Sierra Cartwright - Doms of Dark Haven

“What else do you have in your pockets?”

He grinned, pulling her back onto his cock. “Who knows? Maybe something for here…” He settled the pad of his thumb over her clit and circled through the slick lubrication. Her hips tried to buck up against his hand. “Or maybe something for here…” He reached behind, and the tip of his finger thrust into the slick rosette of her anus. Eva dropped her head back and groaned. Pressure and heaviness began to gather in her belly. Every thrust, every movement made the beads in the nipple clamps swing heavily. Every time he pumped into her body, his finger buried deeper, and Eva gasped in shock. The world had shifted in color, just as it had that night in the alley.

Harte growled in arousal. “Your eyes—they've gone silvery blue.”

She couldn't respond. Eva was too busy beating back the climax. “I'm…close…”

“Not yet. Don't come, Eva.”

She panted and moaned. She fought to relax her muscles, to ignore the rushing tide of blood that flooded her pelvis.

“Please.”

“Soon.” He was moving faster and faster still. His hips pounded between hers; his balls slapped against her bottom. He'd grabbed her hips again and was fucking her in earnest, fast and shallow and then deep and hard. He pulled out so far that he nearly fell away, and then returned in a long, hard push. She felt that steady tempo go ragged and knew he was there.

“Now, Eva!” He came inside her with a flurry of frantic thrusts, and through the grip of her climax, Eva felt the rush of his seed into her body. He cried out; his shoulders bunched up, the muscles tight. Sweat beaded his skin. Tied up in the swing, Eva could only feel; she could only take what he had to give her and let the climax sweep through her body. And when it was finished, he leaned forward to slip off the nipple clamps. Her nipples stung and tingled, the sensation rushing straight to her throbbing cunt, giving her one final, twisting spasm.

“Oh damn.”

It sounded more like a prayer than a curse. Harte slipped to the ground, flat on his back in the sun-warmed grass. He looked like a big, sated wolf with a goofy grin on his face. Eva went loose and limp, still suspended in the chair. In the distance, she heard the phone ring.

“You aren't leaving me here to take that call.”

“No. Can't move yet.”

“Come on, Harte. I've got to use the bathroom. Honest.”

He grinned, looked up at her, and lifted his brows.

“Please?”

“Oh, she's using the magic words.”

Eva sighed. “Obviously they aren't the right ones for this situation.” She dropped her head back and looked up at the huge white clouds scudding through the blue, blue sky.

“I've never had a home before. Did you know that?” He nodded, listening to what she had to say. “I've only had hiding spots, even when Mom was with me.

Never a home.” She inhaled. On the breeze, she caught the scent of wolves. The pack was gathering for a barbecue. After a couple of trips up to the Truckee compound, Harte and Eva had decided they needed to tighten the ties within their own pack.

“I love this place. I love the house and the very ground it sits on. But it's not my home, Harte.” He sat up, looking at her with a very serious expression on his face.

“Eva, what's mine is yours. I thought you knew that.”

She gave him a smile and then looked down the road. They'd be here in five minutes, maybe less. He'd timed it well.

“It's not my home, because to me, home is not a place to stay, Harte. It's the person you share it with. You're my home. And I couldn't love you more.” He rose to his knees and looked up at her.

“Now if you'd take me out of this damned swing, I'll prove it to you.”

The smile spread across his face as slow and sweet as honey. His hazel eyes glistened in the sun, and he lifted one dark brow. Eva sighed in frustration.

“Please, Master.”

He unfastened the cuffs on her ankles and wrists, and as he did so, Eva wondered how he was going to explain the odd leather swing suspended from the big oak tree. When voices echoed from the front of the house, she wondered if they'd be able to make it to the bedroom before their visitors caught them in the buff.

When Harte pulled her into his arms and kissed her, she really didn't care anymore.

“Race me to the house?” He was grinning in challenge. In a heartbeat, two wolves raced up the lawn to the big white house. The little black and pink wolf won by a nose.

Someone should lock me up in the psych unit. Rona McGregor sucked in a breath of cool night air. Visiting a BDSM club held third place on her fantasy list, but she'd decided to take it out of order. Just this once. With an eager smile and her heart pounding, she lifted her ankle-length skirt and shoved open the door to the notorious San Francisco club named Dark Haven.

She hadn't done anything remotely adventurous in the last twenty years, but her time for insanity had finally arrived. Her children were in college. No husband anymore— thank you, God. She'd lost weight—she glanced down at her very full bodice—well, some weight. But truly, she didn't look too bad for a woman on the downslide to forty.

Rather than the den of sin Rona had expected, the small entry was dismally bland. A handful of people, also dressed in nineteenth-century clothing, stood in line to give their entrance fees to the woman behind the desk. A few minutes later Rona reached the front.

The perky young woman beamed at her. “Hi. Welcome to Dark Haven's Victorian night. Members sign in here.” The receptionist's purple gown matched the streaks in her spiked hair. She'd apparently ripped out the bodice, leaving only pink netting over her breasts.

Rona suppressed a snort of laughter. Maybe the place wasn't all that bland.

After her years as a nurse, bare breasts didn't unsettle her, but she'd never seen any quite so vividly displayed before. “I'm not a member.”

“No problem. Oh, hey, I love your outfit. Major authentic. Did you go to the Dickens Faire at the Cow Palace today?”

Rona nodded. “That's where I found out about this theme night.” And it had seemed like a sign from heaven. There she'd been, already in the perfect attire.

“Since I haven't been in a place like this before, is there anything I should know?”

“Nah. Here's a membership form and release. Fill it out and give me twenty bucks to get in and five more for the membership, and you're good to go.” The receptionist pushed a clipboard of papers across the desk. “If you hurry, you'll catch Master Simon giving an erotic flogging demo.”

“Master Simon?” A young woman in the line squealed. “Oh God, he's so hot!”

She waved her hand in front of her face so vigorously that Rona almost offered the lace fan clipped to her waistband.

Rona filled out the forms and eyed the others signing in. Satisfaction eased her nerves at the sight of the costumes: an evening gown over wide hoops, a tea gown like hers, two maid outfits with aprons. Any other night she'd be clueless as to what to wear to a BDSM club, but tonight she fit right in. How could she have resisted?

Then she noticed one lady wearing only a chemise. Another woman removed her coat, revealing a pristine white apron—and nothing else. A small worm of unease squirmed in Rona's stomach. She gave the receptionist the paperwork and asked, “Am I a little overdressed?”

“Hell no.” The girl put the money away and handed over a membership card.

“Dommes wear that much, and lots of subs start off dressed. Makes it more interesting when you have to strip, right?”

Strip. In a bar? Me? She'd only planned on watching. The thought of actually participating sent a shiver of excitement up her spine. “Right.”

Rona tucked the card into her reticule, smoothed her gown, then opened the door to the inner sanctum and stepped into the nineteenth century. Her startled breath of air was redolent with perfumes, leather, sweat, and sex. As the passionate sound of Grieg's Piano Concerto in A Minor surrounded her, she moved into the dimly lit room crowded with men in frock coats and women in bell-like gowns. How fun.

She walked forward slowly, trying not to gawk. Dark wood tables and chairs dotted the center of the long room. A small dance floor took up one corner in the far back; a shiny metal bar with two bartenders behind it occupied the other. All fairly normal. Where'd they hide the kinky stuff that her erotic romance novels had promised?

Then a man strolled past wearing nothing except a terrifying harness strapped to his cock and balls. Rona's mouth dropped. Crom, but she could almost feel her nonexistent male equipment shrivel up in horror.

Shaking her head, she started toward the bar, then noticed the right and left wall each held a small stage.

One platform stood empty. On the other… Rona took an involuntary step back, bumped into someone, and muttered an apology without looking away from the stage where— surely that's illegal—a man was whipping a woman chained to a post.

BDSM. Remember, Rona? She'd read about whips and chains and stuff—but seeing it? Whoa.

She pressed a hand to her hammering heart and squashed the impulse to go and snatch the whip from him. As if she could anyway. He stood a good six feet tall with a mature man's solid build; she had a feeling that if someone were to punch him, he'd just absorb it. In keeping with the night's theme, he wore a green silk vest over an old-fashioned white shirt. The rolled-up sleeves displayed thickly muscled forearms.

In contrast, his victim was completely naked, her dusky skin glowing dark red from the effects of the whip—No, it was called a flogger, right? The multiple strands stroked up and down her back so evenly that Rona could time her breathing to the rhythm. Mesmerized, she moved closer—threading her way through the tables and chairs scattered around the stage—and chose a table near the front.

Flogging. The word sounded brutal, but this…this was almost beautiful. The man swung the flogger in a figure-eight pattern, hitting one side of the woman, then the other. Rona leaned forward, setting her elbows on the table. He never struck over the brunette's spine or flanks, obviously avoiding her kidneys with appallingly impressive skill.

He slowed and paused for a moment before whispering the strands across the woman's back and legs. The woman had her side to the audience, and Rona could see her flushed face and glazed eyes. She was panting from the pain or… The victim's bottom tilted outward, swaying in a way that implied arousal, not pain.

Arousal.

A grin flashed over the man's tanned face. He stroked the woman's inner thighs with the leather strands, up and down, each time moving closer to the V

between her legs. She moaned and wiggled.

Rona inhaled slowly, trying to damp the excitement sizzling through her veins.

The man started the flogging again, down the woman's back, bottom, and thighs. Suddenly, he altered the pattern and flicked the lashes between her legs, right onto her pussy. The woman gasped.

So did Rona. She'd been so immersed, it felt as if the whip had hit her…there.

Her insides melted into a puddle of liquid heat. The receptionist had had it right—

this was an erotic flogging. Whew.

The music changed, beginning the dramatic conclusion of the movement, and even the murmured conversations died. Rona could almost smell the arousal in the room, and her hands clenched. So violent…so exciting.

He was flogging the woman's thighs now, the blows gradually moving upward, even harder than before. And again he slapped the strands lightly between her legs.

The woman's squeak turned into a low moan. Then her back, down her thighs, and up slowly. The third time he hit her pussy, the woman shriek and climaxed, writhing in her chains.

A trickle of sweat ran down the hollow at the base of Rona's spine, and her ragged breathing fought against the tight corset. How could something like this—a whipping—make her so hot?

The crowd cheered as the man released his victim. Although victim couldn't be the right word, not with that satisfied expression on her face. Rona blinked in surprise when a younger man jumped onto the stage and took the woman into his arms. After a very tongue-laden kiss, the couple stopped long enough for the two men to shake hands and for the woman to kiss the back of the flogger's hand.