The Auction (15 page)

Carly leaned against the desk, studying the picture. So Adam
had
been married! That wasn’t so surprising—most people got married at some point, why not a handsome, wealthy guy like Adam Wise?

The question was, where was this woman now?

Carly had just assumed Adam wasn’t presently married—there was no sign of a woman in the house as far as she could see, nor could she imagine a wife who would permit her husband to bring home a sex slave for a month while she discreetly melted into the background, no matter what kind of relationship they had. Adam wore no ring, nor was there any telltale tan line or subtle indentation on his ring finger that indicated he had merely removed the evidence of his marital status.

More than that, he didn’t have the
feel
of a married man, which, unfortunately, Carly was all too aware of, having once had the very bad judgment to fall for one of the married attorneys in her office. Married men carried themselves differently. While Carly might have been hard pressed to define it precisely, they were marked in a way single men were not.

No, she told herself firmly, Adam was definitely single.

So what had happened to cause him to divorce? There were so many questions she wanted to ask him, so much she wanted to know about this man who was basically a mystery to her, beyond the fact that he had once been married, had been a Boy Scout, was insanely rich, too handsome for his own good, and the best Dom she’d ever been with or known, not to mention an amazing lover.

She grinned at herself, imagining what her best friend Donna would say when she told her all she knew about the guy was that he was rich, handsome and a great lover.

“So what else do you need to know?” Donna would have demanded, laughing. “When’s the wedding?”

Carly stared again at the photo of the newlyweds, noting that it was Adam who was turned toward his bride, while she stared into the camera, something in her expression cool, even aloof, on the day that should have been her happiest.

Carly thought about the idea of the lover and the beloved—how one person was the object of the other’s love and accepted it as their due, while ultimately being unable, or unwilling, to return it in kind. Most relationships were like that, Carly thought—with one person more invested than the other, turning their face and their heart toward the beloved, who looks straight ahead, their eyes already on a future that doesn’t include the lover, even if neither of them knows it yet.

Carly placed the photo into the bin.

Was that what was happening now between her and this man she could never know?

“Adam,” she whispered with a sigh, angrily brushing away a tear.

Chapter 11

Carly was standing in front of the sofa, naked save for her red leather collar. Her arms were behind her back, each hand gripping the opposite elbow. Adam, James and Amy were sitting together sipping glasses of wine, Adam on the chair, James on the sofa with Amy kneeling on the carpet beside him, her cheek resting on his knee as she gazed up at him with a serene look of utter contentment. Something about Amy’s expression caught at Carly’s heart, filling her with longing.

When Adam had told her the couple was coming over that evening, Carly hadn’t been sure what to expect. He’d explained they were husband and wife, as well as Master and slave, but he hadn’t mentioned anything about the radiance that seemed to bounce between them, a kind of light that shone from their eyes whenever they looked at each other.

Was that love?

Carly had been in love before. Well, perhaps not precisely in love, but in intense and lustful attraction that had masqueraded as love, at least for a while. She’d lived with three different men over the years, two of them into BDSM on the dominant side of the equation, or what she had thought of as dominant, though neither of them came close to Adam’s level of intensity and control.

Looking back on those failed relationships, Carly realized she had been able to manipulate each man into doing what she wanted, or what she had thought she wanted, but in the process she’d lost the respect and passion she now understood was necessary for a D/s relationship to be sustainable. Adam wasn’t a man who could be manipulated, but nor was he a man who would have looked at her twice outside of this artificial construct.

Okay, so what? We’ve already established that, Carly, so get over it.
Even though she knew there was no potential for anything past these thirty days of play, that didn’t mean that Carly didn’t want to please her temporary Master, especially in front of Amy and James.

Though she’d only been with Adam a few days, she already felt a kind of loyalty toward him that came to the fore now that there were witnesses. She wanted to make him proud, and even more importantly, she wanted to prove to herself that she could obey and serve him as the trained slave she professed to be. Silently she promised herself that no matter what was asked of her tonight, she would submit with all the grace and obedience she possessed.

“Carly handles erotic pain well,” Adam was saying. “She is meticulous in doing her chores. She’s eager to please.”

“But…?” James said, his eyes twinkling. He was probably in his early sixties, Carly guessed, with a thick mane of silver hair brushed back from a high forehead, the lines radiating from corners of his eyes and the brackets around his mouth suggesting a man who laughed often. He wasn’t precisely handsome—his deep set eyes were too close on either side of a nose that was too big for his face, but there was a kindness and peace in his expression that made him attractive. “I hear a definite
but
in that statement.”

Adam laughed. “Orgasm control. She’s definitely lacking in that area, right, Carly?”

Carly felt the heat move over her skin and knew she was blushing. “Yes, Sir,” she admitted, stealing a glance at Amy, who no doubt could climax from a puff of air on her cunt, or withstand hours of sexual stimulation until given permission by her Master to let herself go.

Amy was beautiful by any reckoning, despite being over sixty. Her hair was also silver, and cut short around a pixie face. She had large, doe-like eyes a rich shade of golden-brown, and a full mouth, also bracketed by smile lines. Her cheeks dimpled when she smiled, which she was doing now.

“Remember our first year, James?” Amy said, as she looked over at Carly. “I had the control of a three-year-old and the patience of a gnat.” James grinned and nodded, stroking her head. Amy turned to look at Adam. “Carly’s had, what, a few days with you?”

Adam looked sheepish. “That about sums it up. Though she is a trained professional,” he added with a small frown.

“Nevertheless,” Amy continued, smiling toward Carly, who returned a grateful glance, “it takes time to get used to a new Master. I’d say she’s doing pretty well, wouldn’t you agree, James?”

“I would indeed.” Turning to Adam, James said, “I brought along my new bullwhip.” He pointed toward a hard leather case he had set down beside the couch. “Amy got it for me, or should I say for herself”—he grinned, winking at his wife—“when we were in Australia. It’s made from kangaroo hide and packs a powerful wallop, right, slave girl?”

“Yes,
Sir.
” Amy grinned back at him.

 “Maybe we can test out your claim of Carly’s ability to handle pain. What do you think, Adam?”

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Adam replied. He turned to Carly. “That is, if it’s all right with you. Have you experienced a bullwhip before?”

“No, Sir,” Carly replied. “But I’ve watched demonstrations.” She liked the way Adam was around his friends. Something in his demeanor was gentler and more solicitous of her. It was like a bridge between their stolen, unspoken kisses in the night, and the stern taskmaster he presented during the day.

Which of the Adams was the real one?

She turned to James. “I think I could handle it, Sir.” She’d never been with someone skilled enough to use a bullwhip and was aware it took special training and technique. Somehow she knew James would have that skill, and she realized she already trusted the man completely, though she’d only known him for an hour. This would be her chance to prove her obedience and masochistic grace. She made a silent promise not to let Adam, or herself, down.

James rose from the couch. “I think you could too.” He reached for the case and set it on the couch, undoing the clasps and opening the lid. He withdrew a short-handled bullwhip of dark brown leather, its plaited thong easily six feet long and tapering to a wicked-looking cracker at its end.

“We wouldn’t want Amy to feel left out,” he said, reaching a hand down to his wife. “How about we’ll string up the girls side-by-side? That suit you, my darling slave girl?”

“Oh, yes,” Amy breathed, her eyes shining as she took the offered hand.

Amy wore a silky dress that clung to her small, narrow frame. She slipped out of it without a trace of self-consciousness. While no doubt not as pert as they once were, her small breasts were still pretty, the nipples pierced with golden hoops. She had a thatch of silver pubic hair between her legs, neatly trimmed and shaved into the shape of a heart. As she turned, Carly saw she had a tattoo just above her small ass. The design was a silver chain entwined with small pink roses, the words
James’ Girl
written in black lettering just below it.

Adam and James led the two women to the central beam from which chains and cuffs hung waiting. Carly wasn’t sure whether to feel grateful or competitive with the older woman, and realized she felt a little of both.
She’s had decades of training,
Carly reminded herself.
Just do your own personal best.

As the men positioned and cuffed them, Amy leaned her head close to Carly and whispered with an encouraging smile, “James is wonderful with a bullwhip. Just let yourself flow with the pain—let it take you to that special place.”

James started slowly, using a flogger at first to warm and sensitize their skin. Carly closed her eyes, reveling in the thuddy strokes of the leather, almost like an embrace as they brushed her skin. As the flogging progressed, Carly’s breath quickened to a pant. She felt her cunt moistening and opened her eyes, seeking out Adam. She couldn’t see him and realized he must be standing behind her. Amy had her eyes closed, her lips lifted in a small, serene smile.

After a time James said, “I’ll be switching to the whip now, girls. Amy, what’s your safeword?”

“Rose, Sir,” she replied, not a trace of breathlessness in her voice.

“And you, Carly?”

Carly drew in and then let out a long breath in an effort to slow her breathing. “Auction.”

“Good. Remember, there’s no shame in using your safeword. It’s a tool, a way of communicating that can be essential, especially when folks are just getting comfortable with each other. No one will judge you if you use it. It’s not a sign of weakness.” He paused while Carly absorbed this and then added, “And if you find you can’t speak? What do you do then, Amy?”

“Make a fist and then open and close my hand, Sir.”

“That’s right. Same goes for you, Carly, got it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

The loud cracking sound of the bullwhip made Carly jump, her gasp audible. Amy remained perfectly still beside her. When it popped again, Amy moved slightly, and Carly realized the whip had made contact. Another crack, and this time it was Carly who jumped even before her brain processed the sudden, stinging welt left by the tip of the whip on her ass.

Over and over the whip cracked first against Amy’s ass and then Carly’s. Though she tried to steel herself, each time the tip made contact with her skin, Carly jerked and gasped. Amy remained still as a graceful statue beside her, though her head began slowly to fall back, her lips parting.

Each cracking pop of leather against her ass left a small trail of blazing heat. Carly began to dance on her toes, her body twisting to avoid the lash, even as her mind ordered it to stay still and deal. It hurt, oh, it hurt! Carly’s heart beat fast and high in her throat. Her ass felt like it was on fire as the whip snaked again and again over her skin.

Auction. I can say the word and they’ll stop. They won’t judge me. It’s not a sign of weakness.

Suddenly she felt a hand on her back, and Adam’s voice near her ear, his tone soothing. “Stop fighting it, Carly. Flow with it. Flow with the pain. Embrace it. Accept it. Breathe. Take long, deep breaths. I know you can do this.”

Carly leaned back into his touch, feeling as if he’d just pulled her back from the brink of giving up. She
could
do this. She
was
doing it. She was grateful for his words and determined to do better.

Taking as much air into her lungs as she could, Carly slowly exhaled, and then drew in another slow breath. The cracking of the bullwhip continued, but this time when it touched her skin, Carly forced herself to lean into the pain, to reach for it. It hurt as much as it had before, but somehow she was able to handle it better. Adam’s words still echoed inside her head—
I know you can do this.

Carly glanced at Amy, who remained still and serene beside her, her head back, a look of utter peace on her face. Carly let her own eyes close and dropped her head back too, as if by assuming the position, she would find the same level of serenity and acceptance.

“Yes,” she heard Adam breathe softly behind her. “Yes, that’s it. Good girl. I’m proud of you.”

Something began to shift inside her. She didn’t feel precisely serene, but she found she could tolerate the fiery sting. Not only tolerate it, her skin actually tingled in anticipation of the lash as she waited her turn to feel its cracking kiss. She fantasized it was Adam wielding the whip, and they were alone. Soon he would take her down and make love to her, his skin cool against her fire, his kiss soothing away the pain…

She realized the whipping had stopped, and some kind of soothing balm was being gently stroked over her stinging, abraded skin. And then the cuffs were released, and Adam had his arm around her shoulders. He led her to the sofa, where Amy was already kneeling in front of James, who sat back, the bullwhip curled on his lap.