Ice Queen (30 page)

Ice Queen

keep him hard and lusting. Teasing him with what was so erotically displayed in the corset his hands had laced and what was barely concealed above the hem of the short skirt.

It was the type of game a good Mistress excelled at, or one intensely experienced with the desires of her slave. Marguerite wondered what it would be to indulge in such loving play with someone. She’d never sought that with a sub, perhaps because she was driven by a very different compulsion. Her dwelling on it now was just another example of how Tyler had managed to fuck with her head. Something that would end tonight.

She began to move past Violet when the woman did not immediately reply but was not at all surprised when Violet raised her hand. “A moment of your time, Mistress Marguerite.”

“A moment.” She stopped, sighted just over Violet’s shoulder and found a photograph of Marilyn Monroe. In a crinoline and bra, smiling her sad, distant smile at the camera. “I have someone waiting.”

“I know that.” Violet stepped squarely in front of her, blocking her way.

Marguerite’s eyes narrowed. “I’m asking you to be careful. What you did earlier with Tim, if it wasn’t for your relationship with Tyler, you wouldn’t be down there tonight.”

“I don’t have to court Tyler’s favor. The Zone can kick me out at any time.”

“You’ll take care of him tonight.”

“The Zone has rules.”

“And as you’ve demonstrated quite recently, every experienced Domme knows how to hurt someone without breaking the rules, especially if they know the ways to keep the sub from crying uncle. The best ones can cripple without even breaking the skin.”

“That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”

“My mistake. I meant it as a warning. He’s stupid when it comes to you. I’m not.”

“I disagree. You’re the one standing in my way.”

“Mistress Violet.” One of The Zone staff members, Mark, had come up the hallway.

“With your permission, I need to speak to you a moment.” Violet never broke eye contact. Her lashes did not even flicker. She took a step forward, lowered her voice. “I have a tremendous amount of respect for you, Marguerite. I’ve learned a good deal from watching your technique. But I love that man very much. Whatever nightmares or demons you’re exorcising, you make sure you don’t sacrifice him to appease them. You hurt him and I’ll tear you limb from limb.” She moved around Marguerite, bumping her shoulder none-too-gently to get to the waiting Mark.

Without hesitating, Marguerite moved onward down the hall, pushing the exchange away, pushing it all away. There was only one thing now and that was the sub. Not Tyler. There were no names, no identities, simply the power and energy she 197

Joey W. Hill

needed for their session. It would be no different tonight. She could not afford to let it be different. Not if she was to protect Tyler the way Violet wanted.

* * * * *

“Ass. Moron.
Man
.”

Mac lifted a brow as Violet sat down in the chair he’d been holding for her. It had a clear view down into the observatory room and of the hundred-and-twenty-inch flat screen on the wall at the deck floor level. Currently it provided a close-up of Tyler, arms restrained out to his sides, legs manacled and spread, ankles secured to the bolts in the floor. The blindfold was still in place. Stacey had reluctantly finished with him, so his genitals were well oiled and well aroused. The audience was currently getting seriously worked up as the platform turned, displaying him from all angles in erotic slow motion.

Mac knew all his senses would be on high alert, not just his glands. Waiting for that one noise. The sound of a door opening, the feminine step that said
she
was there with him, the one that was keeping his cock at aching attention even more than the tactile ministrations had done. He knew Tyler was not a submissive but he also recognized the look he’d seen in Tyler’s eyes when he’d passed him going down to the observatory.

Dom or sub, a man in love was a man willing to undergo anything to win the woman who’d stolen his heart.

The Masters and Mistresses were of course accorded the balcony seats. Their subs, if they had one, were seated at their knees or standing behind the chairs as Mac was now. He leaned down, a long arm on either side of his wife’s chair and nuzzled her ear.

“What’s the matter, sugar?”

She thrust the note up at him, shrugging him off irritably. “Stupid men.” Mac looked down at the note in Tyler’s broad script.

Violet, Perry has instructions from me. Nobody is to enter that room until we’re done. I’m
asking you to trust what I know. Don’t interfere. No matter what.

“He’s anticipating this getting pretty rough.”

“You think?” She scoffed. “The woman tried to chew the balls off a sub not too long ago. The only reason she’s allowed to be down there tonight is because she’s with one of the owners and because of the crowds she draws. And because Brendan talked Tim out of filing a complaint against her. I know this is a good place.” She waved a hand.

“But we both know when she performs the bar tabs triple. So I guess we’re just supposed to sit here while she neuters him, or just cuts his throat.” Her gaze shifted to the screen. “I’m tempted to let her do the neutering. His ability to think might return to his brain where it belongs. Jesus.”

Mac stayed in his position over her. He had a fantastic view of her breasts swelling high out of that corset. The glitter dust she’d sprinkled across their tops was making his tongue itch. But she needed something else right now other than his substantial erection pressed against the small of her back. The way she casually rubbed against it with the shifts of her body told him she was aware of it, making him ruefully bless and curse her 198

Ice Queen

ability to multitask, to torment him while fuming. She’d closed her eyes, was shaking her head.

“Sugar.” When he touched her face, he compelled her to open her eyes and look up at him. “Tyler’s an intelligent guy and a tough Dom. He trained you. I think you should do what the note says. Trust him.”

“But his judgment is seriously impaired.”

“Because he’s in love with her?” Mac’s silver eyes crinkled. As she always did, Violet got a little lost watching that firm mouth lift in a smile. “Maybe they’ll be lucky and find what we found. But we had some pretty edgy moments getting there together.

For people like us, for anyone, you have to earn the right to it.” He bent a little closer to her. “Just like I’d like to ask my Mistress how I can earn the right to put my mouth on those beautiful breasts of hers. I’d like to suck on her nipples until she comes just from that, as I know she can do. Repeatedly.”

She slanted a glance up at him, his attention spreading welcome heat over her skin.

“I’ll give it some thought. For now you just stand behind my chair and keep that big cock of yours hard for me. Let me feel it against my back, ready to serve me when I call for it.”

“That’s not going to be a problem, Mistress.”

She brushed her cheek against his palm. Taking a light bite on the silver bracelet he wore, her symbol of ownership, she tugged on it. “You may be on different sides of the D/s fence but you and Tyler both try charm for distraction. I think you’re in for a long, hard night to remind you I won’t be charmed.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he said.

She kept his hand on her shoulder, rubbing her face against it like a cat, seemingly placid now. But Mac wasn’t fooled. Watching her gaze shift back to the man bound in the observatory, he had a feeling what they were about to witness was going to be a problem. He ran a light finger along her neck, a transgression he hoped she wouldn’t command him to withdraw, for he knew his touch would help calm her.

Tyler, you better know what the fuck you’re doing.

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Marguerite stepped into the dark shadows of the observatory, nodded to Tony. He moved past her and the door snicked shut, leaving her and Tyler alone.

Whenever she’d stepped into this room before, she’d had a sense of who the submissive was, a glimmer of something she’d seen in his soul. Something she would use to get all the way in, open him up and use that to balance them both.

She wasn’t sure if she’d found that glimmer in Tyler, a key. She wasn’t even sure if that’s what she intended to do tonight. She was still waiting for her inner compulsion to speak to her as it always did, telling her where she wanted to go tonight.

In the meantime, she let herself look. The video screen didn’t do him justice but then she’d known he’d be more potent to her senses like this. The observatory wasn’t an overly large room, the shadows covering all the equipment stocked on the walls, the few storage areas. All the focus was on the dais under the spotlight. She didn’t look up, wasn’t even aware of her audience any longer. The room was silent, as she’d requested, no music. And the audio output was not turned on. Their play was visually public only.

She’d had younger, more handsome men in here. But as her eyes coursed over the rugged lines of bone and muscle, the scars, that fascinating expanse of silky hair layered on his chest and forearms, she knew those bodies had never attracted her the way this one did. Nor the shadows that lay beneath their surfaces. He’d barely even cracked a window for her there, though he’d had no compunction about kicking in the door to her psyche and demanding she offer her soul to him, every black corner.

“I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.” His voice was as tactile as the touch of his fingers running down her back, raising nerve endings to high alert, but it was also velvet. Like the comfort of a known voice coming out of the dark when walking alone in a graveyard.

“You won’t speak unless I command it.”

When he was facing her, she flipped the switch that stopped the movement of the platform. Then she moved along the outer crescent to the items she’d had left for her. A downshielded dim light showed her a five-foot-long latigo braided Mexican whip with wooden handle which she used frequently and a tool she used on her more hardheaded subs such as Marius. A thirty-inch-long Scottish tawser that she’d customized. Tawsers were originally used for punishment of schoolchildren, to strike their hands. The tool typically was one or two straps of leather put together and toasted over a fire to make it more rigid. For modern-day BDSM play, they were more flexible and she’d had a trio of cuts made along the length of the strap to increase the sting and maneuverability. It was a highly effective punishment tool, used when the sub’s endorphins were rushing high and he needed that ultimate pain experience to push him to orgasm.

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Still not speaking, she unfastened her cloak and hung it up, picked up the whip.

Swung it, re-accustomed herself to its weight and balance. Stepped into the spotlight with him.

Letting her gaze travel from low to high, she started with his bare feet. The manacles fit snugly around his ankles. She’d requested steel because she wanted the discomfort factor on his bones. Not excruciating for a couple hours but they’d leave red marks when removed. The manacles on his arms were the same, so movement was attended by the clanking reminder of imprisonment. Then she moved on to the calves, knees, long muscular thighs, the cock that had been semi-erect when she entered and was now fully erect. Lower abdomen, broad chest, smooth shoulders. The scars that altered him here or there, the tension in his neck that suggested her biceps adjustment had resulted in the discomfort she’d intended. The firm mouth beneath the blindfold’s cover. That fine, dark hair. Aristocratic nose. Clean, trimmed fingernails.

She took her time, standing there for some minutes, just looking at every part of him, enjoying the ability to do so without interruption or interference. She’d had subs that she’d made stand with their eyes downcast while she sat a few feet away, enjoying the visual feast of them, watching them get more and more aroused as her silent regard stimulated them.

The purpose of her sessions was as she had described it to Tim. The attempt to compel stillness in a world that was never still, by achieving a connection with another that went beyond words and noise. But if she took Tyler into that still moment, would she find such contentment that she’d never crave motion again?

She stepped forward, one step, two steps. In a smooth motion she arced the latigo whip, struck his thigh, just below and to the left of the scrotum, exactly where she’d intended it to fall.

He hadn’t anticipated that as her first move. She could tell by his start, the flex of his fingers against the manacles. She moved closer, past him, dragging her fingernails across his leg, over the reddened skin, letting the trail of the whip follow and tease his testicles. She stopped, her gaze level with his outstretched arm, her eyes and mouth inches from the smooth, muscular skin. All hers. Offered to her freely.

“When I speak to you, you will answer ‘Yes, Mistress’.” Her breath moved the fine hair on his arm.

She flicked her glance right, watched his jaw muscle flex, his head tilt toward her.

“Yes, Mistress.”

She made a precise left turn, walked the length of his arm, circled it. Coming back to stand behind him, she went to work.

First the whip. Across the back several times, different spots. Shoulder blades, lower back, buttocks, striking with the braided thong. Then she stepped back further and used the trail, the single string at the tip, to sting. Then alternating.

He remained silent, his breath coming out of him in short bursts as he managed the pain. She did not speak either, letting the pain she was inflicting be her words to him.

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Pain and sensory deprivation together were powerful focus tools. She wanted him mindless, as mindless as she’d been. On a pause, he angled his head, showing he was trying to relieve some of the tension she had created between his neck and shoulders.

Moving forward again, she stopped right behind him, the curve of his firm ass against her hip, the tip of her breast pressed to his marked back.

“Christ, touch me,” he murmured. Raw. Not begging. Demanding.

Her hand hovered over his flesh as she fought the compulsion to obey. At length, she laid her fingers on him as lightly as a moth landing, at that aching juncture of his neck, feeling the knotted muscle. Not to caress but to determine the status of his discomfort. She reached up, made the adjustment to the restraint, eased it out a half inch, giving him a bit of relief.

“I control your comfort as well as your pain.” She noted his cock jumped at the sound of her voice, reacting as if the smooth slick velvet of her cunt had closed over him.

“I don’t doubt that at all. Not since I met you.” She slid under his arm, her hair brushing his sensitized skin. Her hand pressed briefly at his side.

As she stood before him, Tyler felt her breath near his chin, telling him she was within kissing distance, but when he stretched out, tentative, she was gone again, a frustrating illusion. No. A fantasy come to life, teasing him.

Just like a covert operation, he knew the goal going in, had prepared himself for it to the maximum extent possible, knowing there would be unforeseen contingencies.

She’d been an obsession before their partial weekend together but now that he’d touched her, tasted her, left his scent on her, he hadn’t counted on how being this close to her but unable to touch her would goad the alpha in him. It took concentrated effort not to use his full strength against the chains in a futile attempt to burst loose. And as if she knew that, she stayed just out of reach, a distance calculated to madden him.

She moved behind him again and those long nails, the slim fingers, went to his neck, playing in the hair at his nape, but only to release the blindfold. It tumbled from him, the black silk rolling down, spreading out and floating to the floor. Her palm followed the length of his right arm, the top of it, caressing the muscles of his biceps, his forearm. When she reached his hand, she drew away, avoiding the intimacy of fingers touching fingers. Then she stepped around and in front of him, increasing his torture by showing herself to him at last.

The dress she wore was her signature white. No diamonds tonight. It was long-sleeved, high-necked and fit like a second skin, but not like the bodysuit which was seductively tight. This dress molded every portion of her anatomy. The size and shape of her breasts, the bud of the nipple, even the slight uneven transition between the areola and the smooth curve of the breast itself. The stretch fabric outlined her hips, her buttocks. Her legs, bare, smooth, long and fine as a deer’s, were tucked into white stilettos with a sharp toe reinforced with silver.

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It took him some time to reach her face. She wore no makeup. No adornment whatsoever. Just the dress which quite obviously had nothing under it. With her clear blue eyes and that moonlit hair, what else did she need?

He wanted nothing more than to worship and cherish every part of her body. In that he was sure he was little different from the submissives who had shared this room with her. But he wondered if they noticed other things about her. The fact she so rarely smiled. That there were often shadows under her eyes. How thin her arms were, despite the lean muscle tone. The fragile slenderness of her neck, her wrists, her ankles.

Everything he’d observed of her suggested that she lived the life of an ascetic. Very restrained, very controlled. Turning denial into an art form.

When she turned to lay the latigo down on the rack, the dark shadow between her buttocks made his blood boil closer to the surface. The way the fabric creased and moved with her ass, rode up high on her thighs in the back. If she bent over, he knew he’d get a view of her soft, delectable pussy.

He could almost sense the reaction of the crowd above. She was a vision. She always was. Her beauty didn’t rest in a feature or group of features. It was in her otherworldly quality. He stood in a room with something not quite of this earth.

Perhaps an angel with a broken wing, forever consigned to walk among humans, puzzled by them, never quite in sync.

All the miserable things he’d seen, all the things he’d been unable to prevent, had given him what he needed to be the man who could love her and care for her forever.

He knew it. He would fight the demons in her dreams for her, give her back her smile as a gift she’d earned a thousand times over. It wasn’t egotism or wishful thinking, he simply knew it as truth. He just had to get her to believe it. When he looked at her he saw his own soul looking back at him, the lost piece of himself.

“I want you.”

She stilled for a moment, but then she lifted her arms, her back still to him, to tuck up the tail of her hair in a knot. When she turned around, her arms still raised, he swallowed, noting the way the dress stretched tight over her breasts. She came to him, her eyes on his cock, not acknowledging him or his words. Slowly she moved her body against his, rubbing her mons along the length of his turgid arousal, the fabric of her dress the thinnest of barriers. She bent her knees to rub her nipples against his hard abdomen, then straightened, taking them up his chest, tilting her head back a little so he could not reach her with his mouth.

“I want to fuck you. Now.” He growled it.

Marguerite managed, just barely, to prevent her body from giving itself away with a shudder at the words. She was ravenous for him, too. And he was hers to touch, wasn’t he? With her free hand she curled her fingers around his oiled cock while his breath drew in. She felt his eyes on her face. After a moment, she ducked under his arm to his back. Running her palms up each side of his tense buttocks, she eased her now oiled knuckle in between the cheeks.

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“You don’t follow direction very well, Tyler. I told you not to speak. What if I decide to fuck you? How would you like that? What if I want you to come for me? Your seed jetting out into the air. What if…”

She didn’t want any of those things. She wanted this. Pressing her body close against his back, she rubbed her pubic bone against the seam of that delicious ass, raised on her toes to seize a handful of his hair in her hand. Yanking his head back, she sank her teeth into the juncture of his shoulder and throat. This was savage need, the desire to draw Tyler’s blood and essence into her, keep his taste on her tongue forever, hoping it would still the restless desire raging through her. Her other hand came up, collared his throat to hold him at the uncomfortable angle, pressing, restricting his air as she sank her canines in deeper, tasting his blood, his life.

Focus, Marguerite, focus.
The roaring was hard to push back but she did it. Abruptly she released him, listened to him take a harsh breath to pull air back in his lungs, watched his broad chest expand. Stepping back into the shadows, she wiped the back of her hand against her bloody lips as she walked it off, circled in the darkness. Her body trembled, her breath coming as rapidly as if it were her air that had been constricted.

She stopped when she was straight across from him again. Her eyes drifted down to find him even more hard and erect.

Obviously, she hadn’t frightened him. She raised her lashes and found the same look he’d had when she first removed his blindfold. Possessiveness. Even chained, his eyes made it clear he considered her his. And he was waiting. Waiting for what? Blood ran down his shoulder, over his nipple. She raised a hand to her mouth, feeling it there again, seeing it smear on her hand. Looking down, she saw a stain of it over her left breast.

“You put anything in my ass, angel—” He spoke now, low and dangerous, as if she’d just asked the question. “And you’d better keep me tied until you’re in the next state. And even then, I’ll find you. You won’t walk comfortably for a week.”

“I’m not your submissive. You don’t spank me. Not ever again.”