A FIRM HAND: DOMINATED #4
by
Erika Masten
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright © 2011 Erika Masten.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Erika Masten
Published by Sticky Sweet Books. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored on, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons or events are purely coincidental.
Warning: Explicit content. Intended for mature readers only. All characters depicted herein are 18 years or older, and all sexual activities are of a consensual nature.
This is a work of erotic fantasy. In real life, please protect yourself and your lover by always practicing safe sex.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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The first time I saw Wolf—I don’t know his real name, so that’s how I think of him—I was at an event at The Tower, a luxury BDSM club hidden atop one of the city’s most opulent high-rise residential buildings. It’s not what people might expect, with the midnight black carpeting that looks in certain light like it has been sprinkled with gold dust, the silky gray wallpaper, furniture in black or white velvet or leather or suede, draped in mink throws, and interspersed with antique gold and silver objets d’art. Not exactly a stark, gloomy dungeon with metal grates on the floor.
Which is not to say there aren’t gleaming restraints dangling from carefully chosen spots on the walls and coffered ceiling, or that The Tower lacks rigging equipment. It’s just nestled in among the chaise lounges, standing porcelain vases, life-size Greco-Roman-style statuary, antique pool table, fully-staffed bar, etc. Members like to be comfortable while watching others being made quite uncomfortable.
At The Tower, I’m a bit of a mystery. No one is entirely sure if I’m a Domme, a submissive, a switch, or strictly a voyeur. I turn up, on average, once or twice a week, though I’ve stayed away for weeks at a time if I’m in a mood. I am always dressed in black, usually some variation of a pencil skirt, a tight cashmere sweater or silk shell, stockings with meticulously aligned seams up the back, and high heel boots or suede platform pumps—and, of course, the mask all members wear to protect our identities. Without the mask, nothing about my appearance screams I’m on my way to or from a private sex party, but it’s not out of place while I’m there. And it compliments my pale skin and green eyes and the gold highlights in my long, light brown hair.
I’ve never engaged in sex at The Tower, which is utterly abnormal, even in my opinion. No one says anything, not even Bert, who runs the club. He offered me membership after he and I had a very brief, friendly fling a few years back. I’m not sure why he lets me stay, especially with the restricted membership and long wait list. He’s cryptic about it when I ask, something about giving me time to figure out what I need.
It’s not that I don’t want to have sex there. I want it urgently. More specifically, I want to be able to say one of the Dominants there so excited me that I was perfectly happy to let a room full of people watch him strip me and bind me and spank me and fuck me, that I gladly knelt for him and submitted myself to him, that he put a collar around my neck that made me cry more than an engagement ring could.
The problem in that scenario is me. No matter which Dom approaches me, there’s always something that leaves me cold. He’s a few years too old or a few years too young. He’s too heavy a touch and makes me shut down or so light a touch that he fails to excite me. I don’t like his voice or something about his body, or he’s too crude, in a webcam latex sex show kind of way. The one constant among all those problems is me. I had begun to wonder if I had some kind of mental block, a defense mechanism that disguised my fear as disinterest.
Then Wolf appeared at The Tower. The moniker comes from the black wolf mask he wears, its fur blending at top and temples with his own thick black hair. The holes for his eyes reveal startlingly silver-gray irises and lashes so lush it’s a sin they’re on a man. Two-thirds of the way down his face, the mask ends, revealing a hard jawline and full, sensual lips.
The first time I encountered him, he was a new member being introduced around by one of the regulars, someone who had chatted with me over previous visits. The members all use nicknames, but Wolf didn’t provide one, even when the other member introduced me as Raven. It’s a play on the black, feathered mask I wear.
Despite the fact that he was obviously a remarkably handsome man under that mask, despite him being tall and lean, despite his muscular chest and arms clearly discernible under his thin black sweater, and despite the inviting bulge in the front of his black wool trousers, I immediately wrote him off as too young. Maybe thirty, at most, a few years younger than I am. I’ve met few Doms under forty with any finesse. And that was even assuming he was dominant rather than submissive.