But now there was Lucas. Broad shoulders, tight, athletic body. An amateur cyclist, according to the earlier small talk. Intriguing choice, all of them wearing suits or more formal attire. His shirt was probably some impressive brand like Armani, with that soft, feel-me texture, though the chest beneath had its own appeal. His hands were holding her firmly under her elbows, a Master’s hands. His knee brushed against her bare leg, making her hyperaware of how easy it would be for him to shift, widen her stance so he could press a bicycle-hard thigh between her legs. His lips were against her ear now, though, feeding her eagerness to have more pleasures woven into her lust-fogged mind.
“We all have our specialties, sweet Dana. If Ben had his way with you, he’d take you in the ass, keep you screaming and climaxing at once. Jon has his many clever devices, and my specialty . . .”
He took her hand to his mouth, and enclosed two fingers there, making her gasp at the artful way his tongue swept between the knuckles, such an obvious representation of the way he might penetrate a woman’s pussy that her pulse sped up when he let them slide slowly out and then took them down to her panties. He pressed her fingers over her soaked thong. “Those might be my lips there, if Peter allows us the pleasure and opportunity at some future time. But tonight is just for you to feel the possibilities.” Holy crap, her knees were weak. If Peter willed it, these men might do even more, bring her pleasure in multiple ways at once. She wondered if they’d ever shared Cassandra or Savannah, if those women craved such extreme play the way she had. The way she did.
An erotic shiver went through her at the certainty of it.
When Lucas let her go, he didn’t nudge her in a specific direction as the others had. He simply stepped back, letting her decide where she would go. She’d wrapped the leash around one arm to keep from tripping on it, but she’d preferred it taut, one end in Peter’s hand. Her anger had dissipated. She was anxious, aroused, her mind spinning, but she moved forward without fear now, convinced they wouldn’t allow any missteps. As such, the next obstacle surprised her, because it wasn’t male. Or a familiar body.
She’d walked into an occupied St. Andrew’s cross. Exploring, Dana found lovely, thick hair that tumbled down soft shoulders. She drew back when she brushed what was obviously a bare breast. A female slave. If she was in the public area, her Master or Mistress was likely encouraging a limited amount of touching. No one had stopped her yet, so cautiously, Dana reached out again, investigated a pair of breasts far heavier and fuller than her own. Aroused nipples, despite the raised welts on the generous curves. A hard-core pain slave. Despite that, in sympathy, she bent, kissed the abraded flesh. The woman quivered beneath her mouth. She couldn’t hear her reaction, which meant either it was below her hearing threshold or, more likely, she was gagged. The shudder was pleasure, though, so she continued to investigate, finding the restrained submissive had a curved belly and Venus’s thighs to match the breasts. A voluptuous woman. She liked that, liked the woman’s smooth skin. She bit back a helpless little moan of her own as the strobing feel of whatever Jon had put on her nipples increased, responding to her own elevating arousal. She pinched this woman’s nipples, a reflection of how much she wanted her own teased. She thought of what Peter had said about the breast bondage, imagined it in detail. She wanted that. She wanted Peter.
What she was doing must be pleasing him, so she decided to push it further, see how much he could take before he got involved. Coming closer to the woman, she ran her hands over the curvy body, learning her, grazing her knuckles over a puffy clit. The restrained slave hadn’t come yet, or had been built back up to mindless heights again.
Dana pressed her corseted breasts against the woman’s and whimpered at the sensation against her stiff nipples. She rubbed herself there, trying to get relief, even as she found the woman’s stretched mouth with her fingertips and kissed her over the ball gag, kissing her like she wanted Peter to kiss her. Hard, demanding. She rubbed her silk-clad pussy against one of those pillowy thighs, across the woman’s mound, and clung to the posts above her as the woman shuddered and cried out. Rotating her hips and then thrusting forward, she brought pressure and friction against the woman’s mound. From the back she knew it looked as though she was fucking the woman as a man would, all the while giving them a generous display of her ass.
Was the blindness making her abandon all inhibitions, or was it the overstimulation of her nipples, the feast to the senses his men had just given her? She didn’t know, but she was yearning toward what all subs sought, that subspace where rational thinking meant nothing and responding to one’s Master was everything, giving pleasure and receiving it.
Peter was a breast man. Turning, she leaned back against the woman’s body and plucked at the front of her own corset, unhooking the top several eyelets, then cupped her breasts, displaying them. When her ensconced nipples brushed the top edge, she bit back a cry at the near-climactic sensation, arching back into the woman. Oh, God, if her Master or Mistress freed her hands, but not her legs, that woman could cinch an arm around Dana’s waist, reach around to Dana’s pussy, bring her to climax while the men watched, growing harder and harder.
She liked the idea, felt the power of it, desire and lust pulsing toward her. She wondered how much of an audience she had. Now she felt no fear of it, because she knew that protected circle was around her. What were Cassandra and Savannah doing? Were they watching, or doing similar things? Or did these Dominants bring their women here for arousal and voyeurism only, confining their play to more semiprivate methods? Was that another reason this circle of men were around her? The message being that she was here to serve Peter’s pleasure, but not available to others except someone like this restrained slave, who’d become another enhancement to their private pleasures?
When they’d wanted to touch her, with Peter’s consent, it had only been more stimulating, fuel thrown on the fire. It was all about her pleasure, as he’d said. She didn’t feel handicapped or pitiful. She felt cared for, not as someone who needed protection, but as someone who’d been given it because they didn’t want to share. The idea swept her with feminine power. But she also burned with a craving want, and that want had a specific target. She’d wanted him to come to her.
But he was her Master. She’d pulled the leash from his hand.
Sliding away from the woman, she stopped, trying to concentrate past her arousal. It wasn’t only their intoxicating combinations of male scents that told her they were close to her. She could detect body heat, some kind of pulsing . . . energy. For the first time in nearly a year, she didn’t notice that she couldn’t see or hear. Her other senses were giving her so much, she could see them around her in every way that mattered. She felt the hold of the corset keenly, the power it gave her through its possession, and responded to it.
Lifting her head, she straightened her shoulders further. Using her heart and soul, she found the unique signature, the male scent she wanted, the one for whom she wore the corset. Adjusting her direction, she walked six steps, and knelt, bowing her head and holding up the leash. “Forgive me, Master.”
It was noisy, but not that noisy. He heard her. Peter stared down at her bowed head, the offered leash. She’d driven them all crazy with that performance. Hard as a rock, he was raging to put his claim on her. Lucas, Jon and Ben had all done what came naturally to them, and Peter had been satisfied with how it increased her desire. These men were capable of giving any woman the most intense orgasms of her life. He’d love to give her that gift . . . another night. She hadn’t been his long enough, and there was still too much ground to cover, before he would be willing to share more than this.
He’d had a bad moment when she jerked the leash away. He’d known she was more hardcore, but that had been before. Afraid he’d gone too far, something in him had broken loose. Fuck, he didn’t care what the right thing was to do. He was going to do what he’d wanted from the first. Scoop her up, take her away, protect her from everything. He couldn’t stand doing this to her, seeing her fear and pain.
It had been Jon who’d steadied him, placing a hand on his arm, giving him a steadying look before he stepped out and let Dana run into him first. And now, in those six steps she’d taken toward him, Dana had given herself a glimpse of what she could choose for herself. Maybe it would lead her to trusting him, not just for this scenario, but to the deepest levels of her soul, so eventually she might choose him. Then he could spend his life ensuring she never regretted that choice.
Taking the leash from her hand, he wrapped it around her wrists, holding on to them for a few long moments, tracing the fragile bone and smooth skin. When he at last drew her to her feet, he brought her to him, keeping the leash taut this time. The bare brush of her body against him, the near embrace, the tremble that swept through her as a result, almost broke him. But with a light squeeze of her hands, he guided her through the circle of the other K&A men, to the opposite wall where a favorite device waited.
Guiding her hands to it, he let her explore the breast stock while he released the sliding adjustment. As he found the right size, her fingers drifted down his back, grazing his arms. Most Masters had firm rules about their subs touching them without permission, but he liked how she used him as an anchor in unfamiliar surroundings. He couldn’t get enough of it. But eventually he turned her square to him and opened up the hooks of her corset until it gapped below her breasts. When he removed Jon’s invention, he bit back a groan, seeing how distended the nipples were. The boning of the corset was stiff, but he was able to fold it back enough that he could guide her breasts into the two spaced circles in the smooth mahogany wood. Tightening the metal adjustments inside the circles diminished their size, so that it held her fast. Her blood vessels would constrict, enlarging her breasts and making them more sensitive.
He raised the height of the stock, so she was straining on her toes. Then he placed the nipple clamps on her. She cried out at the stimulation, biting her lip at the pain that came with it. Easing the screws, he found that balance where she was on the knife-edge, her tremor from intense arousal, not unbearable pain. Then he connected the clamps with a chain, meeting in the middle with a padlock he held in his palm. Guiding her bound hands up to feel where he’d placed her, he saw her register how the stock worked, like one of old, only instead of arms, its torturous focus was on a woman’s luscious curves.
