BDSM Checklist: A, B, C

Chapter 17

“Lift your hair.”

With trembling fingers, Anna lifted her hair away from her neck. The posture collar was prettier than most, with bands of metal connected to plates at the front and back. The plate at the back had a hinge, while the front had a series of metal closures. He slid it around her neck and closed it with a small click. It was wider in front, dipping down to touch the top of her breastbone.

“You will be careful while you wear this.”

“Yes, Master.”

He pulled a small Allen-wrench-like key from his pocket and used it to screw the fastenings together. There were no buckles, no safety latches. He’d fastened her in and only the key he held could get her out. Anna trembled, her eyes on the far wall. The posture collar kept her chin raised a fraction higher than was comfortable. She could still talk, and turn her head a limited amount.

“Look at me.”

Anna met her Master’s gaze. He stroked her cheek. “I know you hate it, but you’re beautifully submissive when you wear it.”

It was true. Though her arms and legs were free, she felt as bound as if she were hanging from the ceiling in rope.

“I’m happy to please you, Master.”

He squeezed her breast.

day. Go to the Subs’ Garden. You aren’t allowed to view any

“Yes, Master.”

hard

Anna left their room. She hoped he didn’t

* * *

poured herself another glass of champagne and curled up on a delicate love seat in the lounge of the Subs’ Garden, a pretty suite of rooms reserved exclusively for the use of submissive members of Las Palmas Oscuras. It was nearly midnight and there were only a few other subs milling about. Members who hadn’t reserved play time or space for this weekend had gone home. Others were off meeting with their

had ventured out to see what was happening, and who was playing with whom, in the public spaces. She watched Master Carter drip black wax onto a sub’s nipples—a fairly regular occurrence since Master Carter was a wax connoisseur—and tried to not let herself get too worked up by the woman’s moans of pleasure. A few of her favorite Doms had approached her while she watched the scene, but she’d gently replied

play. Mae knew nothing. She hadn’t been contacted, either over the loudspeaker system that allowed the Doms to make announcements in the subs-only spaces, or by paper message delivered by a few slaves who’d been

of arousal—which was an almost Pavlovian response to being at Las Palmas, frustrated—since it didn’t seem like a scene or orgasm was coming her way any time soon, angry—that her partner hadn’t contacted her, and worried that somehow, for some reason, she hadn’t been included in the game. Mae wasn’t used to being alone. When she came to play, she never doubted that there would be Doms delighted to have her submit to them, if only to have her

give up hope of being contacted. She’d chosen to come here, to play and be played with, but it seemed that wasn’t going to happen. She could stay the night and see what happened in the morning, using the downtime to get some work done—her phone and tablet were in her locker—but if she was going to work she

lounge for the locker room, keying in the code and taking her phone and glasses out of her designer purse. Slipping on the glasses, she started typing an email to her assistant, letting her know that, despite what was on her calendar, she would be available to take meetings and

“Mae?”

doorway. She was a lovely Hispanic woman and older than Mae, but maybe not

Mae tapped her chest, just

“Don’t. Come with me.”

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