Checklist J, K, L

Davina stared peacefully into middle distance, moving when he told her to, breathing deeply, if a bit unsteadily. She knew what this feeling of peace and clarity was—this is what she strived for, yet feared. Some called it subspace, but she had a private name for it. Serenity.

This was her serenity.

Grif had helped her find serenity many times—usually while she was in suspension bondage or during impact play. As much as she liked—no, longed for—this feeling, she couldn’t bring herself to give in to it without strong BDSM play.

The woman she was now had trouble letting go enough to find this kind of peace for the same reasons she didn’t like to cry.

One of her best friends loved to cry. She would purposefully watch sad shows or movies, and happily sniffle and sob. At the end she’d wipe her tears and say “that was amazing.”

Davina thought that was insane. Crying was for the shower, where no one could hear you and where the tears could mingle with the water, being washed away immediately.

And yet, here she was, in her serenity, with no rope or flogger in sight.

A small voice was insisting that should bother her. That she was now the one sobbing and sniffling while watching a Lifetime movie.

She ignored that voice, the same voice that had freaked out when she’d called Grif “Master.”

“Last one,” he murmured.

She’d lost track of how many chains he placed on and around her. He’d attached so many clasps to the nipple cages that the filigree was all but obscured. The chains leading from her breasts hung loosely around her torso, crossed her back, and draped over her shoulders. More chains were anchored in the ring of the plug. Those wound between and over her thighs, or snaked up to wrap around her waist.

It was as if she was swathed in a loose weave of jewelry. Only the collar and the center chain that crossed over her clit were pulled tight.

Grif walked around her, his gaze so intense it was almost a physical touch.

“You look…” He made a sound that was both possessive and proud, almost a growl. “My beautiful minx, bound with jewelry.”

He reached up and untied the twine connecting the cuffs on her upper arms to the lattice above.

“We’re done, Master?”

“No, but you can’t stay like this anymore.” He was efficient, and in no time had the leather cuffs off. “Flex your arms. Good. How do you feel?”

“Stiff. My shoulders hurt a little.”

Grif massaged her arms and shoulders with firm squeezes. “Thank you for telling me.” He pulled over the other chair, stood on it—hunched so he wouldn’t hit his head—and then unfastened the chain suspending the jewelry wrist cuffs to the lattice.

He took her hands in his as he got down, lacing their fingers together and lowering her arms to her sides. As stiff as she was, his controlling her movement helped.

He lifted their interlaced hands, kissing each of her wrists in turn. “You look lovely,” he murmured against her skin.

He lowered her arms to her sides, then without pause grabbed the chains dangling from the cuffs and connected the ends to the web that draped her body.

Again he took a step back, looking at her. There was an expression on his face she’d never seen before, an expression she didn’t know how to read.

wondered what he

“One more piece.”

thought you said that already, Master.” Finding her serenity didn’t mean she couldn’t

more thing that’s not…okay, well, it’s made

any room in his pockets with his hard cock taking up all the

with her arms at her sides she was able

“Face forward,” he commanded.

little smile she obeyed, letting her lids slide half

ever been

serenity sometimes distorted her sense of time. What felt like several hours had probably been no more than a half hour. Any longer and her shoulders and back would hurt, rather

thirty minutes or thirty hours—she’d become so achingly aroused it was like a new state of being. A state of being that fit

arousal made

usually had a sexual component to their play. It was one of the many benefits of a private club, that penetrative sex was allowed, with the club taking care of logistics like

particularly rope bondage or impact play scenes—those most likely to allow her to find her serenity—weren’t exactly arousing. It was one of the things many people didn’t understand about BDSM. It wasn’t always sexual. That was why friends could be scene partners. Flogging—giving or receiving—could be an amazing release,

a result, things that were not necessarily arousing were arousing for her, because she was with Grif. On the occasions she’d been flogged by someone else—as an experienced switch

else, after the flogging she’d shake it off, smile, and then thank her partner, with the same tone and level of intimacy she used

zone for her, were bereft of stimulation, trapped as they were within the abnormally large cages. True, the vertical midline chain occasionally touched her clit,

was because they were mid-scene. Maybe this was just her normal sex-is-coming-soon

your Master, and that makes

it was a fleeting thing, quickly burned off by the conflagration of her

was cool metal, and sat on her head like a circlet, or a Rambo-style headband. “This

where the relief embossed vignettes on

to it. Close

was chain—jingled, and then something was placed over her closed eyes. Cool metal settled on her

it?”

are covering your eyes. Kind of like upside down rainbows, I guess. They’re attached to

A bondage

There was a definite emphasis on the

well.” Grif’s hands cupped her waist, pressing links

chair. Her knees protested for a moment, but without her saying or doing anything, he knew. Her Master reached down

against something, an odd sensation, and she blinked rapidly, which only made it worse. Finally she widened her eyes, holding them open to

could see a few things clearly—the door to one of the stalls across from where they were and a light fixture. The rest was blurred colors. She could see enough to tell where she was, and probably

he rose

said that

each time.” Grif thumbed the underside of her breast. “Anything else to

“To…say?”

to gag you,

Davina’s breath caught.

“Exhale,” he commanded.

don’t…don’t love being