CHAPTER ONE October 10 Bruce Greer had always had a talent for breaking and entering. Of course, it had been years since he''d done it--he''d been walking the straight and narrow for almost a decade now. But after what he''d done six weeks ago, that was over and done. Besides, he was really pissed. The lock was a good one, but he''d learned to break into houses at his daddy''s knee. Steve Greer''s interests had been too expensive to fund on a mechanic''s salary, so they''d had to find other sources of income. Daddy was so good, the cops never caught them. Otherwise Bruce wouldn''t have his current job.
He used the picks with delicate skill, ignoring the sweat cooling on his face in the October air as he sought the familiar click and give of the lock''s pins. I''ve got plenty of time. The bastard won''t be back from the gym for another hour. Good thing his target was such a creature of habit. He''d had the man under surveillance for weeks since he''d learned what they''d done to him. How they''d lied to him. Especially Alex. The thought of her betrayal sent a hot knife of anger slicing into his heart.
He''d loved her since they were kids, and she''d done nothing but lie. Only pretended they could become lovers again. All a lie. She''d been laughing at him the whole time. Nobody laughed at a Greer. There had to be an accounting. By the time he was done, they''d all bleed. Her.
Her family. Her friends. They all owed him blood. The lock clicked open beneath the delicate manipulation of his picks. He lifted his bag, opened the door, and walked into the house. October 20 Alexis Rogers had never been this turned on in her life. Especially not from watching somebody else have sex. And how the hell did Frank turn swinging a bullwhip into a sex act? Not just a kink act--something that aroused you if you had a little twist in that direction.
Which admittedly, Alex did. The big man used the lash with sensuality, as if he were eating out the blonde lying across the spanking bench. Plump, pretty, and naked, Tara merely groaned in woozy pleasure. The overhead spotlight caught the wet glisten of her rosy vaginal lips. She lay with wrists and ankles cuffed to the bench''s legs, the wedge-shaped custom padding raising her hips higher than her head. Forty people surrounded Frank and the girl in the house''s sprawling basement dungeon, watching the scene with rapt interest. One of them was Tara''s husband, who leaned a shoulder against the nearest oak support column. Roy was a wiry Dominant with thinning blond hair and a long bony face.
His hazel eyes were fixed on his wife with protective intensity. Though he loved bondage and emotional domination, Roy often said he couldn''t bring himself to hurt his masochistic submissive. Rather than deprive her of what she needed, he liked to arrange for someone else to provide the impact play Tara craved. Apparently, Frank had volunteered to provide the foreplay this time. And foreplay was all he''d be getting out of it; Tara and Roy never had penetrative sex with anyone but each other. Alex intended to make it up to Frank--and God, she couldn''t wait. Captain Kyle Miller, host of tonight''s party, had been singing the big Dominant''s praises for years. She gathered they''d served in the Navy together before Cap retired and returned to Atlanta with his wife, Joanne.
Now Frank and his bullwhip had moved to the area, too. Alex looked forward to sampling his skills. If Cap was to be believed, Frank was the Dom of her dreams. Alex believed him, since the Millers took their kink seriously. Just look at their basement dungeon. Running the whole length of the huge brick colonial, it was a suitably menacing space with cement block walls painted flat black, recessed lighting, and square oak support beams, also painted black. Home dungeon or not, it was as well furnished as any upscale New York sex club, with spanking benches, St. Andrew''s Crosses, stocks, cages, manacles, and just about anything else horny kinksters could use in pursuit of an orgasm.
Cap had built the majority of the equipment himself; he was, according to his wife, good with his hands. She usually leered cheerfully when she said it. At the moment, several pieces of that gear had been shoved aside to give Frank room to swing his whip. Tara lay at one end of that space, spread wide and chained down in all her glorious submissive nudity. CRACK! The popper--the fringe at the very tip of the bullwhip--struck her reddening ass. The lash ought to sting like a bitch, but Tara seemed to feel no pain. Just the reverse, judging by her pleasure-drunk moans. He''d built the intensity slowly, starting with a spanking, then progressing through two different floggers--the first deerskin, the second with thinner tresses that left thin red lines against her creamy skin.
The blows he''d given her were just hard enough to make her squirm, pant, and occasionally yelp. Only when he judged her properly warmed up had he brought out the bullwhip. A single tail could cut like a meat cleaver if you didn''t know what you were doing--or inflict nothing more than a sharp sting if you did. Frank knew what he was doing, and he was careful about doing it. He had to be. He was a Dominant, a practitioner of BDSM--a blended acronym for Bondage and Discipline, Dominance and Submission, and Sadomasochism. It was too easy to hurt somebody badly if you were careless playing BDSM''s edgy sexual games. No orgasm was worth that.
Still, for people like Alex and Frank, sex was an extreme sport: at its most exhilarating when spiced with danger. Between clusters of strikes, the big Dom caressed Tara''s pussy and reddening ass. The combination of pain and pleasure had sent her flying into what the community called "subspace," a high caused by a combination of endorphins and adrenaline. Pursuit of the floating euphoria drove subs to seek out Dominants like Frank. Skilled, a little sadistic, with a keen understanding of a submissive''s sexual needs. The whip cracked into another hissing arc. Frank watched Tara as if savoring every twitch of her lush ass and flex of her fingers, every heartfelt plea and whimper. As he moved, he swung the whip with a bullfighter''s elegant grace.
Alex figured him at 6 feet 5 or 6 inches, maybe two hundred and forty deliciously muscled pounds. Frank''s shirtless torso was brawny enough to make Michelangelo''s David grit his marble teeth in envy. Adding to his erotic appeal, his long legs were clad in faded jeans tucked into polished leather riding boots. God, she''d always had a thing for riding boots. He had the perfect Dom''s face, handsome but intimidating. His nose was just short of hawkish, while his broad jaw had a strong cleft chin. He wore his black hair in a military cut that emphasized the angularity of his features. As if to belie the stark male aggression of the rest of his face, he had a dreamer''s mouth.
Lower lip plump, upper with a pronounced bow, it looked soft, deliciously kissable. Alex couldn''t wait to kiss that mouth--and work her way down the rest of Frank''s glorious body to the erection bulging behind his fly. Sweet Jesus, it looked like he''d stuffed a rolling pin in there. Patience, Alex . Captain Kyle, their kinkster matchmaker, had promised to introduce them after the scene. CRACK! Powerful muscle rippled along Frank''s right arm as he popped the whip against Tara''s ass. The sub caught her breath, then let it out in a long, erotic groan. "Rate it," he ordered.
His smoky voice seemed to curl around Alex''s aroused body like sandalwood incense. Tara moaned something that definitely didn''t sound like pain. He strode around the spanking bench, wrapped a huge fist in her cascade of curls, and jerked her head back with a Dominant''s showy snarl. "When I ask you a question, you damned well answer. Talk to me!" "Uh ." The girl panted. "I don''t ." Yeah, she was definitely flying, as stoned on endorphins as a Woodstock hippie on a joint the size of a redwood.
Frank glanced toward Roy. Tara''s husband nodded and picked up the blanket and bottle of water he''d had waiting for this moment. The physical aftereffects of subspace could include a drop in body temperature and blood sugar; a responsible Top came prepared. Crouching by Tara''s head, Frank began talking to her in a low voice as her husband joined them. "I''ve always thought you can tell the most about a Dom by what he does after he puts down the whip," Calvin Stephens commented from Alex''s right. He was a tall young man with the build of a marathon runner, flamboyantly displayed by a submissive''s leather harness and snug black shorts. "An asshole would walk away and let Roy handle the aftercare. Frank''s doing his part, which says something about his sense of responsibility.
" Cal turned to the man next to him with a wicked grin on his narrow, clever face. His white teeth appeared to glow against his dark skin. "You give great aftercare, too, sir." Ted Arlington snorted and folded his arms. His black tee revealed impressive biceps. He had a broad, intensely masculine face with a wide mouth, a round bulb of a nose, and a thick blond mustache. Though a head shorter than his lover, he was all muscle and power. Anybody who tried to target Ted in a game of "beat the cop" soon regretted it.
"You''re just saying that because I always give you cock as part of the package." Cal grinned wickedly, dipping his dark gaze to the zipper of his Dominant''s black leathers. "And what a nice package it is, sir." "Suck-up." "But you like it when I suck." "You''re pushing.