Chapter Six

Sebastian

"Challenge accepted, slave," says Jackson.

In the next breath the flogger sings against my inner thigh, making me flinch and grit my teeth. "Master," I say. "May I have a bit?"

Jackson fetches one from its place on the wall nearby. "Very well. Wouldn't like to damage those pearly whites," he says. "Open up."

I allow him to place the silicon bit between my teeth, bite down, then relax, adjusting to the sensation.

"Will that suffice, or would you prefer something mounted to a harness, or a ball gag, perhaps?" Jackson offers, his glacial blue gaze boring into me.

"This is good," I manage around the bit. "Thank you, Master."

Satisfied, Jackson returns to his position.

I can't help but admire his form. Everything about him exudes raw masculinity and power. I can't wait for him to manhandle me later. He can toss me around as much as he likes, and I'll love every damn moment of it.

His inked muscles flex as he strikes again and again, the deceptively soft suede tails of the flogger kissing my skin with a sharpness and precision only a true Dom and Master can inflict.

Heat radiates through my skin, and my bite pressure on the bit refreshes with each blow. Before long, my legs are aflame from ankle to crotch. There's not an inch of them that doesn't feel lovingly and brutally flogged. Rather than any one spot being more painful than another, it smarts most when Jackson purposely, and with a glint of knee-weakening malice in his eyes, flogs an already hard-whipped area.

He knows how to extract an exquisite amount of pain without breaking the skin. Which is just as well, because if this cunt fucked my ink, he'd be paying for the fucking plastic surgery to fix the damage. My beauty and charm are a part of my business, and patrons pay a hefty fee for a private show with this body. I don't blame them, I'm hot as fuck.

"Motherfucker!" I swear, eyes ablaze, the bit falling from my lips. My cock is on fucking fire.

And Jackson stands there, teasing the floggers through his fingers, watching me with the utmost amusement. "Feisty," he muses aloud with a smirk on his face. "It suits you. But I'm afraid that bad behavior can't go unpunished, can it now, my slave?"

Slowing my breathing consciously, I nod. "No, Master."

"Well, how's this?" he says. "I'm in a fantastic mood, so I'll let you choose your own punishment from a selection of options." Jackson reaches back to tie his long, beachy blond hair into a messy man-bun, then leaves me to my own company as he fetches an assortment of toys, accessories, and implements. When he returns, my anus puckers and a shiver runs through me.

"So, option one. You stay this way, and I introduce the nipple clamps and breath play, as I jack you off for all and sundry to see. Option two, I flip you around, and we see how many anal beads fit up that ass of yours. And option three, now that you're all warmed up, I take you back to a private room so I can fuck the literal shit out of you and remind you who's boss."

I bite my lip in thought. I haven't played hard in a good while, and all three options sound like an epic time, but I've wanted Jackson to bury himself balls-deep in me since I walked in The Dungeon's doors… "Three," I answer confidently, holding my master's gaze.

Jackson's eyes sparkle in the dim, mood lighting of the club. "Excellent choice," he growls, his voice low.

Its gravelly timbre turns my insides to jelly in an instant. I am so ready for this.

My Master spends the next couple of minutes releasing me from the bonds that hold me to the St. Andrew's Cross, before reattaching the leash to my collar. "Come, slave," he says, tugging me along.

As we walk away a man dressed in skimpy leather appears with a utility belt of cleaning products, and he's sanitizing and wiping down everything we touched during our short session. And before we've disappeared down the dark labyrinth of halls to find a free room, the cleaner is already done and gone, like he was never there.

We find a private playroom and Jackson leads me in, then uses the key card in the wall slot to lock the door behind us. The room is luxuriously appointed. A king-sized, four-poster bed at the center boasts wrought-iron craftmanship, and lush red satin sheets. With its Gothic design and the incredible metallic roses that spiral their way up each post, it looks like it could belong to the Devil himself.

A whipping post features off to one side of the room, while a sawhorse used for spanking and bondage takes up a similar appointment on the opposite side. And hidden away in an alcove by the door is a contained shower recess for cleaning up after particularly messy play.

A shiver runs through me, and I lick my lips in anticipation. The thought of more furniture play is erotic, and just thinking about it has me hardening again. But we're here for the big bed, and the rough and tumble that will take place there.

"Get on the bed, slave," orders Jackson as he unclips the leash from my collar.

I obey without question, and like a good slave, despite the fiery kiss of the flogger still burning my flesh, I kneel in the middle of the bed. With my head bowed, back straight, and palms facing upward—resting on my thighs in submission and supplantation—I'm ready to receive or give as instructed.

The anticipation of our union hangs in the air, thick and tangible as Jack retrieves a pair of leather handcuffs, and a connected pair of nipple clamps.

I wince at the sight of the clamps. Damn. Those bastards hurt. But it's likely I'll scarcely fucking notice their bite once Jackson, the tattooed Viking, is burying all eight inches of his pierced cock inside of me!