Page 11
I refuse to ask if I look the part. I don’t need him—or any man, for that matter—to tell me if I measure up. Especially with my outfit choice.
But I want to. I so want to.
I might be more submissive than the other girls in C8. I’ve even played this part before. But it was always with one of them. With someone I knew I couldn’t get lost in. And what we did was play. Not a single time did we actually do anything. I played at being submissive. I knelt, spoke very little, and just sat there to listen and occasionally watch. The girl who was in charge of me would do most of the talking and looking full-on. The kisses and light touches were a mere facade, never done for pleasure.
I only know of the lifestyle, never truly embraced it. But after a few of these missions, you come to understand the role and, for me, crave the reality of it. It’s one of a few deep secrets that I refuse to talk about. If anyone guesses I’m the submissive type, I let them say it, not me. Charles was the first to name it, give it voice, and assure me it was acceptable. Still, even with her and the company’s acceptance, it’s not something I’m ready to dive into.
Or I didn’t think I was.
If General were here, I could be my impassive self. Just go along for the ride. I wouldn’t be poking at him to try and get a reaction. I certainly wouldn’t be offering myself up on a platter like I’m doing with Casper. But that’s the problem. General isn’t here—Casper is.
Ford.
His real name, even if it’s said only in my head, sends a shiver through me. I haven’t stalked the man, but I’ve done some “light” digging. Okay, fine, I went down a rabbit hole one night after some scotch and hacked a few things to learn about him. It was purely research to make sure we could trust the guy.
Okay, it wasn’t, but that’s beside the point. I didn’t learn everything, just a few things. Like his name is Ford Majors. He was a sniper in the Special Forces. He has a kill count on record. And he likes dogs.
Chalk it up to the liquor that night, but as soon as I saw a picture of him with dogs, I stopped caring about anything else and just stared at it. I might have had the dream of being a medical doctor, but I wasn’t upset when Charles had me go to vet school right after. I like animals. Love them. They give me a peace that only they can. Humans can be tricky to like, even if you’re required to heal them if they walk into your clinic. As for animals? I’ve never met one I didn’t immediately like. They’re the therapy that works the best. Having something soft and fluffy lick my face after I help them is the best thanks I could ever get.
Wonder if you’ll say that after Casper is done licking you.
Down, girl. Get your head in the game.
Walking into a sex club with sex on the brain isn’t the best way to start a mission. To participate in an orgy? Sure. But I need to focus on why I’m here, and it’s not to get off.
“Relax,” he growls beside me as we walk toward the entrance, and if anyone asks, it’s the wind that causes the shivers that cover my body.
“You relax. Next time you wear the trench coat with barely anything under it and six-inch heels. I’d like to see you be comfortable,” I grumble out of irritation.
I can handle the outfit, even the heels. Part of C8 training is to feel comfortable in anything. Getting naked usually makes the other person uncomfortable or turns them on. Either way, it’s an advantage, as it distracts them long enough to get the kill shot in or for another operative to take something, whatever the mission calls for. Running in heels is another mandatory class. I could wear this outfit for days and feel comfortable and steady in it. But wearing it by Casper, knowing what we’re waiting to walk into, is something else.
The ride from the airport was short. I changed on the plane once we landed, and then we headed to this resort of sorts. If you can call it that. It’s a mansion that they turned into their own kinky version of a bed-and-breakfast.
We’re greeted by a doorman who directs us to the coat-check area. Casper chose to go as himself, just without his club vest that announces who he is. He’s still in a leather jacket but hands it over to the coat attendant and takes my trench coat off me. I feel his eyes on me before I meet his gaze. I already know what he looks like. Tight black ripped jeans and a black shirt. It’s loose enough to tease but tight on the arms, showing off his muscles. I hope he asks me to lick them for him later.
But this is the first time he’s seen my outfit. My six-inch heels are suede black boots that go up to my knees. They should provide a bit of cushion for kneeling and also have small blades hidden in the heels. The babydoll lingerie is a blood-red sheer and has cutouts for my tits, which I left bare. This is the same outfit I’ve worn to places like this before, and from the intel C8 has on this place, I know it fits in with the other clientele.
Not that that means anything to Casper.
“Take it off.” His nostrils flare, and his eyes harden with anger. It’s something I haven’t seen on him before, and it makes me pause. He’s worn a lot of facial expressions over the last few months, especially the last few days. But never this. Utter hatred of what he sees.
“Wh-What?” I’m so thrown by the venom in his voice that I’m stunned to do anything as he approaches.
“I said—” He pulls a switchblade out and cuts the shoulder straps. “—take it off.”
My jaw drops as soon as my dress hits the floor and I’m just standing in boots and a deep red laced thong. Before I can speak, he pulls his shirt off and yanks it on over my head. He’s taller than me. Not a ton, but the shirt covers all the important bits, the ends of it teasing my upper thighs.
He grips my jaw and takes two steps, forcing me to backpedal until I hit the wall. “You do not know what you’re doing. It’s clear by this outfit alone that you’re a fool.”
I glance around and notice the guy who took our coats is nowhere to be seen. I see a camera above the door, but other than that, we’re alone. Casper is speaking so low that I doubt any audio can pick up what he’s saying, but it pisses me off that he isn’t more careful that our cover could be blown. Well, that, and I’m also embarrassed and feeling self-conscious because the second he saw me, he wanted to cover me up. Also that he thinks I’m some kind of idiot. Something that’s a huge trigger for me, as I was told that most of my childhood. Just because you’re smarter than an adult doesn’t mean they won’t call you stupid for their ignorance.
“But… but….” I shake my head, with what little give he allows me, as I work out my frustration and try to curb the urge to punch him like my training taught me. I hate being caged, but I know I have to play the part. They might not hear what’s going on, but if a submissive knocks out their Dom, that’s a sure way to get kicked out of this place. And without Candy. “Wouldn’t they suspect something if I show up in more clothes? We’re meant to blend in. To show we’re a couple for a while and not new to all this. Research shows this to be a common outfit for a place like this, even for a couple who’s been together as long as we have.”
He growls and digs his fingers in so tight that I fear I might bruise. “No submissive of mine shows what’s mine without my permission. No self-respecting Dom goes into an unknown place and just lets the thing he owns walk around on such display. Not unless I’m looking to invite others in. And that’s something I never do. I don’t share. I’m a biker first, a Dom second. Both are the same. We might dabble in the fruits of what’s out there, but when it comes to ownership, we take and don’t give back. You ever seen a brother offer his bike out willingly? You also never asked, pet, what I approve of before you dressed. I might not call you my slave, but I sure as hell won’t allow this type of disobedience again. Let this be a warning for next time. I can be a very lenient Dom, but not a forgiving one. Make a mistake like this again, and I’ll make sure your ass is the same color as the dress that litters the floor.”
“Yes, Master.” I say it on autopilot. My body is humming from the tone and the force of his fingers gripping me. I’m a hairbreadth away from panting with desire.
“Sir. Masters take on a bigger responsibility for a submissive’s life. Doms and Sirs take on a role for a scene. Make no mistake, I’m not your master. I will not take this beyond what we must do, but I will punish you if you go against the rules I set up. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” The glint in his eyes has me swallowing down the small bit of hurt at his words before I add, “Sir.” I don’t want a master. Never wanted to go that far in the lifestyle. Or I didn’t think I did. But hearing him say it would never happen makes a part of me cry out in despair for what I’m missing out on.
He takes a beat before he nods and steps away. I allow myself to take a full breath before I ask the obvious question. “What are the rules?”
He gives me a hard look, and I watch his chest rise and fall. He’s a spectacular specimen of a man, all rippling muscles and definition. Butter could melt on those abs of his. He’s that hot. Not that I would waste butter on him. I’d rather be the one melting on him—if he allows it, of course.
“Eyes on me when I talk to you. You’re not my slave but my submissive. If another speaks to you, either look at me or the ground. Until I say otherwise, they don’t get your loyalty. And make no mistake, loyalty can be seen in the eyes of a submissive. In this place, and till we go home, you’re to be mine. If you play at trying to catch another Dom’s eyes, even if you think it’ll get you Candy, I will end this—both between us and our groups.”
“Can I speak?”
He takes longer to answer this time, but when he does, it’s with finality. “No. Not unless I direct you to. Follow my commands and I’ll go easy on you for tonight.”
Before I can ask what that means for every other night, he turns and walks away. I scurry to catch up and step just behind him as we enter what seems to be the grand ballroom. The tall ceilings, crown molding, wall sconces, and chandeliers give off almost a Regency era vibe. But black walls and low chairs and couches provide a dungeon feel without all the usual toys present that you associate with a kink club. No cage, spanking bench, or even a St. Andrew’s cross in sight. I bet the playrooms are in other parts of the house, and this is just the main gathering to socialize in and find partners for those without or those looking to add to their partnership.
“Hello, my name is Helper. I’m the house’s hostess. Can I have your names, please?”
The sickly-sweet voice draws my eyes upward, and I can’t help but blink twice at her attire. She is a full-on schoolgirl, from the short pleated skirt that shows her panties to the white top that does nothing to cover up her bits. The choker around her neck says “Daddy’s Girl,” and I don’t miss the chain attached to it that seems to be connected to her nipple piercings. I’ve seen a lot of things in my life, but this one is new. I know people dress like this, have that kink, just never seen one on display before. And not one who’s blinking so fast she’s either having a seizure or thinks it’s cute.
“Hello, Helper. What a lovely name. I’m Ghost, and this is Wendi, my submissive.”
I feel a jab of insane jealousy at the way he complimented her, but it dies when he calls me his. Even if he uses my old code name.
“Oh, that’s cute. I always loved that movie. My daddy lets me watch it every year. I just adore her red cape.”
I purse my lips and keep the giggle from slipping. I know exactly what she’s talking about, but Casper has no clue. I think I love it even more that she pointed it out before me. Jack and I noticed the Wendi/Casper reference almost immediately. But that’s only because while we both might have had a sucky childhood, we made up for it by watching every kids’ show we could as soon as we had our own TV. Which is embarrassing to say it was way after we joined C8. What can I say? Food and a safe place to stay were more important than entertainment. Well, then. Now if I try to take Jack away from a show, she throws knives at me.
I guess I don’t keep my giggle inside as much as I hoped, not from the turned head thrown my way and a raised eyebrow.
“She’s referencing a Halloween kids’ movie. It’s called Casper Meets Wendy. He’s a ghost, and she’s a witch. Wears a red cape every time you see her.”
“Thought I told you not to talk.”
He smirks, but his words feel like lead in my stomach. Any humor I once felt is dead now. He might be smiling, but his eyes scream retribution.
“Helper.” A man about twenty years the hostess’s age wraps an arm around her waist before kissing her temple. “Are you being helpful?”
“Yes, Daddy, or I thought I was. I might have gotten her into trouble.” She pouts, and I just barely avoid rolling my eyes. I never was into the Little scene. No harm against it, but the fake pouting reminds me of a brat, and that’s something I completely detest. Maybe it’s because I deal with that shit from Jack all the time that the idea of it being a turn-on for someone is a total ick for me.
“She was in trouble before. Your actions did nothing. She’s in control of her own body. You forced nothing.” Casper’s reassurance to the girl makes me sick, but I keep my face from showing. He’s proving a point, one I nod to.
He’s right, of course. Asshole. He told me not to speak, and yet I did. Whatever. If he wants to punish me, I can take it. I’ve been through hell before. I can do it again. What’s the worst that he can do?
“But I suspect a little bit of crawling will do her some good to help remind her of it next time.”
Say what now?