiet. “We fucking got it, Jack?”

I couldn’t stop my Cheshire cat grin. “We got it,” I said quietly.

“
Fucking yes—get in there, my son
.” He gave a cry, and I pulled the phone away from my ear. “Well done, Jacky boy.”

My smile slipped a notch hearing that. “I gotta go, Steve. I’ll be back in about an hour and I’ll give you all the glories.”

“God yes. Oh.” I heard him ruffling paper. “Gray phoned and left a message saying, ‘Masters are in session.’” He chuckled, “Thought you didn’t like golfing? Anyway, I’ll have something special for you when you get back.” He said his good-byes, but he sounded like his head was already off elsewhere, no doubt pricing up things for his new office.

I sat looking at the phone.

Masters in session?

Gray had never told me the Masters were in session before. Why—

A moment later a text came through. It was from the clinic giving the all clear on my results. After all the shit had hit the pan? Just fucking peachy. But then I got another message.

Masters in session. MC base. Now.

Fuck. I’d never been
called
to a Master’s session before.

The approach to Regent Manor, Southside of the Thames, had me pretty much as out of my depth as when Gray had first brought me here. When Gray had told me about the Master’s Circle, I’d expected all secret chambers, men in long cowls, thick drooping hoods, holding out goblets and chanting some weird Latin shit, at the same time fucking someone in rhythm to the chants. C’mon I was twenty, imagination was at its wildest. I’d almost failed to keep the disappointment off my face when Gray had led me into the Manor.

Despite the Gothic look outside, inside it was all the twenty-first century business drive you’d need in a company. I’d been shown to the obs rooms first to get a sense of what went on behind the scenes and the manpower that was available to keep the “scene” and trainees safe. The Manor had ten obs rooms, each with enough employees to observe as many as fifteen different trainee scenes at a time. And the equipment they had would put MI5 to shame (or they would going by the James Bond movies I’d seen, anyway—twenty, c’mon). Where the funding came from for it all I didn’t ask. It wasn’t my business, not then, not now, but they paid me damn well, all tax deductable and above board. I knew they catered to the super rich, which is why Keal and others like him tried to “persuade” MC employees to switch sides.
Persuade
not exactly being the most appropriate term. Keal was heavily into the sex trade, especially selling on certain Doms that came with a kick like ours.

For those who needed it, the Manor had living quarters for the Doms and subs that were awaiting contracts. There were also various sports halls, gyms, swimming pool, and study halls with library sections to boot. Along with two restaurants, there were long-winded boarding rooms that would have been great for working a dozen or so buses. No doubt there was more, but I’d only got to see the business side, and that had only been once, when Gray had officially taken a Master’s sub.

The cowls and hoods would have seemed less threatening, more a joke, but suits were the order of the day here, and that always put me on-guard. The first and only time I’d stood before all five Masters, I’d been facing them as a snot-nosed yob, over a supersize marble curved conference table that dominated the one side of the hall. Acapulco Saxony rich oak carpet had framed a solid oak floor, perfectly fitted blinds had blotted out the penthouse view of the gardens, books lined the walls, and suits. Everyone had been wearing suits except me, who had decided jeans and shirt would be more suitable. Gray had taken a long time afterwards showing me the error of my arrogance, not that I’d complained much. Bit back “Fuck, you bastard, sir,” but not complained.

Like then, I was shown into the main conference hall by this crumpled old man who looked like he’d break if a stray fart caught him. At least I was wearing a suit this time.

And it wasn’t a good sign that a huge and finely crafted X-bondage post had been fastened into place on the wooden floor. That hadn’t been there the last time I was here. A quick glance saw a lot of care and attention had gone into something associated with so much pain. I hated fucking whippings. I wasn’t so bad with floggings, short whips—but the long ones... The usual holes to shackle your hands and feet apart were there, but just above the hand chain holes, a naked man cried pleasure to one side, a woman to the other. Both were carved with more than just care into the wood, models with hands bound above their heads, backs arched away from the post, heads thrown back, a look of ecstasy on their faces as lash marks cut across their abdomens.

The five Masters themselves sat behind the curved conference table, all suits, all quiet. At the head was Master Brennan, a tall slender man who seemed the Peter Pan of the lot. He looked no different to when I’d first met him ten years ago, maybe a few extra grey hairs, lines to the eyes, and I bet when he smiled those eyes of his distracted from any flaw. This seemed a young man’s game, no Master looking past forty, Gray was close to that, I think, Master Brennan slightly over, maybe? Like I said, both were hard to judge, and my mind was unwilling to think beyond my name and date of birth at that moment. I was still on the bondage cross. Even though I wore a suit, I still felt like that snot-nosed yob. To Master Brennans’s left sat Mistress Carr, a stunning redhead with sharp green eyes. If I was into women, she’d probably be it, although I wasn’t her taste either. Opposite were Master Gruff and Mistress Ball Breaker (c’mon, I was twenty; the names seemed apt back then). Master Gruff was slightly overweight and looked like he’d spat out wrestlers like they were annoying unpopped corn in a bag. He had big hands, though, and no doubt came with a whole bucket-load of punch. Mistress Ball Breaker, a gender-neutral woman in every way, sat next to him. Not only was she the only Master to have two Master’s subs: one of each, depending on taste, but her nametag, Ball Breaker, was justly given, as she was known for whipping men where it really hurt. Gray sat next to Mistress Carr, and for once I couldn’t judge his look at all.

Before all of them, standing just to my right on the hard floor, was Jan.

Keeping my face neutral, I removed my shoes and socks and took my place to the left of Jan. Trainee Dom to the right, sub to the left. Right side was reserved solely for the Masters and their personal subs. A trainee Dom could be thrown out for ordering a Master’s sub to kneel right side. Any trainee sub foolish enough to kneel right-side of a Master, well, kneeling right side of Gray, would come with a whole shit load of trouble, and none of it on any fucking please ’n’tease level Simple rules. After giving my respect to each Master in turn, I knelt just a few feet from Jan and stayed there with my head down. At times, I could sense Jan looking down at me, but now wasn’t the time to acknowledge him. I liked the skin on my back.

Gray was the worry. He should have been in Nottingham, which usually meant Government business that could take him anywhere
but
Nottingham. Some serious fuck-up had occurred, something bad enough to call him back from a business few people were wise enough to get in the way of.

“Gentlemen,” said Master Brennan after clearing his throat. “We understand the need for any trainee Dom to gain confidence in familiar settings, which is why we allow home tutoring if the Dom places that request. In your case, Mr. Richards, it was granted owing to unusual circumstances.”

I thinned my lips and thanked fuck the rules demanded I not look up.

“But whether being trained here or in familiar settings, safety is a priority in any situation that involves a trainee Dom and a Master’s sub.”

Did Jan shift uncomfortably?

“Between three and six in the morning, all intelligence at your Nash Villa, Mr. Richards, was offline. No technical fault was detected from this building last night, and when we gained access to your home an hour into that breakdown window, none were detected there either. The system had simply been disconnected. Now understand, our Doms and subs are assigned world-wide, and they take with them the knowledge that communication is their first priority. Bar Masters, trained personnel do not isolate themselves without consent. Period. Any unsanctioned action automatically calls for the Masters’ intervention and their time to ascertain why.”

I resisted all the temptation in the world to frown up at Jan. I’d checked it last night; the bloody cameras were working fine.

“Now you have the Masters’ intervention and their time. I and my colleagues wish for you to explain why.”

Oh, fuck. This was a serious breach, a serious
pick a Master, any Master, and you’re all theirs for an hour
breach.

What the fuck had Jan done? Why the hell had he done it? What happened last night was an accident, a screw up. He wouldn’t have turned the cameras off deliberately.

I frowned seriously at the floor as Master Brennan cleared his throat, the sound more annoyed than wishing to gain the floor. Jan hadn’t said a word. I wished to God he would; I needed to know why those cameras had been killed, forget the fucking Masters.

“Now would be a good time to make you aware that the contract between you two was given sanction by Master Raoul,” said Master Brennan. “But it was a sanction that went against the majority vote of the Masters’ Circle. It was deemed too dangerous with Mr. Richard’s lack of experience in our—in any—community.”

I started to feel really sick. I didn’t know this had caused Gray so much grief with his peers.

“You have a fine Master’s reputation in your hands, gentlemen. Be very, very careful.”

“I—” started Jan, but he cut himself off. Had he switched the cameras off? He seemed to know something. That sinking feeling. If Jan had switched them off, he was in serious, serious trouble. So too was Gray. And just what the hell did other Masters do to a Master who had apparently screwed up on a decision over a contract?

“May I speak, Master Brennan?” I said quietly.

“Mr. Harrison. You may.”

“Mr. Richards asked that I request privacy times for those hours, sir. I forgot to notify Master Raoul. The fault is my own, no one else’s.”

The silence that followed was thick. “Is this correct, Mr. Richards?” That came from Mistress Ball Breaker. She didn’t sound impressed.

“I—”

“Be aware, Mr. Richards,” Gray’s voice was low, flat, and seemingly in no way buying any of this bullshit. “the penalty for a long-standing Master’s sub violating such a basic rule is severe.”

“Severe?” Jan’s voice sounded ghost-like compared to Gray’s.

“He will be reminded how a lapse in concentration can have serious repercussions, Mr. Richards.” That came from Mistress Carr, and she sounded so sweet, her voice not changing from the perfect phone-sex mistress, although that was far beneath her station. “As would you if the fault had been yours.” Water was poured from Mistress Carr’s direction. “A Master’s sub that has been a Dom trainee for nine years now and has suddenly taken to forgetting that minor detail, will understand and wisely accept a reminder of commitment and duty.”

“So I ask again, Mr. Richards,” said Master Brennan. “Did you give a command to your collared sub only to have him fail to carry it through?”

“
For fuck’s sake, Brennan
,” I snapped, looking up at him. I was seriously fucked anyway. “I said I didn’t carry it through. The fault is mine. You deal with me, yeah?”

As Brennan eased back, fingers tenting just under his lips, Gray pushed back from his chair and came over.

“Mr. Richards, if you please,” said Gray, and I resisted all the temptation to turn around and see where Gray wanted Jan to go. Footsteps moved away from me, two sets, both Gray and Jan as they moved twenty paces behind me.

“Mr. Simons,” called Gray, and in came the little man from a side door behind the Masters’ conference table.

“Master Raoul?”

“Can you fetch the items I have laid out on my study desk, please?”

Simons bowed, then left. I needed to turn around and see just what the hell Gray had planned, even tilted my head slightly, but a cough from Mistress Carr had my eyes forward and head down before I made things worse.

Simons came back holding a large silver platter, but as he walked by me, all I could see was the fancy imprint label to show the quality of the silverware he held.

“Mr. Richards,” said Gray as the click of Simons’ shoes stopped by them, “have you ever used one of these?”

There was a moment of silence, then, “No,” from Jan. He sounded sick, or wanted to be sick.

“A lesson, then?” said Gray, and I frowned like hell. “The combination of hand and whip bridge the gap between Dom and sub; as a trainee you focus on my hands, not the target, Mr. Richards. You are after a horizontal strike like this.”

A thwak on the wood made me jerk, and I nearly groaned. The sound was very well-balanced, hitting wood flat on, and giving off its own distinctive sound, one I knew well enough; a cat of nine tails, all twenty-six inches handle-to-tip of strands, tails braided. A serious tool for a serious Dom, and, frankly, a bastard on the back as it left the victim yelping like a puppy that had just had its tail cropped.