Cherise Sinclair - This is who I am

“You have the prettiest round ass. Let’s see it dance, girl.”

The strikes came harder as he drove her out of her comfort zone, harder until her hips were trying to evade yet tilting up for more of the sharp-edged sweetness. Tears rolled down her cheeks as a massive glacier of agony dug deep, pushing everything before it as it carved out its passageway. A wail of distress escaped her.

He laughed. “Nice. Give me more.”

The strands moved lower, sending fire across the backs and sides of her thighs. Wonderful hurting. She heard low crying, and it was hers. Then she was choking on sobs as everything inside her bubbled up and out. He didn’t stop, keeping up a steady rhythm she could depend on as the rest of her dissolved.

Sometime later, she realized the flogger was only caressing her lightly with a whisper of sweet pain, enough to keep her connected. She lifted her head, amazed at how difficult it was. Tears still streamed from her eyes as she sank into the sensation, the heat. She could feel her body, every inch of her skin aware and sensitive in a way she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Slowly she gathered her senses, sliding back into reality.

So, so wonderfully relaxed.

The flogger dropped onto the floor with a thump, and Sam leaned against her again. His body warmth and the abrasion of his shirt set her back to a happy burn even as he pulled her tighter. His erection pressed against her backside, but he didn’t rub it on her or even seem to notice as he teased her nipples into hard points. One hand opened, flattened on her waist, just above her jeans. “You’re a wonderful armful,” he growled in her ear.

Her body shook, urgent with arousal. Her clit throbbed, needing his hand to move lower. Her body remembered exactly how his experienced fingers had felt when he brought her to orgasm.

In front of a room of slavers.

No. When she stiffened, his hand stilled. She wanted more. No, I don’t. No. Not ever again. What was she even doing here? This was sick. Unnatural. “Let me go, Sam,” she whispered, wanting, wanting.

He fisted her hair and tilted her face to study her. The firmness of his grip said he knew she was fleeing from herself. The liquid warmth inside her said he could stop her. Please her. His ice-blue gaze swept over her. “All right.”

She realized the horrible feeling inside had disappeared. The pressure and the shadows were gone from her spirit, washed away with her tears and pain.

What kind of a perv was she that she needed to hurt to be able to empty her emotions?

His hand tightened on her jaw. “Don’t think. Not now. Tomorrow is soon enough.” He reached up and unsnapped her cuffs, then helped her away from the cross. Her back burned where his arm around her waist rubbed the tender skin. Her legs shook as if she had been sick for a year, and she sagged against him.

He walked her to the edge of the scene area. “Kneel here.”

Her whole body went stiff as nausea surged. The Overseer had made her kneel for everything. Always. Or crawl. Would he— “I’m not your slave,” she hissed.

He gave her a look, and his tone was firm but mild. “I don’t need or want a slave.”

Slave. Just the sound made her sicker until his words registered. “Don’t need or want a slave.” Her spine found strength, and her shoulders straightened. “Then why make me kneel?” Her mouth was so dry that her voice came out in a whisper.

“You can’t stand by yourself, baby. You need to be close to the floor.” His rough voice held an odd tenderness. “And I want you where I can keep an eye on you as I clean up.”

Oh. “I’m sorry.” She let him help her down, her right knee, as always, stiffer than the other. To her surprise, when he returned with a bottled water and blanket, he squatted down to wrap the fuzzy fabric around her. Warm. Wonderfully concealing. “Thank you.”

“Right.” His hand stayed on her shoulder, holding her firmly.

She frowned and looked up.

“You’re kneeling for one more reason, girl, and you might as well learn to deal. You’re submissive. That’s part of what you need…and kneeling is an acknowledgment of that. Submission isn’t slavery.”

Her chin tightened. Yes, it is.

He breathed out, then opened the water and wrapped her fingers around the bottle. “We’ll talk later.”

As he cleaned the equipment, she watched. Not young at all, older than her. But he moved with a rancher’s strength and a strong man’s confidence.

She didn’t have that kind of confidence. Not anymore. Hard to believe she’d run her household and a business. Now she was in a BDSM club. Asking to be beaten. She really was the pervert that a lover had called her. Or the dirty slut that the slavers had named her.

Her hands started to shake. She’d done what she’d set out to do. Broken through all the walls. Could feel again. But now she needed to leave. This wasn’t what she wanted in her life. With an effort, she looked around for Kim and Raoul.

They stood just beyond the rope beside Master Z. They’d all been watching.

A flush warmed Linda’s face. Kim might be submissive, but she wasn’t a…masochist. A pain slut. Humiliation swept through her as she set down the water and struggled to her feet. “Raoul, please. Can we go home now?”

A moment of confusion showed on Raoul’s face, and then he nodded. “If you want.” He gripped her arm, steadying her, as Kim went to get her shirt and bra.

Sam saw them and returned. “Raoul.” The anger in Sam’s voice was suppressed but present.

The way Raoul tensed showed that even a weight lifter didn’t want to take on an angry Sam.

Guilt made her shoulders hunch. She was causing a problem between friends. “It’s not his fault, Sam. I asked them to take me home.”

When he reached for her, she flinched back. His arm lowered. “You’re not ready to leave. You can barely walk…and we need to talk.”

“I’m…sorry.” She pulled on her bra, feeling the sweet tenderness of her back. Wanting more. “What you did helped,” she admitted. He’d earned her thanks. In a way, an ugly way, she’d used him. Except…he liked what he’d done, hadn’t he? Had he received as much pleasure from seeing her pain as she had from receiving it? “But I-I don’t do this…stuff. I was just here to learn to put it behind me.”

“Put it behind you?”

“Yes. This isn’t who I am.” She forced her chin up, her spine straight, even though she’d felt so, so much better on her knees. “Thank you for”— for hurting me. For making me cry, making me feel—“for your time.”

He lifted his chin in acknowledgment. But was that hurt she saw in his face for a moment? Surely not from this harsh man who’d called her “baby” and wrapped a blanket around her. Her eyes burned. Why had she ever wanted to feel? Her heart hurt, throbbing as if it had taken the beating instead of her back.

He shot Raoul an unreadable look. “Take care of her.”

Raoul’s fighting stance relaxed. “As if she were my own.”

I’m no one’s. The knowledge didn’t sound independent—just lonely. Linda pulled on her shirt and led the way to the exit to show Sam she didn’t need help. As his gaze burned into her back, she forced herself not to look over her shoulder, not to run and kneel at his feet. Why couldn’t she just have been a…normal person and him a normal person? Then, maybe…

NEAR THE far wall of the Shadowlands, the spotter watched Adrienne wipe down the sawhorse. Tears still ran down her face. Quite nice. Even nicer were the welts on her ass and thighs. Red marks over her hips showed where his fingers had dug in as he fucked her. Used and abused, just the way he liked them.

She hadn’t been a bad fuck, considering her youth. And getting off put him in an excellent mood, despite settling for a woman so thin her breasts were almost nonexistent. But the plumper women had already been picked. Perhaps he should speak to Z about getting a wider variety of submissives.

Or perhaps not.

He preferred to avoid the owner of the club, since the psychologist displayed a disconcerting competence at reading people. In fact, it was good that Aaron had joined soon after the Shadowlands opened. Over the years, the club’s application and interview process had grown more rigorous than he’d be willing to risk.

After all, a man who selected submissives to be sold into slavery must exert a modicum of caution.

Adrienne put away the cleaning supplies in the stand and then knelt at his feet.

“Good enough,” he said.

Biting her trembling lower lip, she gazed up at him. Probably hoping he’d hold her and pet her. Did he look like a pathetically weak-willed Dom?

“I told you before we started, I don’t do aftercare. Take yourself off.” Since he’d been clear about his inclinations, she could hardly bitch about the lack. Z couldn’t fault him if the sub knew the deal.

Without speaking, she scooped up her clothing and scurried away, probably to cry over her injured feelings. Or the welts. Given his choice, she’d be bleeding rather than welted, but she’d been about to use her safe word, so he’d throttled back. Because the Shadowlands had rules.

He smiled, remembering the last whore he’d bought. Paying for his fun annoyed him, but at least he wasn’t forced to stop. Not with fucking the slut, not with hurting her.

As he cleaned his toys, he glanced around the room and spotted the ex-slave leaving with Raoul. Yeah, maybe his next prostitute should be a redhead. Soft. Older.

Interesting that she was here. And wearing a mask, no less. He laughed. Did she believe hiding her face would conceal her identity? Hardly. Her hair and breasts were quite memorable. He ran his fingers over the cane he held. Smooth. Flexible. Would mark that pale skin nicely.

Now where had he seen her? He rubbed his finger over his upper lip. On the slave boat. Seems as if she’d been kidnapped a couple of weeks before, and the association had permitted select buyers to preview the merchandise. The redhead had been in one of the kennels, her head turned and eyes closed to shut out the leering buyers.

Strong woman. He’d liked that.

No one had bought her at the first auction—most buyers preferred the young ones—so he’d bided his time, waiting for her to be devalued and then used as a reward for spotters and guards. But the Overseer had insisted on putting her up for sale again, and Feds had raided the auction.

Stinking Feds. His source of cheap, disposable slaves had disappeared that night. With a grunt of annoyance, he tossed the thin cane into his bag.

As he strolled to the bar, he considered asking Cullen for the ex-slave’s name. No, showing interest in her would be unwise, at least until the Harvest Association ceased to be newsworthy.

He’d have to settle for whores. For now.

Tears prickled in Linda’s eyes as she drove down the cul-de-sac and pulled into her driveway. Home at last. And mercifully alone. She’d have no witnesses if she burst into tears.

At first she’d thought she’d have to spend a mint for a taxi to get to Foggy Shores, but Raoul had arranged for someone to bring her car to his house. Obstinate, overprotective Dom. Bless him.

Linda slid out of the car and regarded the pretty one-story house where she and Frederick had raised their children. Deep inside, she’d harbored fear that it might have been destroyed—like her life had been. Inhaling slowly, she wrapped the peace of the tiny coastal town and her quiet neighborhood around her like a blanket. So familiar. Next door, dolls and cars scattered the sidewalk like a toy explosion. Across the street, the Smiths’ impeccably trimmed yard made the Brendans’ appear even more straggly. Music trickled from Adele’s home where she gave piano lessons.

Not everything stayed the same though. A FOR SALE sign was planted in Myrtle’s front yard. Brenna had mentioned the old woman’s death.

Twenty years ago, the starchy woman had been the first to welcome Linda and Frederick to the street. I didn’t get to say good-bye.

Linda blinked back tears. She’d been in captivity two months and spent another three in California. Almost half a year. She’d changed—oh, she had—but she’d counted on Foggy Shores to stay the same.

But no matter. She was home now, ready to pick up her life. To be the respectable mother of Brenna and Charles, the owner of Foggy Treasures, a good neighbor, a member of the Methodist choir. A normal woman who dated nice normal men.