Page 41 of At Her Pleasure

The custom piece had been crafted by Jon Forte, another New Orleans Dom. Cyn had sat in Jon’s giant home workshop, watching him make the final modifications for her, welder’s helmet in place, his midnight black hair tied back on his shoulders. His wife, Rachel, a voluptuous blonde thirteen years older than him, was a physical therapist and part-time yoga instructor. She was also his devoted submissive. Their love was like a swimming pool of joy. Anyone in their proximity was immersed in it.

Cyn might have said that sarcastically to Vera, but she didn’t feel it that way. Though she wasn’t admitting it to anyone, it had been peaceful and lovely to be around.

Just like Ben, Jon worked for Kensington & Associates, which was a manufacturing and acquisitions firm. Jon was K&A’s tech and engineering VP.

Matt Kensington, the CEO, worked out at Roughnecks, too. Cyn routinely challenged him to a sparring match, and Matt always refused. With an annoying old school gallantry, he wouldn’t raise a hand against a woman.

It rubbed Cyn the wrong way, but she kept her snark mostly contained, because K&A was a client, and because Matt and Ros were long time friends.

Matt was also good at fencing Cyn’s biting remarks. She could respect that, even as he got on her nerves. He looked at her as if he knew something about her she didn’t know. Arrogant asshole.

She was self-aware, even if she preferred to ignore what her self was aware of, most of the time. Whatever pushed her buttons about him had to do with her, not him. It didn’t stop her from wanting that fight. All good things came to those who could wait. Their banter on it always had an edge on her side of things, but she played nice. Tried to.

She wasn’t great at waiting. But she was far better at it now than when she and Mick had first crossed paths.

Cyn crooked a finger in his direction, keeping her gaze on the pillory. “Come here.”

It didn’t surprise her that he rose to do so. Some subs would have crawled on their knees, because she hadn’t told them to get up. Simon Says.

Mick wasn’t crawling to anyone. But he would kneel before her when she desired it.

The top piece of the pillory was locked in the upright position, leaving the bottom ready to receive a man’s wrists and neck. When Mick stood at her shoulder, she nodded toward it, a mute command.

Mick didn’t hesitate. He laid his wrists in the concave slots, his neck in the center one. The pillory’s current height gave him a thirty-degree bend, his back and ass muscles flexing.

The wrist openings had tracks that could be loaded with accessories. Like a strand of barbed wire knots. Right now the tracks were empty, so when tightened they felt like metal cuffs. The neck opening wasn’t adjustable, protecting the occupant from strangulation, though she kept a sharp eye on her sub’s condition, in case he sagged against it, putting dangerous pressure against his windpipe. If that happened, a release button dropped the bottom and allowed her to ease the unconscious sub to the floor. Since she’d used it more than once, she’d appreciated Jon’s awareness of her need.

She moved to the pillory and pressed the button to lower the top piece. It did so at a gradual pace, giving the occupant time to adjust his wrists and neck position if needed to avoid having his skin pinched. Unless that was what she wanted. Sy had carried an angry red and blue mark on his throat for a couple weeks.

The pillory settled, a satisfying thunk happening as the bolts went into place. Jon could have created a silent locking mechanism, but she’d wanted the psychological effect of a man hearing that point of no return, knowing he was dependent on her mercy.

Moving to her supply cabinet, outside of Mick’s field of vision, she retrieved one of her claws. The metal piece curved over her forefinger, the ring snugged behind her first knuckle.

Cyn returned to him at a saunter, savoring the bare back, the tense ass, thighs and shoulders. Bunched biceps. Were his fingers curled into fists on the other side of the pillory’s hold, or loose? She guessed a half curl. Mick was the type of man who kept his options open.

She slid one fingertip along his back, up the valley of his spine, to his nape, curving her hand over it and tracing the opening around his neck.

Then she dragged the claw over his shoulder. With very little additional pressure, she could draw blood.

A quiver went through him at the unexpected sensation, and he shifted his feet. She moved her touch to his waistband, following it to the front, and unhooked the slacks, loosening them enough to see bare hips. No underwear.

“You follow direction. Why don’t you wear jeans?”

“I would have worn them if you wanted that. Casual business attire just works better for most things I do.”

She left the slacks hanging precariously above the treasure of his naked ass. Moving to his front, she stroked through the longer strands of his hair on top and tugged. She passed that sharp tip close to his unblinking eye, pricked his lip, then combed it through his soft beard.

Reaching down with her other hand, she gripped his left one, guiding his fingers several inches to the right of where his wrist was held. “Feel that tiny knob? Don’t push on it.”

He explored the shape. “Yeah.”

“That’s a safety mechanism. If you push it, the bottom will drop open, letting you go.”

“I’ll bet it annoyed you to have to include that.”

“It did. So I tell my subs not to use it for the wrong reasons. It’s to save their life and dignity, if I pass out at the wonder of seeing their bare ass.”

“You’ve already seen my bare ass, so I don’t have to worry about that. Though it would hurt my feelings if another sub’s ass caused you to swoon and mine didn’t.”

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