Checklist J, K, L

Davina rocked up on her toes and then back on her heels. She didn’t like standing still—didn’t like being still—so she’d developed a habit of doing small, simple exercises like calf lifts whenever she was forced to wait.

Outside of Las Palmas, no one made her wait.

If she’d thought Grif was doing it on purpose, she’d be beyond annoyed, but she knew him, and this wasn’t some stupid waiting game. This was him trying to find the toys—well, jewelry—they’d need for this challenge.

Usually they planned scenes together, taking inspiration from others at the club or images they’d come across. Theirs was the perfect BDSM relationship, built on a foundation of friendship. She liked that she’d met him when she’d been more into topping than subbing, because it meant he saw her as an equal.

If she’d said that aloud, she was sure Grif, and most of the other male Doms, Masters, and Owners at the club would say they viewed, and treated, their subs as equal. But the relationship she and Grif had—more collaborative, physical, and intense than so many others, reinforced her secretly held belief that meeting on equal footing had been the foundation for what they now had.

Restless, she switched from calf lifts to pacing. She was in the barn, which was properly called the “Conclave” for reasons that were unclear to her. It was obviously a barn—even now that there weren’t animals housed here, there were horse stalls along one of the long walls. These stalls were for D/s play and had cots, plenty of tie points, and clean, smooth floors.

The roof of the stalls was the floor of the loft, which had a lounge-like viewing area where she and Grif had listened to the announcement about the game. The barn also had a tack room with a wonderful array of crops, whips, and various tie-off equipment. There was even some pony play gear, though she’d never seen anyone use it.

She smirked as she realized that would change because of the game. Whoever had the letter “P” was certainly in for an interesting weekend.

She and Grif preferred the barn for their play, because there was plenty of floor space on the side opposite the stalls, and because there were custom-built wood and metal grids, almost like the rigging used in theater lighting, that could be lowered at the push of a button, making it easy to tie a bound or harnessed submissive securely to the framework. Another touch of a button and the frame would be lifted, the motor powerful enough to raise and suspend a restrained sub.

In preparation for their play, Davina had spread out several large floor mats and double checked that the controls for their preferred five-by-five metal lattice suspension rig were working.

When she got tired of pacing, she dropped onto the mats and started working through Ashtanga yoga poses, holding each for five quick breaths and then transitioning to the next.

She was doing a headstand when Grif walked in. She smiled from her upside down position. Her tank top was tight enough that while the hem slid, it hadn’t fallen down around her neck, but caught on her breasts, leaving her midsection bare from the top of her hip-hugging skirt to chest.

He paused for a moment—a flattering hitch in his step—before he kept coming, his gaze intent on her. “I could watch that all day.”

Davina bent at the hips, bringing both legs forward until they were parallel with the floor and then rolled gracefully out of the pose. She primly pulled down the hem of her tank top, which made Grif smile.

Damn, he was handsome. And funny, kind, sexy, and unapologetically rough in all the right ways.

His hair was just stylish enough to make her occasionally wonder who he was in the outside world. Medium brown, short on the sides with a tight fade up to the longer top, which he brushed straight back from his forehead. His eyebrows were a shade or two lighter than his hair, but he had long, dark lashes that framed his brown eyes. He had hundreds of light brown freckles on the tops of his muscled shoulders—an unexpectedly boyish touch on a man who was otherwise intensely masculine.

Whatever he did, he kept in shape. And spent just enough time shirtless in the sun—not hard to do in Southern California—to freckle, but not tan.

And that was more wondering about him than she should have been doing.

“Did you find anything?” she asked. He was empty-handed.

Grif patted his pockets. “I did. Lots of stuff.”

“Lots…” She raised a brow. There were tiny bulges in his pockets now that he’d pointed it out.

“It’s jewelry. It’s not supposed to be big.”

“That depends on what kind of jewelry.”

He gave her an odd look, head tipped to the side, then relaxed into a smile. “Well, first we need some chairs.”

“Chairs?”

“Yep.” He looked around. “I’ll go find them if you put away the mats.”

“No mats?” Now it was her turn to frown.

“No mats,” he confirmed. “If you thrash around, you’re going to break this stuff.” Grif pointed to his pocket. “No thrashing, which means no mats.”

When he walked away, Davina started folding up the mats, dragging them to the storage area. Grif returned carrying two ladder-backed wooden chairs. He set them down and looked at her, mouth open as if he were about to speak, but then he stopped, brows coming together, before saying “Davina, are you okay?”

“Of course, why?”

“You’re frowning.”

“Oh.” She forced her face to relax. It was only when he’d pointed it out that she realized she was…worried.

That didn’t make any sense. There was nothing to be worried about. It was just Grif and some jewelry. Not a bullwhip.

He peered at her for a moment longer, then took a square cushion from under his arm and put it on the seat of one of the chairs.

“For you,” he gestured gallantly.

Davina walked over, making sure her hips swayed as she did, and started to sit.

“Ah ah ah, kneel,” Grif said.

“Mmm, promising.” Davina knelt on the cushion. The back of the chair stopped just under the level of her breasts. It was too tall for her to bend forward to a good ninety degree angle, but kneeling like this would give Grif better access to her ass and pussy than if she’d been sitting.

“Hands on the back of the chair.” He spoke with the relaxed confidence he always had during a scene.

The upper rung of the chair back was smooth and cool under her fingers—real wood, sanded and polished, not varnished.

Okay, hold on, maybe I shouldn’t have shoved these all in my

was on one knee, a web of silver chains spread

“Want some help?”

forward,” he grumped. “Stay in your position.” The words might have been punishing from someone else, but Grif didn’t mean

Partners. They were

or knees.” She straightened

now I’m ordering

slight hiss of his jeans against the concrete as he rose. He was barefoot,

blindfolded or otherwise unable to move her head enough to look around. At this moment she should

did she still feel worried? No, maybe it wasn’t

they normally

side so hard that she lost her balance and had to put one foot on the floor. Grif’s arms came around

“Davina?”

her, the fabric of her tank top shifted, the mesh catching on the ends of her nipple bars and tugging gently. A lance of arousal, painfully acute, like a

“I’m fine,” she murmured.

ear. “You’re more than fine,

she had at the bar, arms stretched out and holding the chair, shoulders falling back.

her neck from the underside of her chin all the way down to the notch in her collarbones.

“Or what?”

you trying to force a punishment?” There was real surprise in his

both knees back on the chair pad. She forced out a little laugh. “Just trying

show you, but don’t forget how we’re playing this.

to sub,”

than saw him lean in, his words brushing her ear. “I

they fed the anxiety building within her. He’d been right, she had been trying to force a punishment, which was a classic

that was the source of this worry—she hadn’t

physical as their normal play,

her secret relief, he came around to her front. She made sure her position was perfect and smiled

expression melted away to reveal something more intense and focused. It was the expression he

She shivered with anticipation.

chain was laced around his

* * *

palm then held his hand out, so she could see

about not knowing even the simplest information about what would take place in the scene. If she didn’t plan the scene with him, she usually knew what equipment they’d be using, based on the space

Wonderful yet terrifying.

study his face, his familiar face, that at once was so familiar, and yet she would have sworn there was something different in the way he was looking at her now, something

what she saw in his face, she looked down

horizontal bar, less than a quarter inch tall, but two inches long. It curved ever so slightly to match the contour of the neck. Strands of silver chain with links so small

O ring bolted to it, about the diameter of

“A collar,” she breathed.

agreed. He smiled, and it was slow and full of promise and darkness. “Grab your braid. Hold

hand and reached back for her hair, lifting it away from her neck. She held it on the

was centered above the notch of her collarbones, then draped the chains over her shoulder. “Hold this with your other hand,” he

her. She couldn’t help but explore it with her fingers. The ring in the front was functional, attached in such a way that it rotated.

the ends of the necklace. “Let

wanted her to

the chair, steadying herself, but his next action

and then tight against her skin. She felt his fingers moving at the back of her neck, the chain pulled almost alarmingly taut as

like a necklace, and she’d expected it to fit like a necklace, but it didn’t. It fit like a

wasn’t so tight that it was choking her, but every

by sliding a finger underneath. “How

she said honestly. Though chokers came in and out of fashion, she hadn’t worn one like this before—made of metal rather than stretchy fabric

jeans was bulging from his erection. Her blood heated knowing that collaring her made him hard. She’d worn a collar for him before—a heavy all-metal collar that was very physical

that collar on her ever made him this hard? Surely it had, and she just hadn’t noticed

beautiful that if the O ring

still wear it as jewelry in the outside world—a delicate statement as to

have fallen to her hips. It consisted of short four inch runs of the same thread-like chain as in the collar and thumbnail size silver rings. He took one end and threaded the delicate lobster clasp through the O ring

“A leash,” she whispered.

voice

her hips side to side, weight shifting from knee to knee, humming a little to herself. Seeing

could feel it against her skin. Though the mesh tank top revealed more than it concealed, it

still wearing her

opened her mouth to say something—to remind him that it might be better to get her shirt off now rather than having to unfasten the chain from the collar, remove the shirt, and then refasten it. That was the kind

the past, she wouldn’t have hesitated to say something, or even to just strip off the shirt and throw it to the side—doing her part to make sure the scene went smoothly and

she didn’t say

was…different. The collar, the chain, they were delicate and precise. This wasn’t their

that massive, hard dick into a more comfortable position

so hard he had

grazing her left nipple. She sucked in air

the limited physical stimulation, was what it had felt like the first time she’d let a