Page 32 of Dare to Love Again

Then she’d be damned if she didn’t dream again.

Entering the dungeon blindfolded, a man sternly ordered her to kneel. As soon as she fell to her knees, a cock brushed her lips then thrust inside. Unrestrained—thank goodness—she struggled, but he kept on thrusting. He didn’t prevent her from tearing off the black cloth covering her eyes. Gazing up at the man, past his giant round belly, she noticed he was gnawing on a turkey leg, and atop his head was a golden crown. This time, instead of screaming, she awoke coughing and gagging in disgust. A wave of relief washed over her when she realized it wasn’t real, but she couldn’t help being appalled that her unconscious brain had created such a foul dom, although she’d borrowed King Henry the VIII from a movie she’d seen in a college history class.

After that, she gave up on sleeping. Not about to be accosted once again by the rotund, the inept, or the scary, she got up, splashed water on her face, and went down to the kitchen. Then she made an extra-large pot of coffee, all of which she drank before she went to work.

As she drove to the office, jittery from caffeine and exhausted, she tried not to dwell on the long day, and the even longer night, ahead of her. Looking ahead to Thursday at four o’clock, she felt sorry for Val, who had her work cut out for her when she started digging around inside her warped brain.

***

“STUPID, STUPID, STUPID,” she muttered under her breath, the sound echoing of the tile floor and high ceiling of the little dungeon. The only light came from the sconces that flickered like real torches. The gray walls resembled genuine stone, and the shackles bolted into them looked ancient and rusted. As she stood there, taking in the scene, she could almost feel the weight of the dark ages pressing down on her. She had seen this torture chamber several times before, while indulging in her voyeuristic gawking, but didn’t think it had made such an impression. It shed light on one of her bizarre dreams, at least.

Stocked with much of the same equipment found on the main floor—an A-frame bench with kneelers, a padded table, a St. Andrew’s cross mounted to the far wall, and chains hanging from the ceiling. None of it bothered Esme. She’d used most of it at least once, although not in a good while.

What upset her was not having the forethought to bring a change of clothes to work with her that morning. It hadn’t occurred to her that her recently MIA boss would come flying in an hour before she planned to leave, in a lather about something he didn’t share. He’d barked orders at all of them and insisted she revise a brief she finished a week ago that had sat on his desk untouched the entire time, waiting for his approval.

His crisis mode micromanagement had shot a hole in her plan to leave at four o’clock, run home, shower, change, do full hair and makeup then arrive at the club fifteen minutes early. From there, she’d planned to stride calmly up to the room where she’d meet her dom for the evening.

Instead, she’d run out of the office at a quarter past six then battled standstill and bumper-to-bumper traffic during rush hour, taking forty-two of the forty-five minutes remaining until her appointment to drive seven miles. This left three minutes to park, run inside, check-in, traverse the always-crowded lounge and main floor, and get upstairs to her assigned room.

This meant she wasn’t calm and collected as she’d hoped, but out of breath, frazzled, feeling a bit sticky—ugh!—and wearing the same dove-gray pencil skirt, waist-length matching jacket, and black-and-white pinstriped blouse she’d left the house in twelve hours earlier. Her hair was in her usual professional twist at the back of her neck.

As she stood in the center of the room, a sense of impending doom overwhelming her, she tried valiantly to collect herself while brushing back and tucking in wayward strands with trembling fingers. She hadn’t even had time to refresh her makeup.

“I’m screwed,” she groaned aloud. “Might as well go now, because when Master Eric hears about this, he’ll think I was blowing smoke about being serious and will tell me not to darken the door of Decadence ever again.”

When hinges, in desperate need of oil, creaked behind her, Esme snapped her mouth shut with a loud click of her teeth. She tensed further—if that were humanly possible—and called herself a fool again, for waiting with her back to the door.

Curiosity burned inside her, but she forced herself to keep still, not even looking up. She clasped her hands behind her head—they were up there fooling with her hair anyway—in a last-second attempt at a submissive presentation, hoping to please him with that at least.

Her chest rose and fell, not from practically running from the parking lot, which seemed like a mile, at least, but from nervousness. She used to pride herself on how motionless she could be, her master barely noticing her breathing, or seeing her blink, or detecting if a tremor passed through her. That was a long time ago, too long, and she was terribly out of practice. When all of it happened at once, like it did now, he’d have to be blind not to notice.

Standing in the middle of the room, eyes down, shoulders back, hands clasped so tight they pinched, Esme shivered as the AC kicked on. Or at least that’s what she tried to convince herself.

Would this stranger be as observant as the dungeon master? Surely not; they were more experienced and skilled than those in the membership, usually. Master Eric said to trust him, but he wasn’t here. She had to face the unknown entity on her own.

Did he know how rusty she was?

Silly question. His fellow dominant would have clued him in on her troubles. Would he be patient or punish her if she hesitated, questioned, or heaven forbid, broke down and cried like a baby? The last, what she felt could happen at any moment.

She’d take a thousand anxious Woodys, a hundred Newmans, or a host of angry Chef Ramseys, anyone from her dreams, right about now. They, at least, were the devils she knew. But not her nightmares. Carlos and royal forced blow jobs were hard limits she would not cross.

The creak of a floorboard cut into her rambling, insane thoughts and made her shiver again.

“Cold?” a low voice asked.

She should have expected it. She knew he had entered, but she jumped. So not like her. Could she do this? Did she even want to?

To begin again with a complete stranger, one she had never seen or spoken to, seemed crazy. But Master Eric hadn’t given her much choice. It was him or leave.

Her forced reply came out in a rasp just above a whisper. “Yes, sir. A little.”

Heels thudded against the floor as he drew closer.

Her heart beat faster, thrumming loudly in her ears, close to deafening. Surely, he could hear it, too, and would know the extent of her nervous excitement. Hoping to calm herself and control her racing pulse, she inhaled, doing so slowly, not wanting to alert him to her anxiety. A futile effort, most likely. An experienced dominant would know. But she gave it a shot, narrowing her focus on breathing in through her nose and out through pursed lips.

But on the first slow inhale, she caught a hint of his scent—part soap, a trace of woodsy cologne, but mostly clean and distinctively masculine. Instead of keeping her unease secret, her exhale came out as a ragged sigh so loud in the stark, almost-empty room, it echoed.

There was no way he could have missed it.

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