Page 6 of Dirty Discipline, Vol. 1

“That’s quite impressive.”

“Of course, you must know that in the BDSM community screaming at the top of your lungs, crying, or begging a Dom to end the scene, is not considered a legitimate reason to cease.” Mistress Winter’s piercing gaze slapped the stupefied look right off Page’s face. “So, with that said, it would be wise to play an associated word game to ensure that you remember the safeword. It will be the only way to end a scene.”

“Don’t worry, Mistress. It’s already glued in place.”

“Good. If, however, you only wish to stop the scene momentarily to take a breather or discuss your discomfort with the Dom, you will have to agree on a different word. That way, he will know to stop and listen, then adjust the scene without it bringing the entire club down around you.”

Sage wasn’t all too sure that saying a single word would have such an effect, particularly not with a sadist wielding a whip, but she was a visitor and would have to take the expert’s word for it.

“Here we are. This is the whipping chamber.”

“The wh-whipping chamber?” Sage suddenly felt a rush of goosebumps form on the top of her arms. Her eyes widened and remained fixed on a couple to her left. The sub was chained spread eagled with her back against the wall. Her naked body, illuminated by an overhead arc lamp glistened with sweat. Her breasts heaved as she dragged in a deep breath, clearly distraught at the crack of the bullwhip that the mighty Dom in front of her slashed through the air.

A bullwhip! Jesus Christ! That thing will slice her skin to shreds!

“Excited, are you?” Mistress Winter whispered in her ear, her voice darkening as she watched the Dom draw back his arm. “You should be. Your Dom is an expert at wielding a whip, and I daresay he chose his favorite snake-edged one just for you.”

“Wh-whip? Sn-Snake-edged? He’s going to whip me?”

For God’s sake, Sage, pull yourself together! You sound like a wimpy teenager, not a fierce FBI Operative!

Sage squeezed her eyes shut as the Dom’s arm moved forward in a sharp snap, the sound of leather kissing skin like a gunshot to her ears. She waited for the sub’s scream of terror. It never came. Lifting one eyelid, she peeked at her, surprised to see her chin tilting back, with her lips spread wide as she gasped, “Oh!”

A red streak grew across her stomach like a splash against her pale skin. The sub moaned and arched her back as two successive strikes curled around the rounded curves of her breasts. If Sage didn’t know better, she would say the woman was drowning in ecstasy, enjoying every strike the Dom offered.

Then Sage noticed the red collar around her neck and realization struck. She was a masochist, which meant she was enjoying the pain.

Shit! I can’t do this. Desperation fought against panic as her fingers tightened on the collar around her neck. Yes, she had a black belt in Martial Arts, and fought like a tiger when she had to. She didn’t scare easily but she had never taken punishment well as a child. Always wailed like a baby when her father gave her a hiding. Just the thought of that still bent her mind.

In here, she didn’t have any control since she handed it over to a sadist for the night. It was time to rethink her strategy. Playing at being a masochist was one thing but to do so with the sole purpose of getting close to Beats was a mistake. Mainly because she would have to go through with the scene if she was paired up with him. Thinking about that, now made her realize how many flaws her plan had. She needed to gather information, not expose herself, and in the process, potentially jeopardize any chance of building a solid case against him. An eagerness to expose corruption was putting her in danger.

Not discussing the anonymous tip with her boss before rushing into the investigation was the first mistake. Going out without backup on an intel-gathering expedition was the second.

The biggest problem she was now facing was the big steel and leather Saint Andrew’s Cross that Mistress Winter guided her to. Getting whipped to shreds had never been part of the plan!

“Since you’re a guest of one of our founding partners, we have to ensure all your needs are being met.”

Sage blinked as the Domme’s voice yanked her from the musings. “I… ehm, perhaps I wasn’t completely—”

“To achieve that, there is only one Dom who has the ability to reach deep inside any submissive’s mind and unwrap her true desires,” Mistress Winters said, cutting her short. “Believe me, before the first slash of the whip wraps itself around your hip, you’ll be begging for the pain to ease you into oblivion.”

“And he is?”

“As Master Z’s partner, it’s our owner Master Dom, of course, Master Alpha.”

“Owner? As in, he’s my sponsor’s business partner?” Sage couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that she would be scening with her uncle’s friend. Her mind struck a blank. She couldn’t recall his name, but she knew they’d been army buddies long ago. That Slade Lewis was a founding partner of Club Rouge was news to her.

“That he is.” Mistress Winter pointed to the cross. “He’s on his way and wants you chained in place by the time he arrives. Undress, please, then step onto the footrests.”

“Un-Undress?”

“Yes. Master Alpha requires his submissives to be naked during scenes. If memory serves, you had no problem with exhibitionism on your limit list.”

“I…” Sage rushed for an appropriate response, but apart from blurting out that everything she had written about on her application were all lies, she had nothing to offer. Nakedness in the BDSM community was part of the BDSM club scene—a natural expectation for a Dom to have. She had known that but had been naive to believe she’d be able to set down the rules of when she took off her clothes—preferably behind closed doors, in one of the private suites upstairs.

“Maybe I should help the little subbie along, Mistress Winter, since her responses to your instructions are rather lackluster.”

Sage’s back snapped straight at the guttural voice, accompanied by the threatening crack of a whip in the air behind her. She didn’t have to turn around to know who it belonged to. The recordings of speeches she had listened to as part of her research identified him instantly—Clinton Beats.

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