Page 18 of A Dead Man's Pulse
Chapter Eleven
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Logan gaped at Donovan, who was leaning against the edge of Dr. Dunbar’s desk with his arms crossed over his chest. Unfortunately, the retired SEAL wasn’t smiling or laughing, which meant what he’d just suggested wasn’t a joke. From the couch in the office’s sitting area, Logan turned his attention to the psychologist, who was perched on the wingback chair where she normally sat for their sessions. “Okay, he’s not kidding, so my next questions have to be, is he fucking insane, and do you have the number for the local loony bin on your phone?”
The corners of Trudy’s mouth ticked upward, and Logan realized she didn’t think his teammate’s suggestion was the most asinine thing she’d ever heard, and that scared the crap out of him. Bolting from his seat, he paced back and forth in front of them, trying to wrap his head around what they wanted him to do. “I was a prisoner in an Afghani hellhole, listening to my buddies being whipped within an inch of their lives before those bastards decapitated them, and you want me to stand there and let someone bullwhip me? You’re both fucking crazy!”
“Logan, please, sit down and hear us out,” Trudy instructed in that calm, soothing tone she often used when he was agitated.
He didn’t respond immediately. After he’d recovered from his meltdown at the club and profusely apologized to Roxanne London, who’d waved him off as if it weren’t a big deal, Logan went back to the Trident offices with Donovan and told Ian what had happened. Despite Logan’s trepidation, his boss had been understanding and was actually surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. Ian had agreed that an immediate consultation with Trudy was important and had gotten the psychologist on the phone to find out if she could squeeze him in.
So, here Logan was, with Donovan in tow, in Trudy’s office overlooking the Tampa Riverwalk, wondering if they were both nuts. Maybe he was sleeping and dreaming about living in a parallel universe where he was the only sane person among them.
Running his hand through his hair, he glanced from one to the other as they waited for him to calm down and listen to their reasoning. Their stoic expressions had him throwing up his hands in defeat. Taking his seat again, he said, “Okay . . . explain how this is supposed to help me and not have me ending up in a padded cell.”
The doctor looked at Donovan. “It’s your suggestion, and I think with your background, you’ll have a better chance of convincing him.”
When Donovan nodded, Logan frowned. Despite having been in the military and combat, he didn’t think there was anything the retired SEAL could say to persuade him to be whipped willingly. He was surprised when the man pushed off the desk and stood, grabbed the hem of his T-shirt, and pulled it over his head. Like all the men at Trident, he was in peak physical condition, but when he turned around, showing Logan his bare back, it was clear not everything was as perfect as it seemed. There were approximately a dozen white, crescent-shaped scars covering the man’s back, and Logan wondered what they were from. Out of all his coworkers, Donovan was the quietest, only letting people see a small portion of what made him tick, so having him open up like this was unexpected.
Pivoting around again, Donovan returned to his spot, leaned on the desk, and pulled his shirt back on. “I was seventeen, and my bigoted father found out I was gay. Decided to beat it out of me—worst thrashing of my life. The scars are from his belt buckle. I’d been seeing a Dom at the time, so I had a taste of what the lifestyle was all about. Without getting into the rest of the shit that happened with my father, I ended up enlisting and was stationed at Pearl Harbor. I found a club, similar to The Covenant, where I could continue my training. Even though my introduction into the lifestyle was as a submissive, it was obvious to others I was a Dom. After talking with some of them, I realized they were right. I have an innate need to protect others, to help them, and was never very comfortable relying on other people, but having them come to me with their problems was something completely different. I like being needed . . . actually, I need to be needed. But in order to become a Dom—a good one—I still had to finish learning what it meant to be a submissive. A Dom should never do something to a submissive that they haven’t experienced for themselves, so they know everything about the positive and negative responses that can happen.”
Donovan straightened and took a few steps, sitting in another chair next to Trudy. He leaned forward and rested his arms on his thighs as he continued. “Anyway, I approached a Domme to help me, since I wasn’t looking for a relationship with anyone at the time. Lani was a bisexual sadist, willing to take me on—first as a submissive and then as a Dom apprentice. After a while, I trusted her enough to tell her everything that’d happened. Her suggestion was to not only teach me how to be a Whip Master, but also to teach me how to release the emotional baggage I was holding onto as a result of the beating. It’s called desensitization.” He paused and raised his brow. “I know you haven’t really been in the club, but do you know what a safeword is?”
Even though there was very little Logan knew about the lifestyle, it wasn’t hard to walk in on conversations about it at the TS compound with Foster, McCabe, and all of the Alpha Team participating in it, along with any significant others. With a slight tilt of his head, he answered, “Yeah, I think. If the submissive says a safeword, then everything stops, right?”
The other man nodded. “Right. You’ve probably also heard the lifestyle mantra—safe, sane, and consensual. Nothing is done to a submissive that they haven’t agreed to. The Dom ensures that all safety measures are taken and that the reason behind why the sub is scening is not self-damaging. There’s a high level of trust in BDSM, and a sub needs be able to trust that their Dom will immediately stop if the safeword is said or know how to read the sub’s body language to stop the scene, if necessary, without the safeword.
“There’s more to it, and Polo will go into all of that with you in the class, but I wanted you to understand the basics, so you understand why I’m suggesting you try the whip. Lani showed me how to channel the painful memories and feelings I was keeping locked inside me and release them. Yeah, the whip hurts at first, but with training, you’ll be able to associate that pain with pleasure, and that’s where you’ll find the release. I still have an occasional session with one of the Whip Masters at the club. When I do, I know I can stop it at any time—it gives me the power and control I didn’t have with my father. I’m the one who says when enough is enough—no one else. As I began to desensitize, the whip, and my responses to it, were no longer a reminder of what I’d been through. It became a cathartic release. I now had the control, and I took that control and made the whip a positive tool instead of a negative one. It took a while, but once I could get through a session without breaking down or freaking out, Lani began to teach me how to transfer that power and control into helping other submissives. That’s when I began to apprentice as a Dom.”
Taking a gulp from the bottle of water that Trudy had given him earlier, Logan mentally sorted through what Donovan had told him. “So, what you’re saying is if I learn how to control the . . . scene . . . that’s what it’s called, right?” When the others both nodded, he continued. “So, I learn how to control the scene and how to control my responses to it, I’ll be able to purge my PTSD symptoms and episodes into a physical and emotional release.”
Trudy paused from where she’d been making a few notes on her ever-present notepad. “Yes. It’s not an absolute cure—most people are never cured of their PTSD—but I think it’s an excellent idea. Desensitizing is a common treatment for post trauma—whether it’s a physical, mental, or emotional response the person is suffering from. Actually, I’d been thinking about suggesting it to you, but up until today, I wasn’t sure if you were ready to hear it. I’m not suggesting you walk into a room with just anyone and let them start whipping you—that would be disastrous even if I could find a trained person to agree to it, which I doubt I could. I think before you try anything, you should do some research on BDSM. Before you leave, I’ll give you the links to some trusted websites on the subject. If you want to give it a try, the first few sessions would just be watching a Master practice, getting used to hearing the crack of the whip, and finding a way to associate it with something positive. Then, I want you to watch a few scenes with a Master and an experienced submissive. If and when you’re ready to take the next step after that, I want two Whip Masters present—the second one will be observing you and your responses.”
“That’s what I did with Nick’s first session,” Jake added. “Roxy was there for it. I couldn’t see his facial expressions, and with him never being exposed to that level of pain/pleasure before, I needed someone who could observe him to make sure I was sending him into subspace.”
Logan stood and paced again, mulling over what they’d said. He had to be crazy to be considering it, but then again, he was crazy if he didn’t do everything he could to save his job. He knew Ian had said that as long as he followed the rules that had been set forth when he was first hired, his job was safe, but if he ever thought he’d be a liability to either team, he’d hand in his resignation. There was no way he could live with someone being hurt or killed because he’d flipped out during a mission like he did in the club. “So, who do you suggest I do this with? You, Jake?”
The other man shook his head. “I’m the last person who should be whipping you for several reasons—the main one being we’ll be working together. You’re already going to be worried about everything that goes with this—you don’t need to add our professional relationship on top of it. I also don’t think it’s a good idea for you to scene with any male Whip Master—if anything is going to trigger a flashback to Afghanistan, it’s that. It was men—bastards that they were—who were doling out the torture. No. I think it’s best if we set up something with Roxy and Charlotte. They’re both top-notch Dommes, and Roxy has the added experience of being a physician.” In addition to meeting Roxy back at the club a little while ago, Logan had met her and her wife, Kayla, at the barbecue to celebrate the fact Ian and Angie were expecting. Charlotte, aka Mistress China, he’d also met two or three times before at the compound. The petite Asian-American was a force to be reckoned with if her Domme feathers were ruffled, but otherwise she was very nice. If he remembered correctly, she was a parole officer.
Inhaling deeply, Logan let it out slowly. “I don’t know. I understand what you’re saying, but I have to admit, it freaks me out. Let me think about it tonight, and I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
Trudy picked up her day planner and looked at her schedule. “I have a ten o’clock opening tomorrow. Do you want to come in then and we’ll talk about it some more?”
“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair, which was in desperate need of a trim. “That’s fine.”
After jotting down something on a piece of paper, she stood and handed it to him. “These are three excellent sites for you to explore. The first two have pages dedicated to desensitization.”
Logan read the names of the websites. BDSM 101. Fet Lifestyle. Beginner BDSM. Between this and his new assignment, he suddenly had the feeling he’d tumbled down the rabbit hole. The only problem was he wasn’t sure how to get out of it.
Taking a deep breath, Dakota shut the locker where she’d stored her things in the ladies’ lounge of The Covenant. It’d been a long time since she’d been nervous about walking out onto a play floor—in fact, she hadn’t been nervous at all with Davis. But then again, she hadn’t been attracted to the man. Logan Reese, however, was someone altogether different.
The longer she’d sat next to her new partner in Sawyer’s office that afternoon, the more she’d become aware of him. She’d felt his gaze every time it landed on her, and it had taken everything in her not to glance over to see if it was as hot as it had seemed. She’d even replayed in her mind how he’d skillfully disarmed those punks earlier, despite the fact she’d been annoyed at his alpha interference at the time. His body was honed to perfection and the way his muscles had moved with such fluidity hadn’t been hard to miss.
Dakota had intended to get out of Sawyer’s office as quickly as possible, to get her hormones back under control, but Reese had grabbed her elbow, and she’d almost sank to her knees as jolts of electricity at his touch scorched her skin. To top it all off, he’d then sweetly reintroduced himself, in a deep, sexy timber she’d felt between her legs. She’d seen the relief—and something else she couldn’t name—in his eyes when she’d followed his lead, starting their brief relationship over. How the hell was she going to survive the rest of this detail without falling victim to his looks, charm, and natural Alpha tendencies?
Stepping over to a full-length mirror, she studied her reflection. Finding submissive fet-wear that also let her carry a weapon or two had been challenging. The snug, leather pencil skirt she was wearing completely hid the small caliber pistol strapped to her inner thigh, while a thin, stiletto blade was concealed inside her black and red corset, between her breasts. Her feet were bare, but with her training, she could still use them to do some damage with or without shoes.
At the top of the steps leading into the lounge from the second floor, the door opened, and footsteps resounded in the stairwell. Moments later, an attractive, curvy woman, with skin the color of mocha, strode in and nearly jumped five feet when she saw Dakota. Throwing her hand to her ample chest, she flashed a relieved smile. “Oh, my God! You scared the bejeezus out of me. I didn’t expect anyone to be in here.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Dakota Smith,” she said, giving the last name she’d been instructed to use for this assignment. While it was almost cliché, it was close enough to her real name to avoid confusion. “We have a class starting in a few minutes in the pit.” Since she had no idea who the woman was, she wasn’t going to announce the class was to train the new cops and agents going undercover in the clubs.
