The Keyholder (2 page)

Jack raised his eyebrows. “Whoa,” he said. “That’s pretty damning.” He turned to Charles. “Is that the kind of person you want running this place?”

“Oh, well,” Charles said, flushing. Nora knew he still thought she was overreacting. “Nora has this highly developed intuition, I guess you’d call it. She feels things other people don’t.

“But by the same token”—Charles put his arm around Nora’s shoulders and gave her an affectionate squeeze to lessen the sting of his words—”Nora’s got a very active imagination. She can sometimes jump to some pretty wild conclusions as a result of those feelings she gets, without really giving someone the benefit of the doubt. It may not have been unanimous, but the choice of Phillip as Master Keyholder was agreed on by the majority of the members. Whatever personal feelings we have for the guy, he is doing a good job so far running Hawthorne Dungeon.”

Nora pulled away from her husband, flustered and a little angry at what seemed to be his trivializing of her feelings and dismissal of her concerns. “That said,” Charles continued, reaching out to stroke Nora’s cheek, “would I ever let him within a thousand yards of my sub girl for a scene? No fucking way.”

Somewhat mollified by this, Nora tried to lighten the tension their exchange had caused by adding in what she hoped was a jaunty tone, “Not to mention, Phillip is too handsome for his own good. I never trust a guy who’s prettier than I am.”

Both Jack and Charles laughed, Charles adding gallantly, “Impossible, my love. You are beauty incarnate, lovely beyond compare. And now would be a good time to show Jack not only our dungeons, but my sub girl’s remarkable submissive grace. Are you ready to do my bidding?”

Nora slipped effortlessly into submissive headspace in response to Charles’ dominant persona, her vexation at being misunderstood slipping away. “Your command is my wish, Sir,” she said softly, making Master Charles smile.

“Go upstairs and prepare yourself,” he said, his words sending shiver of delicious anticipation through Nora’s psyche. “We will join you momentarily.”

“Yes, Sir.” Nora left the two men and flew up both flights of stairs to the second floor. She walked quickly down the hallway toward the harem room. It looked different during the day, with sunlight streaming in through the high windows. The floor was white marble shot with gold, several well-worn but fine oriental carpets placed about the open space. Large, plump throw pillows were set strategically near silk-upholstered antique sofas and chairs.

In a place of honor in the center of the room hung a wooden pillory, suspended on either side by thick iron chains. Nora had spent many a delicious hour with her head and wrists locked between the wooden slats, her perfect Master subjecting her to erotic torture and sensual play that never failed to leave her thoroughly and properly used, and utterly sated.

Nora quickly shed her coat and street clothes, which consisted of a blouse and simple skirt—she never wore pants or underwear, since it pleased Charles, and her, to know she was always accessible to him. Stepping out of her shoes, she collected her things and folded them neatly. She moved quickly to the wardrobe and opened her special drawer. She slipped into a satin bodice, positioning the stiff stays beneath her breasts and pulling the laced sash tight. Her breasts were clearly visible through the sheer fabric, her pierced nipples already jutting in anticipation.

Next she pulled on the matching crotchless pantaloons, tying the satin bows at her thighs to properly expose her smooth, shaven pussy for her Master and his guest. She glanced down at the small diamond sparkling at her bellybutton and flexed her flat, strong stomach muscles in anticipation. Finally, she slipped the dozens of thin gold bangles that completed her outfit over both wrists.

She heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs and then the men coming down the hall, their voices a soft, masculine murmur. She hurried into position, kneeling on a cushion near the door, arms behind her head, back straight, heart thumping in anticipation.

“Very nice,” Jack murmured as the two Doms entered the room. “You’re a lucky man, Charles.”

“Don’t I know it,” Charles said with feeling, his words sending a rush of warmth through Nora’s loins. “Nora is my true love. I may own her body and her obedience, but she owns my heart.”

“I can see you’re still a hopeless romantic,” Jack said with a smile.

“And you remain a hopeful one, am I right?” Charles shot back.

A look of longing flashed over Jack’s features, quickly replaced by an impish grin. “Hey, Nora, do you have a sister?”

“Lots of sister subs, Sir,” she replied with a smile.

“Matchmaking later,” Charles interrupted with a laugh. “I want Nora to dance for us.” He moved to the glass breakfront that housed the sound system. The room filled with the soft, haunting sound of exotic Eastern musical instruments that wove together a complex, sensual rhythm. Nora rose to her feet in a single fluid, much-practiced motion.

The men sat on the large red sofa. Nora looked from Charles, who smiled encouragingly at her, to Jack, who was eyeing her with a frank and appraising eye, the swell in his jeans testament to his appreciation. For a moment she felt self-conscious, half-naked as she was in front of a man who, though he was staying with them temporarily until he found a place of his own, was basically a stranger.

Her eyes moved back to Charles and, as she let herself fall into his dark, commanding gaze, the nervousness fell away like a discarded shell. She let the music move around and through her, allowing its mesmerizing rhythms to command her body. Nora’s body became an extension of her soul as she let the music and the dance claim her.

Charles scooted forward on the sofa, gesturing for her to come closer. He placed his hand on her bare mons as she swayed before him. He pressed his fingers into her wetness and an involuntary shudder moved through her. He moved his fingers sensually inside her, the flat of his palm rubbing against her erect clit.

“She’s extremely orgasmic,” Nora’s Dom calmly informed his friend, who was watching intently. “She can come on command, isn’t that right, my sweet slut?”

A rush of heat moved its way through her body, splashing onto her cheeks—part embarrassment in front of Jack, but mostly pure, molten lust. “Yes, Sir,” she answered, her voice hoarse.

“Spread your legs wider. Offer your cunt.” Charles rubbed harder, the friction perfect. Nora moaned.

“I didn’t tell you to stop dancing,” Charles said softly, though with undeniable command. “Use your torso and arms. Stay focused on the music.”

Nora nodded, a stab of shame moving through her at his reprimand. She knew better. She had forgotten herself because Jack was there. She executed an upper-body shimmy, moving her arms in graceful waves that made her gold bangles slide in tandem along either arm. Charles continued to stroke and tease her now-sopping, throbbing pussy, each perfect thrust of his fingers making it that much harder to concentrate.

Finally it became too much. She was seconds away from an orgasm she couldn’t control or postpone. Sweat had beaded on her upper lip and at the small of her back and her entire body was trembling.
Please,
she begged silently,
let me come, Sir. Let me come!

Her beloved heard her silent plea. “Come for us, sub girl. Now,” he instructed, his palm grinding in perfect rhythm to the hypnotic music.

Nora let the last vestige of tremulous control go with a cry of relief. The climax shot through her like a rocket exploding from deep inside, its sparks igniting every bit of her from her toes to her scalp. She nearly fell over, held up only by Charles’ firm hand still cupping her sex, several of his fingers still buried inside her.

Finally he pulled his hand away and held out his arms. Nora fell gratefully into them. Her husband held her tight until her trembling subsided and her heart slowed its pounding. She must have zoned out for a moment or two, because she only heard the last part of his sentence, “…was something else, didn’t I?”

“You did, and I repeat,” Jack replied. “You are a lucky man. I can’t wait to learn more about this place firsthand. Where do I sign up?”

“I can help with that. Would you care for some coffee and sweet rolls?”

Nora whipped her head toward the sound of Phillip’s smooth, unctuous voice. He stood in the doorway holding a large tray laden with cups and plates. Charles patted the cushion by his thigh and Nora moved from his lap to the sofa. She resisted the urge to cover herself in front of Phillip, in spite of his insolent gaze.

“That looks fantastic,” Charles said as Phillip set down the tray. They’d already had a large breakfast before coming to the dungeons, but Charles never refused sweets. He was one of those annoying people who could consume three thousand calories of pure junk every day of his life, and remain as slim as he’d been in college. He took an offered roll, as did Jack. Nora declined, though she did accept a mug of coffee, adding some of the cream from the tiny china pitcher he’d included on the tray.

“You may dress, sweetheart,” Charles whispered to Nora. She slipped gratefully to the wardrobe and dressed, glancing back at the three men as she did so.

As if feeling her gaze, Phillip looked up suddenly, his eyes meeting hers. Charles and Jack were speaking softly, and neither noticed Phillip. He smiled slowly, the curve of his lips at once sensual and cruel.

Nora turned quickly away, mentally shaking the man’s negative energy from her psyche. Despite his terrific references and supposed depth of experience, from what she could observe, he misinterpreted the dynamic of D/s as permission to act like a bully.

But did that make him evil?

Eva lifted her head sharply at the sound of tiny skittering feet behind the wall. She must have dozed off for a few minutes. She wriggled her fingers. They weren’t numb—that was good. He hadn’t bound her wrists as tightly this time. Her legs hadn’t fared as well. They felt numb from knee to ankle, but that was better than the stabbing pain of the raw rice he’d made her kneel on last time. That had been worse than a whipping. Fortunately, she’d managed to be a good girl since then, and he hadn’t found the need to punish her.

She lifted her shoulder in a partially successful effort to scratch the tip of her nose. Her scalp tickled and she did her best to ignore it. Her bladder felt full, painfully full.
Don’t think about it. Don’t focus on it.
She was getting much better at holding it in. She hated kneeling on wet newspaper, hated the pungent smell of stale urine, hated the humiliation when he entered the small room, his icy blue eyes gleaming with a combination of malicious pleasure and fury. She hated the inevitable punishment that followed.

Her gaze shot to the door as she heard the scraping click of a key in the lock. The door opened and Master Phillip appeared. She looked down quickly, not wanting to be caught staring, his most recent admonishment still stinging on the backs of her thighs from her last disrespectful act of failing to keep her eyes properly downcast.

Though she knew it made no sense, she still found it hard to reconcile his angelic good looks with such an evil heart. He looked like an ad for fine cologne, all golden perfection and masculine beauty from his wavy blond hair and brilliant blue eyes down to his perfectly sculptured physique. But she’d learned all too well what cruelty lay behind the beautiful features.

“I would have been up to check on you much sooner,” he said as he approached her. “Some unexpected guests.” The thought of other people somewhere in the house made Eva nearly sick with longing. Somehow—somehow she had to get out of this room! But how? He always left her bound in some way, even if just tethered to her bed. Though he no longer gagged her, she couldn’t risk calling out when she was alone, not daring to risk his wrath. But the thought, the realization there were others in the house, others who had no earthly idea she was imprisoned in this attic room, subject to this monster’s every sadistic whim—it was almost worse than being completely alone.

A heavenly scent of fresh coffee and warm, yeasty cinnamon bread assailed her nostrils, jumpstarting her cramped, empty stomach.
Oh, let it be for me. Let it be for me! Please, please, please.
She clamped her mouth shut, realizing with dismay she’d made a small, involuntary mewling sound. Had he heard it? Would it count against her? Would he turn around and leave, taking the promise of sustenance with him? She blinked back tears.

Show me your submissive grace, slave. Strive for serenity in the face of suffering. Back straight, cunt offered, breasts thrust proudly forward. You belong to Master Phillip. You exist to serve and please him. Remember that, and he will reward you. Forget it and you will suffer.

These words had been drummed repeatedly into her head over the past days—weeks—months? How long had she been held in this small, windowless room by this monster? It was terrifying to realize she had no idea. Time had ceased to have meaning in a linear sense. Her life was marked only by when he entered and when he left. When she would be permitted to eat, to drink, to use the bathroom, to sleep. When he would beat her, when he would make her come—the forced orgasms sometimes wrenched from her until she passed out. And those occasional moments of kindness, of gentleness, that were almost more terrifying than the abuse, because she had come to treasure them so, to long for them, to almost feel a certain pathetic, twisted connection to the Master who controlled her world.

The sound of his boots moving over the floor recalled her to herself and she arched her back, spreading her knees wider and trying to thrust her hips forward as best she could in her kneeling position. Keeping her eyes down, she lifted her chin as he’d taught her to signify her slavish pride. She almost shook back her hair—the habit still there, though the hair was not. All that was left was the prickly fuzz of new growth.

How she had cried when he cut it off, her tears partly for the loss of what she had always considered her best feature—thick, shiny blond hair tumbling in a cascade of gold down her back—and partly because he’d been so uncharacteristically gentle and kind as he’d done it, explaining it was necessary to help her get in touch with the essence of her submission. He had to break through the arrogance of vanity, he’d said. It was essential to tear her down, to reduce her to nothing, in order to build her back into something worthy of his training and care.