To Command and Collar-Masters 6 Read online

  “Very nice.” He checked the fit of her cuffs. To her surprise, he loosened one overly snug ankle cuff.

  He eyed her for a moment. “You’re a lovely woman, Kimberly.” He strolled around her, inspecting her, and somehow, perhaps because of his light touch, she didn’t feel the usual nausea and fury. He explored the marks on her back where Lord Greville and his staff had whipped her bloody, then the bruising on her hips from when the Overseer… Her mind winced away.

  Again his finger ran over the knife scar, giving her the odd sensation of tingling and numbness from damaged nerves. He frowned at the purple bruising on her foot left by the Overseer’s boot from when she’d spilled a drop of his coffee.

  After running his hands over her hips, he touched her pussy. Bare. Smooth. She’d become adept at shaving in the past weeks. She felt the stroke of his hand, but it brought nothing but memories of other hands and cocks.

  “Pobrecita,” he said under his breath and looked her straight in the eyes. “I am going to check you more closely, Kimberly. I need to know if there are any problems.”

  More closely? Understanding hit in a dizzying wave when he moved to the table and squirted lubricant over his fingers. Oh God. She closed her eyes and simply waited. Don’t tense. I’m not here. It’s a good day to visit the beach. Grains of sand under my feet, the ocean breeze…

  To her surprise, she felt only the heat of his body, the brush of his silky shirt against her breasts, his breath on her cheek. “Look at me,” he said, ever so softly.

  I don’t want to. She raised her gaze. His face was close to hers, his dark brown eyes filled with such understanding she almost whimpered.

  His hand cupped her mound.

  No. She turned her head, only to have him give a warning sound from low in his throat. He’d given her an order. Expected her to obey.

  She raised her eyes to his.

  His lubricated fingers slid over her in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time. He watched her silently as his fingers touched her clit, then separated her labia. He pressed one finger inside her, and she couldn’t help the instinctive cringing away.

  “Shhh, chiquita.” His other hand cupped her bottom, holding her in place. He kissed her lightly as if to reassure her, then slid a second finger into her, pressing upward. She tried to close her thighs and realized his feet were inside hers, keeping her legs open. After a moment, he slid his fingers out.

  Not done, though. He stepped back and took a latex glove from the box.

  I hate this. Hate you. Hate you all.

  “Bend over and spread your cheeks, girl.” His voice was cold. Cruel.

  She blinked at the change, then noticed the Overseer approaching. Did the dom’s manner change to chilly because of the Overseer? The thought was…

  “Now, girl.”

  Her mind blanked as her body tensed. He’d touch her…there. Gritting her teeth, she bent, arching her bottom up and opening herself for his inspection.

  A lubricated finger circled her rim. “She has been taken anally?”

  “Oh yes. Unless a buyer requests an anal virgin, we feel it best to have each slave prepared.”

  The dom’s thick finger pressed against her anus. She wanted to escape, and as if he could tell, he gripped her hip in warning. Then his finger breached the ring of muscle, sliding inside her. In and out before the shudder had even left her body.

  “Mmm. Not bad.” He moved away to toss the glove into the waste. “I’d probably have to train with a wider plug to keep from tearing her up, though.”

  The thought made her cringe, and anger rose to replace the fear. As if he was that big. But a quick glance at his slacks indicated he told the truth. He could hurt her. Badly.

  Grasping her nape again, he guided to where chains hung from the ceiling, between the ones attached to bolts in the floor. He put her into an upright, spread-eagle position, legs restrained widely apart, then tightened the chains on her arms, ensuring she couldn’t move.

  She closed her eyes, trying to get to the place where it wouldn’t hurt as much. Not subspace…hardly that. This pain she’d simply endure, going as far away as she could. The boat pushed off from shore, waves splashing on the sides, wind whipping her hair…

  After a brief survey of the wall, he chose a flogger and a cat-o’-nine-tails and returned. To her dismay, he ran his hands over her shoulders, her arms, her torso, her legs. Bringing her back to the now, damn him. His palms were rough, his fingernails cut short.

  Her body warmed under his touch. Her skin did; her core stayed icy. He repeated the process, rubbing the strands of the flogger over her. He’d chosen medium weight, deerskin leather, not one with knotted strands, thank God.

  He flicked the ends, and they pattered against her back like fat raindrops. She jumped, then relaxed as the rain of the flogger continued, even and smooth. Almost comforting.

  He moved to her front, hitting her lightly. “Where are you from, Kimberly?”

  Doesn’t matter. I’m in hell now. She stared over his shoulder at the wall of whips and floggers.

  “Kimberly?” he repeated in a deeper voice.

  Her words stuttered out as if dredged from the ocean depths. “I…from Atlanta.” No, that was wrong. Mom’s in Atlanta. Why do I feel so lost? “I work in—”Savannah. The strands hit her breasts, and she jumped, feeling something unwelcome bloom inside her, something more than pain.

  “You do have a little bit of a Southern accent.” He stopped and studied her for a minute. His eyes… How did he make them change from gut-chillingly mean to snuggly kind? He stepped forward, again close enough for her to feel the heat he radiated, and then stroked a hand down her hair. “Little slave, I’m going to ask you a question. Whatever you answer, there will be no judgment or anger on my part. I simply need to know how you want this to go.”

  She frowned. Why did he keep wanting to talk? But she could answer a question—as if she had a choice. She nodded.

  “Bueno.” He hesitated a moment, as if searching for words. “I think I can make you respond.” He curved his hand over her cheek and brushed her lower lip with his thumb. “Make you enjoy the flogging. Make you come. Or I can simply flog you until you scream in pain. I… That is not my way.” His eyes darkened, his jaw tight with anger—but not at her, somehow she knew. “You have had much taken away. To be forced to respond might be more damaging than enduring the pain. So I will let the choice be yours. Which would you prefer?”

  She hadn’t had an orgasm since her capture, but his touch and the authority he wore so comfortably yet used in an almost…caring…way were drawing her. A prisoner effect, undoubtedly, to cling to the one man who treats you like a person. As he waited, so horribly confident in his skills, she had the gut-twisting suspicion he could make her come. Here. Make her reveal her inmost self in front of the slavers. The Overseer. She shook her head and whispered, “No.”

  “No to what?”

  “Don’t make me… Just hurt me, okay?”

  “You don’t want an orgasm. You’d rather have the pain.” He waited for her nod of confirmation, and his mouth twisted as if he tasted something foul. “Then I will ask this of you. When it truly hurts, please scream. It’ll get us both out of here sooner.”

  No. She wouldn’t make a sound. Begging, screaming, whimpering was admitting defeat. With each beating, she hung on until the pain overwhelmed her and flattened her mind into pure instinct. Now he ordered her to give in early?

  The little piece of her that was still Kimberly said no. Never.

  Yet he’d given her this choice, tried to make this easier for her.

  Or was his kindness a trick?

  She couldn’t keep her own arguments straight. “Okay.”

  He lifted an eyebrow.

  “Yes, Master. I’m sorry, Master,” she added so quickly her tongue faltered.

  “Very nice.” His mouth curved before he kissed her again, his lips warm against her cold ones. When he stepped back, his posture altered: Clark Kent to Superman. The concern he’d shown disappeared from his face.

  Why had she revealed so much—told him anything? He’d played her for a fool.

  He moved with controlled power as he shook the flogger out, then disappeared behind her. Blows hit her upper back, on each side of her spine, on her bottom. The tails thudded lightly across her skin in a steady slow rhythm. Then faster.

  All too soon, her back and bottom began to burn. He remained behind her, building up to a thorough flogging.

  “You’re damn good at that, Master R,” the Overseer said, his oiled, knifelike voice making her cringe. “But I’m surprised you’re not fucking her, like the other two.”

  “Please, call me Raoul,” he said, never missing a stroke. Everywhere he hit was starting to really hurt.

  And then he changed his stroke so only the tips struck her skin, and the tapping sensation changed to stinging. Much, much worse. Her hands fisted.

  “I rarely fuck in public,” Master R said. “If she’s not talented now, she can learn.” His voice sharpened. “Right now, I want to hear what she sounds like when she screams.”

  Through the swirling redness in her brain she caught his slight emphasis on the word. Scream. He’d told her to scream.

  No. Never.

  “Let’s try the cat.” The blows stopped. Footsteps. A different swishing sound. Her courage fled. A cat-o’-nine-tails. She tried to brace herself.

  It hit, ripping across the skin on her upper back like claws. Left, then right. Oh God! Her

  jaw clamped shut, not letting the sound out. She stared at the wall, her shoulders on fire, and could almost hear his voice: Do it.

  His next blow was harder. She felt the sting and burn of torn skin. Scream, Kim. Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.

  He struck across her upper buttocks, and this time, as the pain exploded through her, she forced a shriek past her clenched jaw. Another two blows fell, ripping into her body like fire. The wall of silence broken, she sagged and screamed again. A trickle of liquid ran down her back. Her blood.

  He stopped. Oh God, he stopped. Tears rolled down her face, splattering on the floor. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard him say to the Overseer, “Quite a melodic scream. I noticed she serves nicely as well, and that’s important to me. The clumsy blonde would be unacceptable.”

  “I like a master who knows what he wants. Too many impatient idiots purchase blindly.” The Overseer laughed. “But it makes for good return business. They break their toys and have to buy a new one.”

  Her knees had buckled, and she hung from her arms, her shoulders aching. Her back felt as if she’d lain on glowing coals. Kim swallowed against the dryness in her mouth. She’d been broken once—and found herself again. She didn’t think she could survive another.

  “Nice even marks,” the Overseer said, his voice much, much closer than she wanted. The chains kept her from moving as he stood right behind her. A finger ran down her spine, and it felt as if a trail of slime followed his touch. Get away. Don’t touch me.

  “I hit what I aim at.” Master R walked in front of her, tilted her head up, and inspected her coldly.

  Raoul could feel the little slave’s pain—pain he’d given with no pleasure, no emotional satisfaction. Guilt shot through him, and the desire to maim Dahmer was so strong he couldn’t move. One slow breath. He controlled his rage, sent it deep into his foundations, and stepped away from the girl.

  “I like your professionalism,” Dahmer said. “Are you still interested in auditioning to do a demonstration at one of auctions?”

  “Possibly.” Could he still get into an auction? Maybe buying Kimberly wouldn’t ruin the FBI’s plans after all. Raoul tossed the cat with the cruelly knotted falls on a bench and forced a grin. “I’d like to attend one for the fun of it.”

  “I’m afraid the events are open only to active buyers and performers.” Dahmer cleared his throat politely. “And you indicated your funds were limited.”

  “True. I won’t be up to buying another slave for a while. But I could certainly do a demonstration.”

  “Bear in mind, the scenes have to be…carnal…in one way or another.”

  Fuck some poor woman in front of a bunch of perverts? Raoul’s stomach turned over. “Of course. What’s the point otherwise?”

  Dahmer laughed. “That’s the spirit. There’s a long list of performers waiting already, so I’m not sure when you’d be scheduled. But you could audition during your follow-up visit and get on the list.”

  What the hell? “Sounds good, but what follow-up visit?”

  “The info is in the paperwork you get when you buy. But basically it’s for our refund policy—and a way to ensure buyers conform to the Harvest Association policies.” The slimy cabrón chuckled. “After a few weeks, I stop by and watch you with your merchandise. It’s so I can answer any questions that have arisen about training, and if a slave has proven unsatisfactory during the trial period, I remove her then. You get a refund, and we arrange for you to buy a new one.”

  That sounded totally impossible. But no matter now. Raoul frowned at Kimberly, every cell wanting to remove her restraints and care for her. “All right then. This slave is adequate. Let’s do the paperwork.”

  “Good.” Open satisfaction showed in the greedy bastard’s eyes. “I think she’ll do well for you.”

  Raoul glanced back at Kimberly, saw blood drip onto the floor, and covered his wince with a cold jerk of his head. “Have someone hose her off and dress her, please.”

  Chapter Two

  Raoul cradled Kimberly in his arms, watching the slaver’s van pull away from his home, its headlights illuminating the splashing fountain, then the bronze statue of a heron at the end of the drive. He hated them knowing where he lived, his background…anything to do with his life.

  Nonetheless, this was what he’d signed on to do.

  As the sultry night air wrapped around him, he took his first decent breath of the evening. Home. The lights bracketing the front door tried to dispel the night’s darkness but didn’t touch what had lodged in his soul. A long, long time would pass before he’d get over his sense of helplessness and guilt at having to abandon the other two women.

  But he’d saved one. “Don’t worry, chiquita. I’ll take care of you.”

  Her eyes opened, hazed with the sedative the Overseer had administered to ensure an uneventful trip. “Take care of myself,” she mumbled yet curled closer into his arms.

  Indomitable spirit—fragile, scarred body. The Feds wouldn’t approve of him choosing emotion over logic, but he’d never have any regrets. Her head lolled against his chest, and his heart squeezed as he carried her into the coolness of his home. His boots thudded on the tile of the small foyer and echoed in the empty house.

  As she slept on the couch in the great room, Raoul texted the number the FBI agents had given him. The message was 1, reporting he’d returned home.

  In the morning, he’d inform them he’d screwed up the operation.

  He tried to call Gabrielle. The thought of telling the sweet submissive that her best friend was freed lightened his heart. But no one answered at the house she shared with her dom, and Marcus didn’t answer his cell phone. Was this the weekend the two planned to go sailing? Growling, he texted them also, telling them to come to his house tomorrow morning.

  Raoul scowled. Apparently he had himself a slave for the night.

  Slave. The word sandpapered his nerves. He rubbed his face. Even after three years, the remnants of the ugly fight with his mother and sister still echoed in his memory. “You kept a woman as a slave? You’re a monster, Raoul.” His fun-loving sister’s voice had been so cold. Distant, as if she’d already cut him from her life. His mother’s lined face had grown more careworn, and the brown eyes which matched his own had filled with tears as she whispered, “How could you, my son?”

  They should meet Dahmer and see what real monsters look like.

  Now what? He frowned at the little slave on his couch. At least she wasn’t really his, even if he was stuck with her longer than he wanted.

  Pretty little slave, somehow both innocent and sensual in the pink sweat pants and tank top the Overseer had provided for her. She slept heavily. Her thick black lashes lay against her pale cheeks, her breathing slow. Even if he managed to wake her, she wouldn’t be capable of understanding any explanations.

  He sighed. His body ached as if he’d been the one to be flogged, and he was exhausted in a way he’d never felt after doing a scene at the Shadowlands. He needed sleep, or he’d be incoherent when Buchanan or Kouros arrived, expecting a detailed report.

  Sleep it was.

  In the upstairs hallway with Kimberly in his arms, he started toward the guest room and then remembered the fury in her eyes. If she woke, she’d try to run, no doubt about it. As much as the thought disgusted him, she’d have to be secured against escape…but he never left a restrained sub unattended.

  He turned and headed for his own room.

  When he laid her down on his bed, her eyes popped open, and she hit at him.

  He caught her small fist. “Shhh, Kimberly, no one is going to hurt you here.”

  Even drugged as she was, the twist of her lips showed her disbelief, but she couldn’t maintain her anger. Her eyes slowly drooped, then closed.

  He stroked her hair back from her face, wishing Gabi had been available to take her friend home. Kimberly shouldn’t have to live in fear a moment longer. What a mess.

  No choice. He glanced at the ankle and wrist cuffs she still wore—freebies from the slavers—and ones she’d stay in for tonight. At least the master bedroom was already set up for bondage with chains on the heavy ironwork. He secured the lower bedpost chain to her right ankle cuff. No escape for you, little slave. Not tonight.

  After setting the multitool from his boot sheath and the padlock key the Overseer had given him on the bedside table, he moved them out of Kimberly’s reach.

  His shower didn’t wash away the sensation of filth, but it helped. He rummaged in the dresser for a pair of loose cotton pants and pulled them on. She didn’t wake as he rolled her over and checked her back. The attendants had put bandages over the places where he’d cut her skin and ointment on the welts. Everything looked clean. He’d seen—even done—much worse, but never to someone who wasn’t willing.

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