Page 9 of At Her Pleasure

Death came to everyone. You didn’t have to marinate yourself in it, like raw meat preparing to be cooked.

All that said, one date punched through her armor every year. It turned her head into a fucking angst swamp.

Which was why instead of pulling into the paved lot of her preferred BDSM club on a balmy New Orleans night, she should be turning around to go home. Text Ros and the others and tell them she wasn’t feeling it.

A Domme who preferred sadism on the far ass end of edge play had to be more cautious about her state of mind.

She’d set up a session with Sy, but he served at her pleasure. It was a Mistress’s prerogative to send him a brusque, “Changed my mind. Keep your dick on hold until I reschedule.” She could sit on her back porch and drink a glass of wine. Look at her yard.

“Cyn’s an outstanding Mistress, especially if you want a real sadist. But don’t expect more. She’s an emotional dumpster fire.”

She’d overheard that from a group of submissives, hanging out in the club’s social area. None of the little shits had ever had a session with her, but the one who’d spoken had probably been fed the opinion by one who had. Probably a one-off who’d wanted that “more” from her, and had some ill feelings after she shut that shit down.

Despite her annoyance at being reviewed like the latest movie release, she didn’t disagree with the assessment. She was a special kind of messed up, but she’d never claimed not to be broken. Broken things could cut. Or kill.

She remembered the glass carving into the young cop’s chest, the blur of motion, the blood welling up. A drop had landed on her lips. Over the years she’d wondered if that taste was why she couldn’t forget him.

She hadn’t paid attention to his badge number or name plate before he removed his shirt. The registration in the Cadillac’s glove box had expired, so she’d deduced it was his uncle’s name. Paul Doyle. Which gave her nothing. She didn’t pursue it. She didn’t want to know more about the cop. Yet she hadn’t stopped thinking about him for a decade. And he was in the forefront of her mind tonight.

Damn it, she wasn’t cancelling. A last-minute bail because she couldn’t get her shit together was rude. It was only acceptable as a mindfuck, to increase her sub’s suffering in the right way.

So she chose a song on her music player. Settling back, she drummed the steering wheel to match the rhythm of Gretchen Wilson’s “Redneck Woman.” As the chorus built to the hell, yeah! she tapped her booted foot and slapped her thigh to the beat, bringing that energy inside her, pushing the rest out.

She imagined Sy’s back, a brown canvas ready for her marks. She heard the sucking in of his breath as she made contact with her whip, paddle or cane. She’d taste the perspiration collected in the hollows of his spine. Nectar, created by pain she administered.

Her subs were full-blooded, testosterone-packed alphas. Strong-willed men who needed submission and wanted the agony she could give. They made her work to top them. She tightroped the line where a misstep turned predator into prey. She could make a man believe she’d made that stumble, then show him a power he hadn’t anticipated.

Like she’d shown that cop. Except, to this day, she believed he’d seen that about her before she had.

It was okay. She was fine. Later tonight she’d do the porch thing, and get mired in the past, if that was what her fucked-up brain wanted to do. Right now she was going to go see the women who were her chosen family, kick some good-looking ass, and enjoy her evening.

She left her truck and headed into Club Progeny. Though it was busy in the foyer area, she didn’t have to push through the milling people. They saw her and moved out of her way. As they did, she noted the banner for the upcoming Ladies-in-Charge Night. Earlier this evening, management had hosted a formal presentation about it, put on by a contract planner they’d hired to set up and run the event. Vera had said she’d attend, so Cyn had passed. She dealt with enough meetings at work. She didn’t sign up for one on her off time.

She’d go to the event, though. A Dommes-only party, with whatever male and female subs the Mistresses approved as guests, would be worth attending. She’d need to decide who to approve as her plus one. Or two, because she often preferred two full sessions on the same night.

The public stations were already in use. Mistress Doris had a sub strapped to a web. The big man with a thick beard wore a filmy negligee she’d pinned up, revealing a way too small pair of lacy panties on his masculine butt. His erection thrust out the top in the front. Doris was scolding him for such unladylike behavior.

Humiliation through feminization wasn’t Cyn’s kink, but when Doris hit his upper thighs with a paddle, making him grunt, sensation rushed through her own thighs and her pulse increased.

Yeah, she was ready for Sy. She was glad she hadn’t left. Giving in to her weaker impulses was never the right choice.

As she reached the steps to the VIP lounge, Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” burst out of the speakers.

She flashed the DJ an appreciative look, and Tardis pointed a gun finger at her, turning it to a thumbs up. She let the rhythm take her up the stairs. The ladies were in their usual booth, but the first person she saw was Sy.

He sat with three other men, but he’d been watching for her. His golden-brown eyes sparked with anticipation, but he wouldn’t come to her until she was ready.

He looked damn good. A double-wrapped studded belt hung low on his jean-clad hips, and he was shirtless. His dreadlocks rested against broad shoulders and a muscled back. Over the tribal tats circling his right biceps was an inked invitation. Baby, Let Me Be Your Demon.

Though the club lighting didn’t make it obvious, she noted the faint teeth marks above and below the text. She’d put them there during their last session.

If a sub considered bloodplay a hard limit, she was definitely the wrong Domme for him.

Sy had a diamond stud in one nostril. Beneath the jeans, he sported a barbell ladder and Prince Albert ring in his cock. Electricity applied to the jewelry was something he dreaded and craved. His strong face would crease with the effort to bear as many shocks as she wished to inflict upon him. Which was always more than she actually did, because he would beg for mercy, using his safeword, before she reached her own threshold.

Which was fine. A sub had to have that capability for her to consent to a session with him. When he wanted irreparable damage, the temptation to give it to him was too great, the effort to pull back too unbalancing. Having to make the call herself to protect him pulled her out of her Domme-space and made her cranky. So a sub who fucked up like that didn’t get more than one chance with her.

Sy had been a regular for a while, and they provided one another a good time. Which didn’t match most people’s definition of a good time, but it worked for them.

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