Page 5 of The Tracker

“Nice of you to drop in,” he said, hugging Keely tight. Then he turned to Evangeline. “Wasn't sure I'd ever see you here Evvy. Come on. Let’s get you out of sight.”

He led her through a heavy side entrance door and up a flight of stairs to a narrow hallway above the main floor. A small office perched above the lounge, offering a partial but elevated view of the club’s heart—its dungeon floor below. The space was discreet and soundproof, but not blind. Evangeline sank into the leather chair by the conference table, breath still shallow.

“Take a deep breath Evvy. You're safe here. We'll take care of you,” Reed said. “Sit tight. I’ll bring water and something to eat.”

She nodded, numb. As the door shut, the muffled bass of music from somewhere close drifted in. The far window looked down into what she assumed, from Keely's description, to be the dungeon floor—or a very elaborate movie set.

Curious, she crossed the room and peered out. Her breath caught. A naked woman was restrained to a large X, which shewas fairly certain was a St. Andrew's Cross. A tall, shirtless, muscular man stood beside her. He was a study in dominance made flesh.

Broad shoulders rolled with quiet menace, every inch of his chest cut from sinew and strength. Ropes of muscle stretched over a sternum dusted in dark hair, the kind that trailed south in a line that begged to be followed—with mouth, with fingers, with surrender. His skin was golden, weathered just enough to hint at hard work and harder nights, and he wore his scars like stories—unapologetic and earned.

His abs rippled when he moved, not from vanity but from function, as though he had been built to lift, to haul, to pin and hold. Veins snaked down his arms, pulsing beneath sun-kissed skin, and a subtle sheen of sweat made him look even more untamed, as if he had just stepped out of the heat and hadn’t cooled down yet.

And then there were the leather pants. Oh my god... the leather pants.

Worn low on narrow hips, they clung to him like a second skin—black, broken-in, and molded to the powerful lines of his thighs. Every shift of his stance stretched the supple material over hard muscle, daring the eye to drop and stay there. This wasn't a costume. Those were the pants of a man who knew what control felt like in his grip—on a horse, in a fight, or across a submissive's skin.

Evangeline's eyes were fixated on the scene before her: the man's strong, muscular arm rose and fell with precision as he brandished the flogger, its tails leaving behind a network of reddening marks across the woman's bared flesh. Her wrists and ankles were bound tightly to the St. Andrew's Cross, her body vulnerable and open for his relentless ministrations.

With each strike, the woman seemed to whimper softly, her head bowed in submission as her hair cascaded around her facelike a waterfall cloaking a secret oasis. From her vantage point in the observation room, Evangeline saw him lean in close, his lips moving as he whispered something against the woman's ear.

The Dom—yes, that was the term, a Dom with a capital D—raised the flogger like a scepter, dragging the falls over her shoulder and down the woman’s back. He seemed to be completely focused on the woman before him, his lips moving in words of encouragement or perhaps, instruction. She responded by arching her back even more, pressing her hips towards him in an act of desperate obedience.

It resembled an intricate dance, a powerful exchange between two bodies bound by mutual trust and understanding. Their connection was palpable, evident in the way they anticipated each other's movements and communicated with silent, shared signals.

The woman’s breathing seemed to grow heavier as the dance between them continued. Her fingers curled around the restraints, knuckles white with tension. The way she bit down on her lower lip, holding back further noises betrayed how much pleasure she was experiencing in that moment.

The Dom allowed his free hand to roam across her body; fingertips grazed over swollen nipples, lingering momentarily before continuing their journey down the curve of her waist and ultimately stopping at the apex of her thighs. He expertly manipulated her most sensitive parts, eliciting a shudder that reverberated through every inch of her being.

Their bodies seemed to find an unspoken synchronicity—his strikes becoming more forceful and deliberate with every responding movement from his willing participant. Engrossed in this intimate tango, both the Dom and the woman embodied passion and carnality that held Evangeline captive to their performance.

With firm, deliberate movements, the Dom wielded the flogger, each lash landing exactly where he intended. The room seemed to throb with pulsating music, which dictated his rhythmic movements as he flicked his wrist in perfect unison with the beat. The sight of the leather falls landing on her skin built into a mesmerizing crescendo, captivating Evangeline as she became entranced by this carefully choreographed performance, even without sound. Each flick of the flogger was like a silent drumbeat, and though she couldn’t hear the cries or gasps, she could feel them, almost taste them, in the tension thrumming through the glass.

During a brief lull in their rhythm, the man tenderly traced his broad palm down her back, his fingertips delicately bridging the expanse between her shoulders. Leaning in close, he whispered something in her ear, while his hand gently cradled the back of her neck, offering both comfort and reassurance.

Selecting a new flogger from his collection, he inspected it briefly before continuing—this one appeared to be crafted from supple leather strands, each adorned with tiny knots at the ends. Would these knots deliver a more intense sensation, she wondered?

The first impact of the new implement caused the woman to momentarily tense, her body instinctively bracing for the sensation that followed. She took a deep, shuddering breath, then lowered her head and exhaled slowly, signaling her readiness to proceed. The Dom resumed his deliberate assault on her body, delivering carefully placed strikes across her shoulders, buttocks, and thighs, skillfully avoiding any direct contact with her spine.

As she acclimated to this new sensation, the woman's body began to sway gently with each calculated hit. She no longer resisted; instead, she embraced every sensation he provided. Itwas evident that she trusted him completely, and with that trust came a euphoric surrender to the moment.

Evangeline's gaze remained steady, her eyes eagerly absorbing every detail of the unfolding scene and she felt compelled to witness herself in the intimate moment.

A flush crept up Evangeline's neck, not from horror, but something darker, deeper—a pull she didn’t want to name, much less recognize in herself. She’d heard whispers and read about people who chased the edge, who surrendered to impact and sensation, craving that exquisite line between pleasure and pain. But this… this was ritual. Art. Seduction. And she couldn’t look away.

Doubt pierced her, cooling the warmth rising inside her. For a flicker, her old instincts reared up—her spine straightening, jaw tightening, as if sheer willpower could pull her back to the polished, controlled woman she was supposed to be. She clenched her fists against the windowsill, a tremor in her arms, the urge to walk away almost overwhelming.

This isn’t you. You don’t let people see you break. You don’t even let yourself feel this much.

But the ache inside was stubborn. There was a part of her that wanted to prove she could still choose, even if the choice was surrender. For a breathless moment, she hesitated—her body at war with her mind, pride dragging her away from the glass even as hunger pulled her closer. She closed her eyes, exhaling shakily, and when she opened them again, she chose to stay. Not out of weakness, but a deliberate, trembling act of defiance against everything she’d ever been told about who she was supposed to be.

She planted her feet, lifted her chin, and let herself watch.

The Dom worked slowly, with precision. Controlled. Commanding. He said something she couldn’t hear, and the woman seemed to melt beneath his voice.

Her heart pounded, though not entirely from fear. There was something illicit, something deeply intimate in the scene unfolding before her—an unspoken language of trust, desire, and exquisite control. Her hands clenched the windowsill, knuckles white, as her gaze locked with his through the glass, just for a breath. She couldn’t look away. She didn’t want to.

She was aroused. Flushed and aching in ways she didn’t understand, much less know what to do with. But the need was real. Sharp. Awakening something inside her that had been dormant—perhaps even non-existent—for far too long.

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