Page 3 of Betrayed

Mari dropped it with a clatter onto her vanity. She needed to change the happy, upbeat, catchy tune. It was an attempt to prove to her kids and the outside world that she was fine when she really wasn’t.

“Time to end the pity party for one and get your ass in gear,” she told her reflection.

Leaning in once again, she carefully slicked on a layer of Chanel’s Rouge Coco, the shade called,crimson kiss.With her alabaster complexion and black hair, it suited her, but she wouldn’t dare wear the bold color any place else except a kink club while trolling for a dom for the night.

Once applied, she dabbed on a second layer of sealer which would help it last for hours, but more importantly, keep it from smearing, an absolute essential for the night she had planned.

Once finished, she took a step back, taking in the result of two hours’ worth of preparation. Four, if she counted the all-over waxing session she’d endured yesterday. She was indeed a true masochist to undergo such painful torture, but most doms she encountered liked bare, or some sort of miniscule sculpted artwork that was too difficult to maintain. She chose the easiest path because as a submissive, it was her job to please, even if the dom was hers for only this one evening. But she fervently hoped if he approved, he would reward her efforts.

Turning from side to side, she ran her hands down the front of her black corset dress. The neckline had a touch of delicate lace, and a string of black beads with a black velvet rosette adorned the bodice. It laced up the front—a necessity, as she would have never gotten back laces tight enough without help—and topped a flirty three-tier ruffled skirt.She’d paired it with sheer black stand-up stockings and black heels, a real find with a removable rosette on the toe vamp that perfectly matched the one on her corset.

She checked her hair and makeup one more time. Her lips twitched slightly. Not quite a smile, which was a rarity, but she was pleased with her reflection in the floor-length mirror. Not bad for a thirty-eight-year-old widow and mother of two college-age kids.

Another quick glance at the clock told her she was running way late, the commute to San Antonio not getting any shorter with her primping in front of the mirror.Mari quickly stuffed her clutch into her tote bag that contained all the essentials for a night of indiscriminate sex. Then she flipped off the lights and rushed out the door, or as much of a rush as she could manage in her sky-high fuck-me shoes.

* * *

UPON ENTERING THE DUNGEONat five minutes after nine, Mari paused, as always, struck by the sights and sounds and smells. Although a member for almost a year, the abject carnality displayed on the main floor never failed to take her by surprise. It wasn’t only the gothic atmosphere that gave her pause, or the circle of roped-off stations with every kind of BDSM equipment imaginable, and some which even her twisted mind couldn’t conjure if she had another lifetime. It was the members themselves. They dressed in widely varied styles of fetish wear from the tastefully sensual, to blatantly vulgar, and completely bare.

She spotted a woman in a PVC body suit covered from head to toe except for cut-outs for her breasts, pussy, and ass cheeks. More shocking was a man, obviously a submissive, being led by his mistress on a leash, dressed in nothing but a collar and some sort of torturous metal cage around his private parts. Mari couldn’t be sure what all it entailed as she deliberately avoided looking at him further, particularly below the waist.

Most of the men wore black jeans or leather pants—the dominants and masters, clearly—fewer in dress trousers, rarer still, a three-piece suit. Many were bare chested or wore vests with nothing on underneath. The ones with a more conservative bent had on T-shirts or dress shirts and, of all the choices on the color wheel, most favored, black, herself included. A few dommes were in scarlet, and an occasional submissive wore pastel pink or yellow. The most predominant color, however, was skin. Everywhere she looked bare skin, bottoms and breasts mostly, the latter often adorned with jewelry or clamps.

She looked down at her own attire, overdressed by club standards but daring for Marilee from suburbia. She’d come a long way from the black sheath dress she’d worn on her first venture here. Having left her killer shoes in a locker in compliance with house rules, she moved barefoot down the short flight of stairs to the main floor.

At the bottom, Mari stumbled as her knees buckled. Keeping her feet by some miracle, her head came up, and she searched for the distinctivewhooshand ominouscrackthat had startled her. The hauntingly familiar sounds repeated, rising easily above all others in the crowded cavernous room.

Mari knew immediately what it was. Not a flogger or a strap, and it certainly wasn’t a paddle. When it sounded again, chills of both fear and longing coursed through her body.

She tried to pinpoint its direction, scanning the back wall where the larger stations were located. Thinking she must be mistaken—there simply wasn’t enough room to employ one safely in such a crowd—her curiosity moved her forward.

As another sharp crack sent a current of excitement racing to her nipples and clit, she stopped in the middle of the path that wound through the stations. Closing her eyes, she listened not only to the sub’s resonant groan of pleasure but the collective intake of breath from the spectators.

Although she knew without question what was happening, she needed to see it for herself. Mari pushed through the crowd until she located one of the larger stations—four times the size of a regular one—with a group of onlookers standing five deep at the rope. She ignored the irritated looks the other members sent her as she squeezed between them, working her way to the front. At the scene taking place beneath the spotlight between a bound sub, her master, and his six-foot-long whip her knees nearly crumpled again.

Mesmerized, she watched as the black braided lash snaked out, seeming to cut through the air as it moved quickly toward its vulnerable target. It landed briskly against the submissive’s trembling flesh, and the next moment was gone. Remarkably, in its wake, it left only a pale-pink line, no welts or skin breaks. Mari knew personally the supple leather also left something more tangible, the stinging kiss of erotic pain.

Her eyes followed the lash from the braided cracker at the tip up its length to the handle and the broad, masculine hand that gripped it. An extension of the dom’s long, muscular arm, she could practically feel the power he employed, as well as the tight-fisted control he exerted with every stroke. Bare from the waist up, his sinewy forearms and biceps flexed each time his arm drew back, his shoulders rippling and bunching as he let the whip fly with what she recognized as a masterful throw.

Unable to look away, Mari noticed how he moved with fluidity and grace uncommon in such a big man. On the next stroke, a strident cry rent the air as the submissive came violently, shuddering and pulling at her restraints.

Her master stopped and approached the woman he’d reduced to a quivering, sobbing, blissfully replete mess beneath his lash. As Mari’s body decelerated from the heart-pounding voyeuristic excitement of the scene, she realized that throughout it all, the master hadn’t turned and revealed his face so focused was he on his charge.

At that moment, she recognized the potential danger of the man. She staggered back, thinking if she didn’t know his face, she could stay away. Deeply shaken by the scene, she spun and made her way on trembling legs to the front of the room. Once there, she lurched up the steps of the raised platform along the wall and took a seat on a couch.

Nicknamed subspace by the members, it was a designated area for submissives who wanted to play. From their elevated vantage point, they could see the entire floor while being seen and appraised by dominants seeking a partner for the evening.

Mari focused on breathing, reminding herself she was looking for a low-intensity dom. It wasn’t what she needed or wanted, but it was how it had to be. Tucking her quivering hands under her thighs, she tried to appear calm, arranging her features in what she hoped was a serene expression, even though she was a twisting mass of anxiety inside. It wasn’t easy, but necessary in case an interested dom was watching, perhaps thinking about approaching.

Most nights, she hoped for a straightforward dom who would express his interest and then quickly get down to the business of flogging and fucking her so she could be on her way. Tonight, she would welcome a little time to collect herself first.

* * *

AS ANOTHER STROKE OFthe lightweight flogger landed in the center of her back, her body easily absorbed the blow. The subtle shift of her weight forward and back set the chains overhead into motion. The soft clang as the links collided rang out like bells, the sound pleasant, which unfortunately was one of the few positives about the uninspiring scene. While the multi-tailed lash continued to fall in steady strokes, moving over her ass and thighs, she acknowledged that the sensation was pleasant, like a massage. Unfortunately, it didn’t come close to the deep-tissue bodywork she got from Mason, the masseuse at the day spa she frequented. And it in no way inspired the sexual response she had hoped to have experienced by now.

She cracked an eyelid and located her dom for the evening, eager for a sign that the scene soon be drawing to an end.

Next time he asks, tell him it’s fine,an inner voice suggested. That should end things in about ten seconds flat.

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