Servicing the Target Read online

Her first reaction was anger—but she wasn’t a baby Domme to let a subbie unsettle her emotions. She studied his eyes, his expression. He wasn’t being defiant as much as…challenging.

  In fact, he’d asked for what he wanted in the only way that someone like him would. He wasn’t an insecure submissive who’d beg.

  A spark of interest flamed. Not a boy. Under her fingers, his jaw was scratchy with a heavy five-o’clock shadow. He was a man. And a challenge. She felt her lips tilting up and enjoyed the way his gaze shifted to take that in.

  “Benjamin,” she said, “you’re just full of surprises.” She held his eyes. “If I ask Z to take you off the door for an hour, what would you say?”

  A corner of his mouth twitched up. “Thank you, Mistress?”

  Amusement slid in to mix with her interest. “Good answer.” She squeezed his shoulder—it was like patting a brick wall. “I’ll see you later.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Mistress, I look forward to that.”

  The look in his eyes, assessing and intrigued, sent a trickle of heat to her nether regions. Enough that second thoughts would be wise.

  She didn’t feel like being wise.

  When she rejoined Olivia, the other Domme was frowning.

  As the door to the main room closed behind Anne, all that was the Shadowlands washed across her. The scents of sex and leather with a hint of citrus cleanser. Perfume. The sharp tang of alcohol wipes indicating someone doing needle play.

  On the dance floor to the right, submissives in school costumes danced with ghoulish figures to Athamay’s “Restrict and Obey.” Master Z had told the submissives to wear “student” clothing and that any not attired properly would be caned.

  Then he’d instructed the Dominants that they were to dress as monsters—he didn’t care what kind.

  Two newer subs entered behind Anne and Olivia. Pigtails, short plaid skirts, knee-highs. Just inside the door, they came to a sudden halt. Obviously, the young women had expected to see professor-attired Doms who would match their schoolgirl outfits.

  What they got were nightmares. One made an “eeping” sound.

  Anne glanced around the room. Holt was attired as Freddy Krueger.

  Master Raoul as King Kong had his hands all over his slave Kim.

  Seated at the bar was Marcus—an elegant Imhotep from the Mummy—being served by Wolfman Cullen. What looked like blood stained Cullen’s ripped shirt.

  Worried whispers came from the submissives.

  Lovely effect, Z. Anne exchanged a smile with Olivia.

  Cullen noticed Anne and Olivia at the entrance and lifted a bottle in an acknowledgment and welcome.

  God, she loved this place. Here, the Mistresses were considered equal to the Masters. Competence, skill, power—those qualities were required for the Shadowlands title. Genitalia weren’t a factor.

  As she started forward, Olivia grasped her arm. “Did I seriously hear you say you’ll punish Ben? Have you gone stark-raving bonkers?”

  Everyone loved Z’s guard dog.

  Anne pursed her lips. “Possibly. But life’s been boring lately.”

  “Boring?” Olivia’s disapproving look could have been patented by Anne’s mother. “I’d say you’ve had enough fun recently since you’re moving like my aged grandmother. You have a limp—and a bruise on your face.”

  Well, hell, she’d thought she was walking quite nicely. Then again, an experienced Domme’s powers of observation matched a superhero’s, and Olivia had well earned her Mistress title. Anne shrugged. “Just a few leftovers from work.”

  “Right.” Olivia fell into step with a vampirish smile enhanced by the long plastic fangs. “Are you going to let me watch Z shred you into confetti for touching his security guard?”

  “He’ll do no such thing.” I hope. “Go find your sweetie and play.”

  “Spoilsport.” Olivia looked around and headed for her sub-of-the-month, a pretty redhead seated with some of the Masters’ submissives.

  Anne reached the bar, slid onto a barstool, and suppressed her groan at the pull on her sore ribs. As she watched Cullen mix up some involved girly drink, she realized Ben was just about the same height—a good six-five or so. Both men were big-boned and rough-hewn. Cullen’d probably score high in a Good Looks contest.

  But Ben would unquestionably win in the More Deadly one, something she’d first grasped when seeing a girl harassed at Gabi’s bachelorette party. That night, he’d looked quite capable of ripping someone’s throat out—and wasn’t it perverse of her to find that incredibly hot.

  “Did a bit of service,” Ben had said. It really, really showed.

  “Nice Maleficent—you’ve sure got the required cheekbones.” Cullen stopped in front of Anne. Before she could give him her order, he put down a delicate ice-filled crystal glass and filled it from a bottle of sparkling water.

  Anne stared. “Water?”

  His mouth thinned. “If you ever imbibe on top of pain medications again, I’ll never serve you another drink.”

  Z had shared.

  Anne tapped her fingernails on the bar top. Unfortunately, she’d earned the reprimand. Cullen was compulsive about the no-impairment Shadowlands rules; he’d cut people off after one drink if they appeared affected. He’d have blamed himself if she’d come to harm.

  So rather than taking offense, she answered mildly, “Fair enough.”

  “And here I thought I’d need a crotch-guard to protect my pride ‘n’ joys from your snips.”

  A chuckle came from Marcus.

  Cullen poured the remainder of the water into a beer mug and clinked it against her glass before drinking. “You scared me last night, love.”

  “Sorry, my friend. I hadn’t realized how potent the pills were.” She sipped the strawberry-flavored bubbly water. Not bad.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m just sore today. And my drug of choice this evening is only ibuprofen.” She’d never make the mistake of taking pain meds unless she intended to stay home. And maybe not then either. Cullen wasn’t the only one who’d been scared.

  “Z took you off dungeon monitor duties tonight.”

  “Z’s such a mother.”

  “Nah, we’ve got it covered. The Feds are back in Tampa.”

  Although Galen had resigned from the FBI, his partner Vance had stayed in—and both were out of town so often that they didn’t go on the roster. But when home, the two Masters enjoyed filling in. “In that case, it’s nice to have a break.”

  “Are you fixin’ to play tonight?” Marcus asked in his deep, Southern-accented voice.

  She hadn’t planned to because of her soreness, although she’d taken the time to dress up. A girl had to have standards, after all. “Play? There’s a chance I just might.” She felt herself smiling.

  “Aye? And what lucky boy gets the Mistress tonight?” Cullen asked. “Been a while since I saw you look interested.”

  “Indeed, I would have to agree.” A snifter was set on the bar top, and Z took the seat to her right. His intent gaze swept over her in a Dom’s automatic assessment.

  She sighed, unable to summon any annoyance. Z did the same to all of the club members, submissive or Dominant, male, female, or gender-fluid. In his opinion, he was responsible for them all.

  “Z. You’re just the person I needed to see,” she said. “I’d like to steal your security guard for an hour.”

  Z looked taken aback for a moment.

  Cullen choked on his water. “Ben? Ben’s the guard tonight. You want Ben?”

  Z rubbed his lips, obviously smothering a smile at Cullen’s reaction. Then his gray gaze landed on Anne. His brows drew together. “He’s always insisted he was vanilla. Did he indicate he wanted a scene?”

  “In an I’m-too-macho-to-ask-for-what-I-want way, yes. Most definitely.”

  “You’re not one to misread a man’s intention.” Z’s calm response was gratifying. “I’ll send someone out for an hour while Ben takes a break. Would twenty-three hu
ndred suit you?”

  Eleven at night. Her favored time to have a session. Early enough that the ambiance in the room would still hold an edge. Late enough that the gung-ho players would have finished and not be impatiently waiting at a roped-off area for a turn. She’d be able to take her time during the scene. “Perfect. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Just don’t break my guard, please.”

  “Not a problem.” She hadn’t felt like breaking a man in a while, at least not in the same way she had before.

  And lightweight or not, the guard dog would be fun to play with.

  * * * *

  That night, Ben answered the thumping on the locked door and let his buddy Ghost into the Shadowlands. “Hey.”

  “Got called in to relieve you. The boss says you want to play.” Vocal cord damage during an early battle had given Ghost a hoarse voice more suited to telling horror stories—and sounding horrified, as well. “Seriously?”

  “Yep.” Ben grinned. “I figured it was time to liven up my life.”

  “I guess it can’t be worse than getting shot at.” The gray-haired vet should know. As Special Forces, he’d been in and out of every active shithole over the last twenty years. Dressed in black jeans and a button-up shirt—Z’s minimum dress code—he crossed the room without a limp despite his leg prosthesis and tossed a crossword puzzle on the desk.

  “It’s quiet tonight.” Ben tapped the membership list. “Mark off the members as they leave. If you’re not sure someone is stable—or if any combo of people feels hinky, call Z.”

  “Roger that.”

  A month ago Ben had cut back his hours, recommended Ghost, then given him the token training needed. The position required a miniscule amount of paperwork, a closed mouth, good fighting skills, and even more common sense. Z said if his security guard had to fight, he’d already failed.

  Ghost settled into the chair and leaned back. “I do appreciate the job though. It’s interesting—and I was hell of bored.”

  “I know that one.” Soldiers didn’t do retirement well.

  Ben entered the club, feeling his anticipation rising. He’d been told to report to the dungeon in the back. As he crossed the main room, he gave it a careful study.

  Wall sconces were dim in the shadowy room, except near the well-lit equipment along the walls and the center bar. To the left was a munchie area with food, tables, and chairs. On the right was the dance floor. Farther back, planters offered privacy for scattered sitting groups. BDSM scenes were held in roped-off sections, and more seating had been provided for the viewers.

  Even this late, people were dancing, and the scene areas were busy.

  He had to say, the Shadowlands was damned sinister this evening. Innocent-looking schoolgirls—and boys—were wandering about at the mercy of some fucking ugly creatures. The place looked like a movie set for “Slaughter at Metropolis High.”

  He’d been inside a few times, but always to report in to Z about something. Never as a spectator. The clubroom looked and sounded different now that he was to be a…a participant.

  Not that he hadn’t paid attention when he’d been in here. Nah, he knew what he’d volunteered for. Had even seen Mistress Anne working over some poor schmuck before.

  Now he’d be that poor bastard. Once again, he was being an idiot—like when he’d voluntarily taken the SERE course. Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape—yeah, he’d accepted he was going to get hurt. At the time, the knowledge had been a lead weight of determination in his gut.

  Tonight was much the same. One lead weight…along with a full-fledged cockstand. Mistress Anne would take one look at him and know precisely what he wanted.

  Maybe. He wasn’t exactly sure himself.

  On the way through the room, he passed various scenes. Flogging. One where a zombie Dom was dumping wax on a woman’s tits—although she did seem very onboard with the idea.

  Not for him. Safe, sane, and consensual or not, he’d never be down with hurting a woman, which was why he’d known he wasn’t any Dom type. Why he’d confidently told Z he was “vanilla.”

  He’d never given a thought to a gorgeous female hurting him.

  Totally different mindset.

  A scream made him stop. Tied to a post, little Uzuri was trying to evade a man caning her. “Red,” she shouted, but the dumb fuck was too caught up to understand she’d safeworded.

  Ben walked right in and trapped the swinging cane in his palm. Hurt like a son of a bitch. He yanked the stick away. “She said red.” His voice came out threatening enough that the Dom paled and jerked back.

  “Thanks, Ben.” Vance Buchanan slapped his shoulder and tugged the cane from his hand. Dressed as Frankenstein’s monster, he wore the gold-banded vest that marked a dungeon monitor.

  “Not a problem.” Good to know that if he hadn’t been present, a DM would’ve rescued the pretty black submissive. Olivia slipped past him and tucked an arm around Uzuri, untying her with the other hand.

  “Hey, I didn’t hear her,” the asshole protested and took a step toward the little trainee, who cringed back. “Listen, Uzuri, I—”

  “Stay put, please.” Vance gripped the Dom’s arm hard enough to silence him, then lifted a quizzical brow at Ben. “I didn’t know you provided security in here too.”

  Looked as if Buchanan had shit under control. “I don’t.” Ben waved a couple of fingers near his forehead and headed for the back.

  Mistress Anne rested on a stone corner bench in the dungeon room, her back against the wall with her left leg outstretched. She’d pulled part of her hair up, spiking it into two horn-like shapes. A black, ankle-length robe covered a my-mouth-went-dry latex catsuit that clung to every one of her sweet curves. A long zipper ran down the front and he wanted to pull it down more than he wanted his next breath.

  And his fucking jeans were way too tight.

  She watched him walk in, her light eyes unreadable…until her gaze reached his crotch.

  He could swear he saw a dimple appear. Yeah, she was sadistic.

  After bending her left knee to lean against the wall, she patted the bench between her legs. “Sit here, please.”

  Good start. He sat where she indicated, feeling her left leg behind him, a pressure on his ass. To his pleasure, she set her right leg across his lap, close enough that the inside of her knee pressed on his dick.

  He stared straight ahead and considered the merits of icy mountain streams, glaciers, and igloos. Didn’t relieve shit.

  “Now, Ben, first, this is just a scene for the next hour or so. Nothing more. I don’t know how much you know about BDSM, but I’m not taking you on as a slave. I’m just going to give you a taste and perhaps help you put a curb on that tongue of yours.

  In other words, she was warning him not to get his expectations up. They’d play and then she’d toss him back where she found him. He kept his face impassive and nodded. “I understand.”

  “Good. Then let’s discuss your limits. What will you absolutely not do? What are you unsure about? And do you have any medical—or emotional—problems I should know about?”

  Knowing he wouldn’t be able to think worth shit with her leg rubbing his cock, he turned slightly toward her as if paying attention—which angled him enough to avoid the full-on pressure. Limits. All right.

  “No permanent damage. No scarring. And I’d prefer not to talk in a falsetto.” He considered. “I don’t know you well enough for whips or anal shit.”

  “Well reasoned. Bondage?”

  Oh hell. He could feel his muscles tense.

  In the low lighting, her eyes seemed more gray than blue. “That looks like definitely no restraints.”

  After a second, he nodded. “I’d probably not do well if you put me in something I couldn’t get loose from.”

  “That’s good to know.” She leaned forward and took his hands in hers. Her callused palms were a jarring contrast to her delicate fingers. “How about pain? You seemed rather…interested…in getting your
ass whipped.”

  “Mistress, if pain pleases you, I’m willing to give it a try.” He heard his words hang in the air. Fuck, had he said that to her? But yeah, he had. And meant it too.

  The surprised pleasure in her eyes and the way she squeezed his fingers was as satisfying as the timeless moment of a perfect shot.

  “All right, we’ll keep it within those limits and see what happens,” she said.

  He had to say, he got off on her quick decisiveness. No waffling back and forth. No “Are you sure you want to?” or expecting him to read her mind and know what she wanted. She told him right up front how she felt and what she expected of him. Fucking relief.

  As if to emphasize that, she reached up and removed the elastic band holding his hair back. “If I want your hair tied back,” she said gently, “I’ll do it.” She tucked the band into his jeans pocket. “Now go over to the St. Andrew’s cross”—she pointed to the seven-feet-high X-shaped device—“and remove your clothes. You can leave on your underwear if you’re uncomfortable.”

  “That’d be a break…if I wore any.”

  Her eyes lit with laughter. “In that case, I get a treat, don’t I?”

  The soft grunt of pain she gave when she tried to move her leg from his lap reminded him of her sore ribs. Crazy woman. He put a hand under her calf and eased her foot down.

  He straightened and realized she’d braced herself on his shoulder. Her mouth was only an inch from his, and her breath was scented with strawberries. Hell, he’d already won a punishment. What was one more? He closed the distance and brushed his lips against hers. Oh yeah.

  Before he could take more, she’d gripped his hair and pulled his head back. “Ben,” she chided. “I think you know you’re overstepping your bounds.”

  “Mmm.” Damn, she had soft lips. And a strong hand—her hold on his hair was damn tight. “Perhaps you’d better lay out the rules of engagement, Ma’am.”

  “All right. First, we’re not a D/s couple, so these rules are only for the dungeon.”

  His swift regret at the limitation was surprising.

  “You employ the proper terms of respect already. Remember to speak only when asked—or if there is a matter affecting your safety. No touching unless given permission. The safeword here is red, which means the scene stops completely. Use yellow if you need something but don’t want a complete halt.”