Chapter Thirty-One

Dexter

Two months later, LA Club Decadent Skies, GoldenEye Airbus III, forty thousand feet above the Pacific Ocean, heading back to LAX…

Crack! Crack!

The harmony of the strips of his calf’s leather flogger connecting against Violet’s skin soothed his troubled soul. He had done the one thing he had sworn never to do without her permission. His eyes were locked on her, gauging every wince and muscle spasm.

Crack! Crack!

Dexter watched Violet’s body begin to relax, her breaths deepening as her muscles lost their tension. Her skin bloomed under his ministrations in a crisscross of red lines, painting a picture of her surrender. He saw her eyelids flutter as her gaze softened and lost focus, slowly slipping into subspace—that ethereal realm where time slowed, and sensation amplified.

“That’s it, little one,” he murmured, keeping his voice to a low rumble, a soothing melody accompanying the rhythm of the flogger. “Let go, love. I’ve got you.”

Dexter had found keeping himself aloof with Violet during scenes and sex was becoming more and more difficult. Her lack of trust in him had hurt more than he cared to admit, yet he couldn’t bring himself to cut the ties with her completely, which was why he played along and maintained their Dom/sub relationship. How much longer he could keep it up, he didn’t know. It was starting to chafe away at the thin veneer still remaining around his heart.

Which had brought him to this moment. He needed to feel that deep connection they used to share. He needed to experience her heartbeat alongside his own in a moment of euphoria untold. Something he had deliberately avoided over the past two months.

With each strike, Dexter felt his own transformation. His worries, his guilt, his fears began to recede, replaced by a profound sense of control and responsibility. He was entering Dom space, that headspace where his world narrowed down to Violet and her needs. Here, he was her guide, her protector, her anchor. Gone was the uncaring man who used his domination over her to keep punishing her for hurting him. A mannerism so unlike him and what a true Dom stood for that he couldn’t face himself in the mirror every day. Now, he could truly reach her and, for just this once, be the man he used to be as he basked in her true submission.

He altered his rhythm, varying the intensity and speed, reading her reactions like a finely tuned instrument.

“You’re doing so well, Spitfire,” he whispered. His voice turned into a warm caress. “Your body is singing for me, little one. Can you feel it?”

“Hmm,” she murmured, already too far into subspace to fully comprehend her surroundings.

Each stroke was a question, each of her responses an answer. He was no longer merely hitting her but playing her, guiding her deeper and deeper into that serene place. Her moans turned into sighs, her winces into smiles. She was floating now, her body swaying gently with each impact, and her expression turned peaceful.

“So beautiful,” he murmured as his voice thickened with emotion. “Fly for me, love. Yes, just like that. I can see it. I can feel your heart beating. God, it feels like heaven,” he sighed as he became lost in the moment.

A warmth spread through him, along with a sense of rightness. This was where he belonged, in this perfect dance of dominance and submission. He was keenly aware of her every breath, every twitch, and every sigh. For the first time since her brother’s death, he could feel her trust like a tangible thing, a lifeline pulling him back from the edge of his own darkness.

“Fuck, Violet, I miss you so much,” he whispered brokenly.

He slowed the pace, lightening the strikes to draw out her pleasure. “Easy now, little one,” he soothed. “We’re almost there. Just a little longer.”

Her skin glowed, and he almost imagined he could hear her body hum. She appeared serene, with a small smile playing on her lips. He knew that space, that quietude. It was a gift, one she gave to him as much as he gave to her. He felt a profound sense of gratitude, of connection.

“Good girl, Spitfire,” he whispered, his voice like a soft kiss against her skin as he stepped closer and pressed against her back. “You’re there. You’re safe, love. I’ve got you.”

“Yes, Master D… I’m safe,” she whispered in a barely-there voice. “And I love you… so much.”

“I’m here for you, Violet,” he whispered in her ear. “I love you, too. God knows I don’t want to, but I do, and you taught me that broken trust can be mended.”

Dexter sighed as, in this moment, they were one, bound together by leather and trust, by pain and pleasure, and most importantly, by dominance and submission. And for Dexter, after months of loneliness and hurt, it was a homecoming, a return to a part of himself he’d thought lost. A return to the gentle dominance he’d always cherished. The dance of give and take and the whispered words and shared sighs filled his soul. It was a return to his true self.

He picked up the flogger and flicked his wrist. Crack! Crack! It was time to bring her back down. As the final gentler strikes of the flogger landed minutes later, Dexter stepped back. His breathing was ragged, and his heart pounded in his chest as the reality of what he had done hit home. Taking a woman to subspace carried consequences, especially if she hadn’t agreed to it. It didn’t matter that he was the one who had needed it. It had been selfish, done to appease his own guilt at how he had been treating her… knowing that once she was off that euphoric cloud, he’d return to the crude, uncaring man he was sure she was coming to hate.

For reasons he couldn’t understand, he just couldn’t get past what had happened. Violet had proven her love, her trust, and here he was, after the lifting experience of being in Dom space along with her, and he could feel the bitterness welling back inside him.

He watched Violet closely, his gaze tracing every line of her face and every quivering curve of her body. Her skin was flushed, bearing the marks of their journey as a testament to her surrender and his control.

“Spitfire,” he whispered, cursing as his voice turned hoarse with emotion, but he needed to see her eyes, needed to ascertain if the connection with her in subspace had been real. “Look at me, little one.”

Her eyelids fluttered open to reveal pupils blown wide and swimming in a sea of tranquility. Her expression was one of profound peace, her brows unfurrowing as her lips curved into a soft, peaceful smile. It was as if all the tension, all the worries, and all her fears had been stripped away, leaving behind only contentment.

“Good,” he murmured, unable to stop his thumb from gently tracing her cheekbone. “How do you feel, my pet?”

Her smile deepened. Surprisingly, her eyes were shining with unshed tears. “Free,” she whispered, her voice barely audible yet filled with emotion. “Safe. At peace. I finally feel at peace.”

Dexter swallowed past the lump forming in his throat as he looked at her. His expression turned dark as the beast inside him stirred awake.

“I can’t remember… what happened, Master D?” She gazed at him questioningly. “What did you do to make me feel like…” Her eyes widened as the penny dropped. Dexter’s lips flattened. “You didn’t. You promised you’d never do that to me.” Her voice thickened with unshed tears at his deception. “Why? What did you try to achieve? What happened? Tell me!”

“You can relax. Nothing happened apart from me doing you a favor. You’ve been stressed. I used subspace to relieve you from all the tension.” His eyes narrowed. “Besides, I prefer to bask in your humiliation when you’re aware of what I’m doing to you.” He untied her and helped her step off the Saint Andrew’s Cross. She didn’t move but stared at him unblinkingly. He sighed as he slipped back into the role of the bastard Dom. For as long as he kept drowning in the mire, she was better off staying away from him.

“I’m not in the mood to fuck you now, sub, so you may as well go and relax in the entertainment area. Maybe I’ll be inclined that way later.”

Dexter was mesmerized by how the dungeon’s dim lighting caught each strand of Violet’s hair as she tossed her head, turning the deep auburn into a kaleidoscope of copper and mahogany. Like flames dancing in a hearth, her tresses shifted with each movement, creating patterns that held him spellbound.

The gentle sway of those silken strands became a cruel counterpoint to the moment when his world shattered. Her voice, stripped of its usual warmth and submission, cut through the intimate atmosphere like a blade of ice.

“I’m done, Dexter.”

The use of his name, and not Master D, struck him with physical force. His chest constricted, and his lungs refused to draw a breath. The Dom space he’d been floating in evaporated instantly, leaving him cold and exposed. Each heartbeat was like glass shards in his chest as the realization crystallized. Spitfire, his fierce, beautiful submissive, was ending their dynamic.

Time seemed to slow as he watched another copper-bright strand fall across her face, a final mocking reminder of all he was about to lose. His fingers ached to brush it away, to touch her, but he kept his hands firmly at his sides.

“I stayed and kept returning here because I love you, and I needed to show you I can be trusted, that my feelings are true and real. But I can’t do this any longer. I’m not a robot, Dexter. I need the warmth, the caring, and the love you showed me that existed between us in the past. Without it... this... whatever the fuck it is we’re doing means jack shit. It’s empty, it’s hollow, and it sucks. You took me to subspace, that sacred place that is supposed to be a wonderful experience between a Dom and his sub, without discussing it first, and it finally proves to me that you don’t give a rat’s ass about my feelings.”

Dexter watched as Violet squared her shoulders. Her eyes met his with a resolve that sent a chill down his spine. The dim lights overhead highlighted the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes. Her posture was rigid, defiant, but he could see the tremor in her lower lip, the subtle shake of her hands. The sadness emanating from her was palpable, a living thing that reached across the space between them and wrapped its cold fingers around his throat.

“Let me say this in the kind of language you understand. There will be no fucking this juicy, hot cunt later, Master D. This is me calling red on our Dom/sub relationship. It’s over. I’m done, and once we land, I’m walking away, and you’ll never see me again.”

He felt her words like a physical blow, each one landing with the force of a whip, flaying him open.

“You’ll be free to find the kind of woman who isn’t human, who doesn’t make mistakes, and who, God help her, isn’t stupid enough to care for her family, no matter how fucked up they are.” Her voice broke on the last words, and Dexter felt his own heart shatter in response.

Her words struck him like the punishing lashes of the thinnest and cruelest crocodile leather whip. They cut deep, ripping apart the delicate seams that had been holding his heart together over the past two months. He watched her stride away, the red welts crisscrossing her back and buttocks was a stark reminder of reaching subspace with her, now turned into a mocking reprimand. Each line seemed to scream at him, accusing him of his foolishness, his cruelty.

“Violet.” Her name crawled untethered from his lips, too soft for her to hear. Desolation swept over him as she disappeared from sight, leaving him in a vast, empty plain stretching out before him. He felt hollow, gutted, like a husk of the man he once was. The sudden emptiness was all-consuming, a chasm that threatened to swallow him whole.

His mind flashed back to the scene that had led them to this point. Theo, Violet’s brother, shot and bleeding out. His own gun smoking, the acrid smell of gunpowder hanging in the air.

He had played the scene over and over in his mind, torturing himself with the what-ifs and maybes. He had come to realize that he couldn’t blame Violet for her reaction. From her vantage point, all she had seen was him lifting his gun and firing a shot, after which her brother had dropped dead.

Confusion swirled within him, a maelstrom of regret and self-loathing.

“I’m the one who fucked up,” he berated himself, his voice echoing in the space surrounding him. “I’m the one who is the traitor. Not her. Not my Violet. Never my beautiful little Spitfire.”

But the realization came too late as the words echoed in the emptiness she left behind. He was alone, truly alone, with nothing but the harshness of her words etched in his brain. The heavy flogger slipped from his nerveless fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud that echoed his inner desolation.

“Violet.” Her name was a hollow sound doused in his own despair. He had scorned her, treated her atrociously, all because she hadn’t blindly trusted in him. And now, he was left with nothing but the shattered remnants of their connection and the punishing burden of his own failure.