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.

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

glinted in the illumination from artistically placed landscape lighting and the remnants of dusk that filtered

more of her—she had to stay still and calm without the binding pressure of silky nylon hugging her

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

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

were like tendrils of India ink spreading across the calm, white

listening to the

trailing across her cheek to her lips, and the voice went quiet,

and took a seat, perched forward so that his

tongue, the little flare of pain helping her

That brought his head and shoulders forward, until he was close enough that if she tipped her head up and stretched, she could kiss him. She wanted to kiss him.

so sexy as he reached out and touched first her collar,

the cover of an old fantasy

like a crown, so maybe more of a captured princess.

be called princess,

I’m the barbarian, then I’ll feel a little bit better about what I’m about to do.” Grif pushed

see his face, even if she tipped her head

grasping his cock as he

“May I help, Master?”

you can reach. Don’t

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

lips. He was as hard as she’d ever seen him, and wet with precome. If he’d been wearing light colored slacks—anything with thinner fabric—there

something different—a sort of visceral pleasure far deeper than mere enjoyment. The result of knowing she could elicit that sort of involuntary response from her

was short, simple, and

“Open.”

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

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 that his index finger

odd angle. Grif was tall enough that normally when she was sucking his cock she had to kneel on a cushion. Seated

the underside,”

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

of sub who needed to be ordered to do every

the bottom of his cock with the

going to use you, fuck

really nod, and certainly couldn’t say anything. Instead she

was all she managed before he started

covering her ears, muffling the sounds of the busy club. She closed her eyes rather than try to focus on

was against his body, the scent of him—male musk and need—in her nose. She

mute. All she had was her sense of smell, touch,

She inhaled through her nose when she could, taking two quick deep breaths before he invaded her mouth

inside her lower lip, then slide down her chin. She swallowed around him, her throat

withdrawal and penetration. Again he thrust in deep, holding her head in place so she had no choice but

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

it, minx,” he

thrust wasn’t so slow and controlled. He surged into her, cock jabbing the back of her throat before quickly retreating. Now they were moving fast, her head bobbing on his cock, the chains draped around her body clinking rhythmically as he found a pace that pleased him. The chain he’d placed between her pussy lips was

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

she mumbled, “May I come?” around his

her, or simply guessed,

short,

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

said no, and your body stopped your orgasm. This isn’t good.

only partially muted when he

instead of an easy, if quick, rhythm, the face fucking now felt buffeted and off-pace. She was a buoy on rough seas. A sub meant to be used,

warning she got before he jammed his cock into her, so hard that it stabbed the back of her throat making her gag once more. She pressed

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

then slowly drew his cock from her mouth. She opened her eyes. He was still hard, but no

a finger under her chin, forcing her

She obeyed.

shucked them before

was no sign of pleasure or relaxed satisfaction. Instead there was wonderful arrogance in the set of his shoulders—it was the posture and expression of a

Her Master.

it to his crotch and his softening cock. She saw his arm move, his hand coming into her line of sight. He reached

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.

tight now, pulled up along the right side of her clit, the

that made her jump. Then he pressed his thumb over her clit and started to rotate it in

going to come for

“Yes, Master.”

“Come. Now.”

clit provided the physical stimulus she needed, while his command gave the mental stimulation. It wasn’t just the words, but the tone of his 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, relaxed orgasm, the kind

clenched teeth, her calf muscles quaking, toes flattening and splaying as she pressed her feet down hard.

slumped, panting. That was quickly followed by a whimper as he kept touching her now raw-feeling clit. She