Checklist J, K, L

Thanks to the announcement of the game, Las Palmas was as full as she’d ever seen it.

Not that she could see all that well, but the glimpses she did get verified what she could hear—plenty of people to go with all those voices.

When she’d been topping, she’d known the face and name of every sub, but that had been several years ago at this point. People changed, as did the population of the club, but she knew a handful of other members well enough to know their names and say hello.

How many of those acquaintances were watching her now? Were they shocked to see her so delicately bound and being led by a leash?

She and Grif were walking slowly—necessary given her limited vision and bare feet. The outdoor spaces of the club were one of the reasons Las Palmas didn’t have a “stiletto or bare feet” rule for submissives, which was relatively common in other clubs.

Each step caused the chains to click and jangle together in a delicate symphony. And with every breath, the chain he’d wrapped around her pulled just tight enough against her clit to make her aware of it, but not tight enough to be painful—which she would have welcomed—or loose enough to be ignored.

They finally settled down in the courtyard of the Sub Rosa Court, so named for the wild desert roses that climbed the support posts and created a canopy overhead, woven in and out of the pergola-like beams that provided partial covering to the courtyard. Though they had very little scent, she caught glimpses of the small, pale flowers and from that knew where they were.

Grif’s hands at her waist guided her to turn. When he pushed down, indicating she should sit, she instinctively reached for his shoulders to steady herself. She reached up and the chains attached to her cuffs pulled taught, jerking on the other chains wrapped around her body.

She yelped and wobbled, the ball gag dropping from her mouth. For a terrible moment, she thought she would fall over. Her legs were free, but if she fell she wasn’t sure she’d be able to catch herself with her hobbled arms.

Grif was there, one arm coming around her back, pulling her against his chest. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he murmured.

“I forgot.” She let her temple rest against his jaw.

“About the wrist chains?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“No. Well, not in a bad way, Master.” Both the plug and nipple cages had jerked when she reached out. Her right nipple was throbbing just enough to make her hate the stupid cages anew.

His lips fluttered against her cheek. “I wish I had the words to tell you how hearing that makes me feel.”

“When I call you Master?”

“Yes.”

There was a reason she hadn’t done it before. A reason that no longer seemed important.

“Ready to sit, Minx?”

“Yes, Master.”

Grif eased her away from his body, once more holding her hips. She grabbed his forearms and blindly lowered herself. It was a good thing he was holding her, because she sank down further than she’d anticipated. Her butt came to rest on a low stool, not a chair.

“Spread your legs and slide your feet back. I want your ankles on either side of the footstool.”

It took a moment—and his help—before she was in position. Her knees were spread, legs folded up almost as if she were crouching—knees and ankles bent, her toes on the flagstone of the terrace.

Grif’s hands slid under all that chain, his wide palm stroking her stomach. She had a brief moment of self-consciousness. Sitting like this was going to give her a little stomach pooch. She probably looked unattractive, and she should always do her best to be visually pleasing.

Davina frowned, the thought jarring, twin spikes of self-loathing and anxiety piercing her serenity.

She shook it off. This was Grif. He’d seen her, touched her, every way there was. He knew her body as well as she did, in some ways maybe even better. He knew that no one could sit like this and not have a roll or two somewhere.

So why was she all of a sudden worried and self-conscious?

Chains shifted, and she felt tugs at her throat and nipples.

“I’m switching things up a little. Now that you’re sitting, I want to add to the bondage.” His hand followed the line of her leg down to her right foot. He tapped her instep. “Up.”

Shifting her weight she managed to raise her knee enough to lift her right foot off the ground.

Grif looped chain around her big toe, fastening it back on itself.

“Toe tie?” she asked softly.

“Connected to the nipple cages.”

He repeated the process on the other side.

Minus the sensation of having something around each big toe, she didn’t feel any new or additional tension. As long as she didn’t move, she’d be fine.

It was only then that she realized her seated position meant he had limited access to her pussy and ass. When they’d started this scene, and she’d seen the chair, one of her first thoughts had been hoping she wouldn’t be sitting on it.

“Let’s take this off for a while.” Grif removed the blindfold portions of the headpiece, while leaving the chain circlet around her head.

She blinked a few times, trying to clear her vision, then glanced around. This was considered the quietest of the courtyards, with only a small “stage” area, and plenty of intimate seating arrangements tucked amid winding paths and lovely desert landscaping.

footstool covered with natural canvas, facing an expensive outdoor armchair of dark wood, with cushions made

herself, taking in the way the chain glinted in the illumination from artistically placed landscape lighting and the remnants

was physically less restrictive than a rope harness or dress, it was emotionally heavier. Perhaps it was because unlike rope, this required more of her—she had to stay still and calm without the binding pressure of silky nylon hugging her tight. Anyone who’d ever used a weighted blanket knew why

it such emotional weight. She’d jokingly compared herself to the women on the covers of 1970’s sci-fi novels, but the comparison was apt. She looked more like a fantasy slave girl or concubine, either about to be sold to the highest bidder or put on display

worried about how you look. You’re calling him Master.

India ink spreading across the calm, white canvas

shifted uneasily, listening to the chain clink as

trailing across her cheek to her lips, and the voice went quiet, the cool, calm white of her serenity falling over her mental landscape

scooted between her knees and the edge of the chair and took a seat, perched forward so that his knees

tongue, the little flare of pain helping

that if she tipped her head up and stretched, she could kiss him. She

this.” His voice was low and so sexy as he reached out

slave woman on the cover of

grinned. “Yea, a bit like that. But this is sort of like a crown, so maybe more of a captured princess.

ever be called princess, but it was

bit better about what I’m about to do.”

She couldn’t see his face, even if she tipped her head

one hand into the fabric, grasping his cock as he awkwardly shoved at his pants with

“May I help, Master?”

reach. Don’t hurt

far enough to curl her fingers into the pockets. While he held his cock, she inched his pants

she’d ever seen him,

the hard bulge of his cock early in the scene, had enjoyed knowing how affected he was. This was something different—a sort of visceral pleasure far deeper than mere enjoyment. The result of knowing she could elicit that sort of

command was short, simple,

“Open.”

his cock between her lips. It was hardly the first time she’d given him head, but, like everything else, it felt different. He started to press in, filling her mouth, forcing her tongue back, her mouth

slid into her hair, still held back from her face in her braid. The other hand was around his cock as he pressed in deeper still. He took that hand away only when he was deep enough in

her mouth, then down to the back of her throat. She gagged slightly, due in part to the slightly odd angle. Grif was tall enough that normally when she was sucking his cock she had to kneel on a cushion. Seated on the footstool her head was lower than it would have been if she’d taken up

the underside,”

fully process the command. It was a good thing too, because if she’d thought about it

kind of sub who needed

the bottom of his cock with the tip of

to fuck your face,” he growled. “I’m going to use you, fuck you.” The words were

couldn’t

all she managed before

her ears, muffling the sounds of the busy club. She closed her eyes

not until her nose was against his body, the scent of him—male musk and need—in her nose. She swallowed around the head

All she had was her sense of

drew her off his cock, moving her head while his hips stayed still. She inhaled through her nose when she could, taking two quick

lower lip, then slide down her chin. She swallowed around him, her throat protesting the size of the invader, even as her mind reveled in

holding her head in place

he drew back. When she exhaled, it came out as

minx,”

they were moving fast, her head bobbing on his cock, the chains draped around

was close to coming—the direct stimulation of the chain on her clit was going to be enough to

withdrew, she mumbled,

and understood her, or simply guessed,

short, harsh,

pussy in ice while exposing the rest of her to hot desert sun. She was at once both wildly aroused by his denial—despite the fact that orgasm denial wasn’t normally part of their practice—and hyper obedient, in that the next time

good. This isn’t who you are

when he

instead of an easy, if quick, rhythm, the face fucking now felt buffeted and off-pace. She was a buoy

of her throat making her gag once more. She

fingers rhythmically massaging her scalp as his cock pulsed and twitched. Some of his come leaked out of

She opened her eyes.

her chin, forcing her mouth closed.

She obeyed.

jeans were still around his knees, and he shucked them before sitting. She looked at his face,

of pleasure or relaxed satisfaction. Instead there was wonderful arrogance in the

Her Master.

his crotch and his softening cock. She saw his arm move, his hand coming into

making sure the bars didn’t stretch or rip her skin, but also accentuating how much she wanted her nipples touched and played with. She loved nipple play. It was one of the reasons she’d gotten her nipples pierced, and yet the fact they were pierced had been used to instead

her labia, cool night air hitting wet flesh. The chain was tight now, pulled up along the right side of her clit, the links

with a casual flick that made her jump. Then he pressed his thumb over her clit and started to rotate

to come for me,”

“Yes, Master.”

“Come. Now.”

voice, the weight of the power exchange encased within those two syllables, that made her teeth clench, her muscles tight. It wasn’t a slow,

she pressed her feet down

was quickly followed by a whimper as he kept touching her now raw-feeling clit. She tried to