Page 35 of Vienna Betrayal

Chapter 6

Alexander guided her to a spot in the dungeon equidistant between a kneeler and a large, rustic platform with a tall post jutting up from the center.

Alena was breathing fast with apprehension, and her sex was wet with anticipation.

Alexander stopped and turned to her, ran the back of one finger from her bellybutton up between her breasts then higher, tracing her neck up to her chin and finally tipping her face up.

She stared into his eyes, waiting for his command, needing the scene to start so she could fall into that place of mental peace he’d brought her to last night.

Alexander smiled, and it was a wicked expression.

Alena’s blood heated, her body relaxing, accepting. Use me. Hurt me the way I need.

Alexander dropped his hand, then turned and walked away.

“Oh, that’s just mean,” Alena called out.

Alexander looked at her over his shoulder, one brow raised. The look said “wait or else”. Then he was gone, out the doors of the ballroom.

Leaving her naked except for some very tiny underwear, standing in the middle of a BDSM dungeon feeling a confusing mix of apprehension and arousal.

Trying to distract herself, Alena examined the various scene spaces. Though the dungeon theme was a bit on the nose, the equipment was high quality. The wood structures, from the St. Andrew’s crosses to the sawhorse benches, angled kneelers, and bondage chairs, were made of solid planks of wood and padded with real leather. Everything smelled slightly of disinfectant, indicating that the staff had disinfected all equipment before the final night of the event began.

Alena ran her fingers along the angled top of the kneeler beside her. Her nipples tightened as she pictured herself there, knees on padded lower rungs, torso draped over the angled top, her ass upthrust and vulnerable.

Both the kneeler and platform and whipping post were good options for punishment.

Alena exhaled slowly, and inched away so she wouldn’t be tempted to touch the kneeler again, turning her attention to the whipping post and platform. Several sets of circular metal tie-off rings were bolted to the wood at various heights. The platform base was made of heavy dark wood planks. It could easily serve as a town square whipping post or the mast of a pirate ship.

Did Alexander ever indulge in role-play? While he didn’t seem like the type, he’d surprised her several times.

But looking at the platform raised a more mundane issue.

Tonight she’d gone barefoot, even though standing for her punishment last night meant she’d woken up with her knee aching and stiff. If Alexander wanted her standing for the whole night she might have to wear her insole-equipped flats.

She hadn’t lied about an injury making heels for any length of time impossible, but hadn’t mentioned that going barefoot was difficult. Admitting that might lead to questions she didn’t want to answer. If she had to, she’d tell him she had a knee replacement, and neglect to include information on exactly how she’d been injured.

The horrible parts of her childhood weren’t something she discussed.

Though if she did tell Alexander, she was somehow sure he’d understand. He’d be quiet but attentive and let her get it all out. Maybe he’d take her in his arms like he had last night. Wrap her up and hold her.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t register the man’s approach until he spoke.

“Guten Abend gnädige Frau.” The stranger extended his hand, offering her a fresh glass of champagne.

Alena jerked her attention into the present, and away from a ridiculous fantasy in which she spilled her deepest secrets to Alexander.

The stranger was a good looking man with dark blond hair and bright blue eyes. His coloring, plus a height that put him a full head taller than her, made it a good bet he was Scandinavian, and the slight accent when he spoke confirmed it.

One of the club wait staff—an Asian man with incredible upper body physique, shown off by his attire of only brown leather pants—stood off to the side, holding a tray with a tumbler of what looked like whiskey.

“Good evening,” she replied in German, but didn’t take the proffered glass.

“American?” His lips curved up into a devastating smile.

“Yes,” she replied in English. “And my German is only passable at best.”

“As is mine.” He replied in English while turning to place the champagne back on the tray. That done, he offered her his hand, palm up, not side-on as if for a handshake.

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