Page 1 of Breaking Free

Chapter 1

THE OVERHEAD LIGHTSflickered twice before dimming. The signal elicited an excited hum from the crowd, nearly a thousand in attendance, as they shifted their focus to the center of the room.

“Are you ready to begin, Narissa?”

“Yes, Master Tristan.” An experienced submissive with a penchant for ropes, she shivered in anticipation.

“Hang on, then,” he advised. “We’re going up.”

Using the toe of his boot, Tristan slid open the recessed control panel on the floor and flipped the activation switch. He’d done this dozens of times and expected the slight jerk beneath his feet as the hydraulics engaged and the platform slowly rose. Although he’d worked with Narissa several times before, they’d never been featured on center stage. With her kneeling at his feet, he laid a reassuring hand on top of her head until they stopped moving and the stage locked in position, thirty feet above the main floor.

Renowned among the club membership as the rope master, he lived up to his reputation of being painstakingly thorough, and completed another circulation check on his eager volunteer. He tested the sturdiness of the knots at the anchor points and ran his fingers beneath the ropes—natural jute, which he preferred—to ensure they were tight but not constricting. Knowing his audience’s limited attention span, he’d gotten ahead start, completing the time-consumingtakata kote, or box tie, around Narissa’s upper body beforehand.

Besides her affinity for strict bondage, the vibrant redhead was an avid exhibitionist, enjoying a public scene in front of a full house. Although she had stood motionless for him, her self-control honed through years of experience. Each time his fingers brushed her breasts and the sensitive area between her thighs, her breath hitched, and she shivered. Saying she had a head start on the scene would be an understatement.

They worked well together, but she wasn’t his submissive. Afterward, she would return to her domme. He’d been mentoring Mistress Diana in shibari for the past few weeks. Still, she wasn’t close to being ready for advanced ties, much less suspensions or a scene in the crowded, often distracting playroom that incorporated both. In time, she would be, which would leave him without a demo model—again.

His fellow doms urged him to take his own sub, but that was out of the question. He pushed the reasons to the back of his mind. His sole focus had to be his rope bottom now. He could do that with shibari. Many enthusiasts, like Narissa, found the practice highly arousing. Not that he didn’t, but more so, he enjoyed the control, the creativity, and the calm that came over, and how he could quiet his mind from all the other bullshit and let it fade into the background.

One last time, he slipped his fingers beneath the ropes around her arms and tested the knots at her back and hips, which would serve as the primary anchor points. “Is anything pinching or constricting?”

“No, Master Tristan. I’m as snug as a bug in a rug.”

“Excellent,” he said, pleased with her enthusiastic response. But he realized the risk. If she was flying on an endorphin high, she might not recognize friction or pain. As the rigger, it fellto him to watch for objective signs of trouble and swiftly take action.

Satisfied with everything, Tristan pulled two cables down from the ceiling and connected them to the pre-tied suspension ropes. Using the pulley system above, he raised her effortlessly from the elevated platform. Only then did he return to the control panel. With a gentle tap of his toe, he activated another switch, instantly illuminating the woman, naked except for the jute coils and knots and a minuscule, flesh-colored thong, now suspended an additional five feet above the already elevated stage.

The audience let out a collective gasp. He didn’t blame them; Narissa in aketsuzuri, which translated to ass suspension, dangling facedown, arms behind her back, bent at the hips with a double-column tie around her waist and thighs which presented her ass for display, flogging, or fucking, was a sight to behold.

Tristan took a step back, allowing her to rotate slowly, showcasing her provocative pose. But a buzz of expectation rose from below him. His greedy audience wanted more.

Tristan enjoyed impact play as much as the next dom, but it wasn’t the end-all. For him, it was the rope. Many in the crowd expected a big finish, however. As did Narissa, so he’d give them what they wanted. He reached behind him and withdrew the medium-weight leather flogger he tucked into his belt before taking the stage.

With a flick of his wrist, he painted her creamy skin pink with his lash. Her breasts, back, ass, thighs, and finally, with practiced aim, bringing the tails between her spread thighs, connecting with the small strip of fabric covering her pussy.

Narissa’s body trembled as her impassioned moans filled the air. The sheer intensity of her response had the power to transport the most stalwart rope top to that elusive and covetedstate of mind where artistry, control, and, yes, passion met. Where after meticulously planning each move and orchestrating it to perfection until everything around them, the room, the crowd, the ambient sights, smells, and sounds faded away, and all that remained were the ropes, the flogger, the sensations, and the connection between rope top and bottom. This profound state of headspace—also known as top- or dom-space—was a wondrous place.

But as he looked at dreamy-eyed Narissa, face flushed, her skin glistening from the strict bondage and her climax, Tristan wasn’t feeling it. And he hadn’t for a very long time. He was a rigger, a shibari teacher and mentor, and part club owner with a leadership role. He enjoyed all of that, but something was missing.

At his core, he was a dominant. He craved the connection, trust, and control that would quench his partner’s insatiable need to submit. To build that required time, more than an hour-long scene or an evening, something he wouldn’t allow himself with a sub.

Therefore, despite Narissa finding fulfillment, he was going through the motions. He had been in the lifestyle for years, but it all felt routine and hollow lately.

Tristan would have provided aftercare. He firmly believed it was a critical element of every scene and his duty. Some dominants took it lightly or neglected it altogether, which really pissed him off. You had to be a special kind of asshole to strip someone down to their most vulnerable state and walk away. But after he released her and returned the stage to the floor, Narissa’s mistress was anxiously waiting and rushed forward to claim that pleasure for herself.

“You were magnificent,” Diana said, her voice filled with admiration as she supported her unsteady sub. The redhead’sdistant gaze and slow movements told him she was far from recovered.

“Make sure she drinks a full bottle of water,” he urged. “Often chocolate helps.”

“Trust that I’ll see to her. Thank you, Master Tristan, for showing us how it can be.”

“You’re most welcome.” He kept his voice low so as not to be jarring to her still-flying submissive. “Next time, you will do the bindings and wield the flogger.”

“I look forward to it,” Diana replied, although her voice wavered along with her certainty. “I just hope I can achieve the same result.”

“You’ll get there as your confidence in your techniques grows. Practice, as they say, makes perfect.”

“I like to practice, mistress,” Narissa murmured drowsily.

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