Fulfilling Her Fantasy (12 page)

"The
naughty maids, actually," she said.

He
gave her a leering up and down look. "Mmm, I hope I get to see you in one
of those outfits," he said, lifting his chin toward a girl who tottered by
in high heels and the most revealing maid costume she'd ever seen

Portia
managed a tight smile, but turned away, toward Tina, who had not yet picked up
the 'save me' vibe. She couldn't explain why she'd taken a disliking to the
guy, who had done nothing worse than show an interest in her, but she had.

Available
Jan. 24
^th
, 2014 on Amazon, Barnes & Noble & Blushing Books
as part of the “Master’s of the Castle” Box Set, “When The Gavel Falls”

By
Maren Smith

Free Preview

Chapter One

Standing
before the mirror, Alan finished getting dressed. It wasn't often that he
bothered to don his ceremonial black leathers: the pants, the boots, vest and
silver-studded wrist cuffs. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd
put them on. It had been even longer since he'd last felt this level of
giddiness. High school probably came close, but he was twelve long years beyond
his graduation of that. The last of his wild and wooly college days were a good
six years behind him as well. So why did he feel like a schoolboy on the verge
of his first date, and with none other than the homecoming queen? He felt
shaky, but his hands in the mirror were as steady as they'd always been. It was
why he'd once aspired to be an architect… back before he realized that, while
precision work suited him, sitting at a drafting table for hours on end bored
him to tears.

He
tightened his armbands, but his gaze had already drifted from his reflection to
the series of photographs stuck by their edges all around the mirror's frame.
Of all the people captured there, only one was represented in every picture:
Octavia Sutters. Though she signed her name as Tavy on all her Castle admission
papers, while she was here, she only ever went by the simple, anonymous moniker
of 'O.' He knew this not because they were great friends, (although they had
exchanged the occasional word or two of conversation over the years) or because
he had once managed to score a highly-coveted scene with her and her
Dom-of-the-moment. No, he knew who she was because three weeks ago, when he'd
first learned that Tavy had volunteered to be one of the thirty or so
submissives invited to take part in the Castle's first slave auction, he'd
broken into Master Marshall's office and looked up her records.

Getting
caught might have cost him his job, but Alan hadn't been able to help himself.
He'd been here three years now, not quite as long as the Castle had been open.
Tavy had been one of its first guests, staying for one or two days every month,
as reliable in her attendance as clockwork. And just like clockwork, she had a
routine she never deviated from and a reputation that made her one of the most
highly-sought after submissives among the regular guests and the in-staff
Masters alike.

From
the moment Tavy donned her usual costume (black corset and garters, with
five-inch high fuck-me heels) and knelt to submit, she did whatever was asked
of her. Rumor had it she never said no. At least, not apart from her hard limit
of no conversations of a personal nature, and she never—ever—played
with the same man twice. Had Alan known this the one time he'd unexpectedly
been pulled into a scene with her, her current Top ordering her to her knees
before him, he'd have done more than watch and savor it while she, with her
hands bound high behind her back, opened the fastenings of his pants with her
teeth and obediently took his cock into her mouth. She'd choked herself on his
length, she took him so deep into her throat. Willingly. Enthusiastically. He
still went to bed at night remembering how it had felt to have the muscles of
her throat milking him as she'd swallowed, hummed, swallowed again and, in a
ball-spasming series of spurts so strong it had almost dropped him to his knees,
sucked down every last drop she could wring out of him.

Alan
brushed his black hair back, his dark eyes moving from photo to photo. Cameras
were banned from the grounds, but the Castle did employ a photographer who
could be hired to provide mementos of any scene… and bribed to hand over extra
copies. Most men lucky enough to play with Tavy paid to have their scenes
immortalized; a story the pictures around this old mirror told in blatant
carnality. Tavy hoisted in the dungeon, her body streaked with sweat and her
face a mask of exquisite suffering while a Dom who wasn't Alan applied his
flogger. Tavy in the stocks; one man in her mouth while another took her from
behind. Tavy on a spanking bench, and a cross, and a wooden horse covered in
sharp plastic studs that bit into her tender pussy and thighs. Tavy bound. Tavy
with cane welts, strap marks, and hand prints. Being cut, pierced, branded.
Tavy suffering, over and over again, doing whatever was asked of her because
she never refused, never cried enough, and in not one of all those many
pictures did she ever look as if she was enjoying what was happening to her.

And
yet, every month, she always returned. The only guest in the history of the
Castle who never had to apply online or call in a reservation. She simply
showed up, disappearing into Master Marshall's office the moment she arrived,
only to re-emerge with a room number, a Top assignment, and all the closed
mannerisms of a very aloof O.

Something
in her called to Alan. He couldn't put his finger on what, but he wanted her.
Those pictures on his mirror were a balm upon that part of his being that
needed to see her, touch her—possess her—and yet, every morning
when he woke up and every night when he went to sleep, they served as a painful
reminder that he wasn't what she needed. He couldn't do to her half of what she
endured at the hands of her assigned 'Doms'. Although more than ready, willing,
and able to deliver a good old-fashioned spanking from time to time, he wasn't
sadistic enough to deliver the kind of pain she took on a monthly basis. Every
time he looked at the suffering represented in these photographs, all he could
think was how… wrong it all was. Every detail of every scene. Every whip mark,
and clamp, and forcefully maintained posture that brought out those pixelated
grimaces and forever-silent cries. The only redeeming feature in any of them
was Tavy herself.

Alan
put down his hairbrush. He opened the top drawer of his dresser and took out a
thin box: a perfect square, six inches by six inches, no less than two inches
deep. He set it on top of the table, bracing his hands on either side while he
took a deep breath to settle his firing nerves.

Somewhere
in this Castle, the annual New Year's Eve party—an event scheduled to
last from Tuesday to Friday—was already underway. In the more sedate
programs, puppies and kittens were being tucked into their kennels and cages.
Ponygirls were being brushed and bedded down in their stalls. People were
already gathering on the back lawn to watch the fireworks scheduled for later
that evening, a display so spectacularly renowned that Granger
locals—temporarily forgetting the stigma attached to having an adult
resort in their backyards—lined up in lawn chairs along the highway to
catch tantalizing glimpses of the shimmering bursts of fire and light above the
trees.

And
somewhere, somewhere in the half-torturous and half-magical depths of this old
stone fortress, Tavy was climbing out of her civilian clothes and into her
costume. She was putting on an auction prize number and the black velvet ribbon
that signaled she was a submissive; an article he couldn't wait to take off her
and replace with something more meaningful.

The
Meet and Greet event had started ten minutes ago. Men were readying their
wallets and picking out favorites amongst the auction participants milling
among them. Tavy wouldn't be there; Alan knew that from experience. She never
mingled at Castle functions, not unless she was forced. But every Dom preparing
to take part in tonight's special proceedings would know she was attending. The
name 'O' was on the register—lucky number seven—and that register
had been posted on all three ballroom doors since noon. It was on the postcards
that littered the dining tables, and would undoubtedly be in the pamphlets that
would be handed out at the auction's start.

There
would be no shortage of bidders. This was going to cost him some serious money,
and Alan knew that, but backing out now was not an option. If ever he was going
to skirt her hard limit of never playing with the same man twice, tonight was
his chance. The only one he'd probably ever have. Tonight, he was going home
with Tavy and for the next four days, she was going to be his and his alone.

He
opened the box and withdrew the collar he'd had Kane make especially for the
occasion—black leather and silver chains, with a pendant locket that,
when opened, read simply: 'Owned'. That was what he intended to do this
weekend. He was going to own her, so completely and so devastatingly that when
she returned to the Castle next month, she would do so ready to discard her
hard limit. For Alan, and Alan alone.

That
was the dream, anyway.

He
pocketed her collar. The leashes, he knew, were already piled on the table
where Parker would be handling the financial aspect of tonight's transactions.
Taking a deep breath, Alan strove to quiet the giddiness and regain a semblance
of inner calm. He pulled himself out of the fantasy zone in which his mind kept
wanting to wander—not yet, not until the auction was won and he had her
kneeling at his feet—and then he left his third-floor apartment above the
schoolgirl library and went down to join the other Castle guests below.

* * * * *

Tavy
Sutters sat on the foot of the bed in the room she'd been assigned. Her corset
lay spread out on the comforter beside her, but she didn't look at it. The rest
of her things were still in her duffel bag, sitting on the floor just inside
the door. She hadn't bothered to unpack and probably wouldn't at all this trip.
It was one of the perks of volunteering for the auction. All the submissives
taking part in this week's holiday activity had received their stay for free.
For once, she didn't feel like she was taking advantage of the resort by not
paying for it the way everyone else did.

Not
that she didn't pay in other ways. Sweat, blood and salt-stinging tears were
her currency, and of those her account was drained every single month. She just
never paid with cash.

This
time was different though. Her meals and room were free as usual, but in return
for her participation in the charity event, Marshall had promised an extra
perk—a second stay to be redeemed in whatever month she chose, as well as
two days over the weekend once her allotted time as a 'slave' was done.

She
rubbed the back of her hand, not yet sure whether or not she was going to stay
for those extra days. She supposed that would depend entirely on the man who
bought her, and whether the severity of his punishments were harsh enough to
silence the gnawing guilt eating her up inside.

She
wished she wasn't here.

Switching
hands, Tavy rubbed that one now as well, pushing her thumb up and down the old
carpal tunnel surgery scars. She hated everything about this place, but that
didn't change anything. She couldn't leave, though she knew she was free to do
so at any time. What did she have to go home to, except the awful thing that
drove her to this equally awful place time and time again?

Absent-mindedly,
she rubbed the other scar. Sitting and rubbing, she watched the sun mark the
unyielding march of time as it crawled from the top of the window to the sill,
and then vanished below the distant tree line. If she didn't start getting
ready now, she was going to be late. Then and only then, could she bring
herself to pick up the costume she had come to hate.

She
donned her corset with all the enthusiasm of a felon climbing into her
prison-issued jumpsuit. Jet black, it pushed up her breasts, cinched in her
waist and had a short bib of black lace both in front and back that barely
covered either her sex or her bottom. It fit her very well, amplifying each of
her curves to their best visual advantage, and yet Tavy found nothing to admire
about the way she looked.

Twisting
her long brown hair up in a practical ponytail to keep it out of the way of the
things she'd undoubtedly be asked to do before the night was out, she slipped
her feet into high stiletto heels. This was not her usual corset. It lacked the
fastenings for garters and left her long legs bare. Trying to ignore her
reflection, she looked in the mirror just long enough to put her make-up
on—dark, smoky eye shadow, black mascara, crimson cock-sucker
lipstick—before tying the velvet collar-like ribbon around her neck and
pinning the auction number she'd been given to her bodice.

Ready
fifteen minutes before she had to report to the ballroom where the auction was
scheduled to take place, Tavy sat on the foot of her bed. She rubbed her scars
while she waited. The ones on her hands first, then those on her wrists, and
then her legs. In the back of her mind, she couldn't help but wonder, as she
touched each one, how many more they'd have to put on her before she could
stand to look at herself again.

Available
Jan. 24
^th
, 2014 on Amazon, Barnes & Noble & Blushing Books
as part of the “Master’s of the Castle” Box Set, “When The Gavel Falls”