To Command and Collar [Masters of the Shadowlands 6] (9 page)

* * * *

Raoul pushed away from his desk. His work was caught up, and the afternoon was almost over. So far, it hadn’t been a bad day.
At breakfast, they’d gone over schedules and expectations, then gone to their various chores.
After lunch, he’d tried gentling Kimberly in the same way he would a wild animal—start at a distance and move closer, bit by bit. While he’d worked in his office, she’d sat on a floor pillow beside him, close enough he could stroke her hair.
It had taken almost an hour for her to relax. When she’d tired, he’d leaned her closer, pressing her cheek against his thigh.
He’d planned the method to increase her trust in him; what he hadn’t expected was his own peace at having her close. When her psychologist had arrived and taken Kimberly to the great room, his office had felt empty and cold.
But he’d heard Faith leave a while ago. Time for the next step. He rose and stretched, tucked his shirt neatly into his jeans, and went in search of his little slave. He found her still in the great room. Curled up on the couch, she appeared strained. The session must have been a painful one.
Maybe she’d enjoy his way of defeating stress. “Come, gatita. It’s time for something more vigorous than sitting.”
“Yes, Sir.”
She followed him silently as he walked to the front corner of the house. He opened the door and stepped into the room, then realized she wasn’t beside him. He turned.
Almost as pale as her white T-shirt, she stood frozen in the hall.
“What’s wrong, chiquita?”
She moved a step closer, stared into the weight room, and sagged against the wall. “I thought you were bringing me to a dungeon.”
“Ah.” He shook his head.
Poor little slave
. “I have a dungeon, yes, but it’s on the south side. After we finish here, I’ll give you a tour of the house.”
Color returning, she followed him into the brightly lit exercise room and wandered around, looking at the bench press, the squat machine, the pulleys. “If you didn’t know what this stuff was, you might think you’d entered a dungeon.” She eyed the cables.
“I suppose,” he said noncommittally, not even tempted to tell her how nicely some of the equipment worked as restraints. Attach that pulley to a submissive’s wrist cuffs, add weight… A couple of the subs he’d entertained actually preferred playing in this room to the dungeon. “We’re going to build up your muscles and endurance.” He eyed her loose shorts and T-shirt. Good enough for now. “In a couple of days, I’ll start you on self-defense.”
“I know a little. My father made me take karate classes as a kid.”
“Really. Why did you stop?”
“I—” When she shrugged, her breasts moved in interesting ways, diverting him for a second. “I…didn’t want to be a tomboy anymore.” Her mouth firmed as if she were remembering old battles.
Odd. Something else to investigate.
“But at this point, I don’t think I could learn quickly enough to worry even a ninety-ninepound weakling,” she added, her brows drawing together.
Had he ever seen a woman who was so pretty even when frowning? “With karate, no. I’m going to give you the benefit of my years of street fighting. We’ll start with some of the nastier tricks—the ones they don’t teach martial arts students, since explaining to a mamá why her son’s eyeballs are on the floor is most difficult.”
“Ew.” She stared at him in horror.
“Or why his few fingers now bend the wrong way.”
Her disgust turned to a speculative gleam as she undoubtedly envisioned slavers who could no longer grip a flogger. Exactly the concept he wanted in her head. She wasn’t a victim; she was a survivor—and one who might do some real damage if the chance ever came.

* * * *

An hour later, Kim’s legs wobbled when Master R helped her off the leg extension machine. His hard grip on her arm was all that kept her from flopping onto the rubber mat like a landed trout. “I won’t be able to walk tomorrow,” she moaned.

Dammit, why did he have to have such a great smile? “You will, although you’ll groan all the way out of bed.”
“Thanks a lot.”
His laugh was deep, resonating in her bones. “Now I want you to be clear on the rules we discussed earlier. When working together like in the weight room or cooking in the kitchen, I don’t expect you to be formal. Everywhere else, you will ask permission to speak. You will use my title and be respectful at all times. If I am sitting in a room, kneel before you speak to me, and wait for permission to sit anywhere except the floor or on a pillow.”
“Yes, M-master.” The same rules they’d gone over at breakfast. No contradictions. Did he realize how wonderful his consistency was? She winced, remembering she’d sat on the couch in the great room. He hadn’t said anything. “I was on the sofa before.”
“Ah.” He frowned. “Many masters don’t let their slaves on the furniture at all, but I found that awkward and unnecessarily strict.”
“I found.”
Every time he reminded her that he’d had slaves before, the pit of her stomach dropped away.
“If there are no doms in the room, use the couch or chairs and be comfortable. If I enter the room, you stand. If I sit, you kneel. Any questions?”
“No, Sir.” So she should have stood up when he came into the great room. “If you break the rules, you will be punished—probably with a spanking. Is that clear?” “Yes, M-master.”
“Very good.” He rubbed his knuckles over her cheek, his gaze tender. “Is there anything you need now or want to say?”
Why would a master ask a slave something like that? And why did it make her feel…off balance? “No, Sir.”
“No? Then let me show you the parts of the house you missed.” He took her hand in his, leading her.
On the second floor were three guest rooms and the master bedroom. At the end, he opened a door and showed her a sitting room overlooking the ocean. “This is your private area for when you need a place to be quiet. If you’re in here, I’ll know you want time alone.”
Before her relief had taken hold, he set a finger under her chin, lifting her face to give her a level look. “Having a space to use doesn’t mean you’ll be permitted to hide in here, Kimberly. As with all things, that is up to me.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good.” His hand cupped her cheek, and gaze on hers, he lowered his head. A flutter like butterfly wings tickled in her chest, but she didn’t move. A brush of his lips, a slide of his tongue on her lower lip followed by the nibble of teeth. Her mouth softened, and a tiny flicker of heat sparked to life low in her belly.
Not forceful. Gentle, teasing kisses from firm, velvety lips. His palm was warm against her cheek, his knowledgeable mouth on hers, but nothing else touched her. He didn’t even try to push his tongue in, just led her, step by step, into responding to the kind of kisses she’d experienced as a girl, before French kissing had come along.
He pulled away as slowly as he’d advanced, his gaze still intent but…oh, so much warmer. As was she.
She stared at him, setting her hand over her quivering stomach.
The corners of his eyes crinkled, but he didn’t speak, just ran his thumb over the moisture on her lower lip and then took her hand.
He led her downstairs to areas she’d already seen. The foyer and great room, dining area and kitchen, TV room. When he headed toward the south side of the house, her skin went cold. His dungeon.
No. I don’t want to go there.
Ignoring the way she hung back, he opened the door and flipped on the overhead light, filling the area with brightness, erasing some of the menace. “Walk around the room three times. Look at everything,” he said in exactly the same tone as when he’d instructed her to do leg presses.
Every fiber in her urged her to flee, but she took one step through the door. Her knees shook as she forced herself to continue. He didn’t follow. She glanced back.
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, just watching.
Okay then
. Hands fisted at her sides, she managed to get one foot to move, then the other. The taste in her mouth, the way her skin went cold—at age six, she’d gone in a Halloween haunted house. Screams and moans, cobwebs and skeletons. She’d frozen, unable to move until her furious and shamed father had dragged her out and yelled at her for being a coward.
“Moores are not cowards.”

But they are sometimes
. Yet she pushed herself on, across the empty side of the room, then toward the equipment. Her feet stopped.
Breathe. Breathe
. She forced her legs forward, tasting blood from where she’d bitten her tongue. She made it past the St. Andrew’s cross and a bondage table. Her stomach almost revolted when she saw whips—so many whips—coiled snakelike on a shelf. A glass-fronted cabinet displayed gags. Masks.
God. Pass that one quickly
. She came even with Master R.

He held up one finger. “Two more.”

A throne chair with no bottom. A sink and counter. She detoured about chains dangling from the ceiling rafters. Then reached Master R.
Two fingers.
The room was well-equipped, nicer than some of the clubs she’d played in. Leather padding on almost everything. A sawhorse spanking bench. Master Raoul.
Three fingers.
She stopped in front of him and shivered, thinking of all the horrible things behind her.
Now what?
“Kimberly, we’re not going to play today.”
Oh, thank you, God
. Her shoulders loosened as the tenseness disappeared. “Thank you, Sir.”
“However, I do want you on that. Facedown.” He pointed to the waist-high bondage table, and she froze. He waited, then lifted his chin, his jaw hard.
Don’t make him mad
. She crossed the room, ignoring her inner coward that kept screaming,
Run, run, run
. After she climbed onto the table, she lay on her stomach, every muscle rigid with fear.
“Good, gatita. You’re conquering yourself and doing very well.”
He took her arms, laying them at her sides, and massaged her shoulders with strong fingers. As her muscles relaxed, she opened her eyes and craned her neck to look at him. No lust in his face, just the focused attention he brought to everything he did. “Sir?”
“Master, gatita.”
“M-master, what are you doing?”
He snorted. “Massaging all your tired baby muscles. What does it feel like?”
Oh
. “Nice.” Except for the need to run away and hide. “Thank you. Master.”
He worked his way down her body, and she knew he did it to get her accustomed to his touch, but it was effective. She tensed when he dug his fingers into the aching muscles of her buttocks, but he didn’t do anything sexual at all. Down her legs. Her feet. She moaned when his thumbs dug into her arches.
“Turn over.”
Her eyes popped open.
He didn’t wait but rolled her onto her back and smiled down at her. “Such big eyes. Yes, I’m going to massage your front as well.” His fingers curved over her shoulders, his thumbs digging into the muscles around the collarbones.
God, it felt good…but she couldn’t relax, not with his hands so close to her breasts. He worked on her pectoral muscles, easing around her breasts, moving them out of his way. She tensed every time he touched somewhere new.
Finally he shook his head in exasperation. “Your worries are getting the best of you, chiquita. You’re not going to fall into pieces if I touch your breasts.” And then he put his hands directly on her breasts, curving his palms around them.
Her breathing stopped.
He didn’t move as he looked down into her eyes. “Am I hurting you?” He waited. “Kimberly?”
She licked her lips. “No.” Her feelings were too messed up to figure out. Fear—oh yes. But…pleasure? She’d always liked a man’s hands on her breasts, but not now. Surely not anymore.
“Are we okay?” he asked. The firmness in his voice held the expectation that she’d get over this.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good girl.” He moved down to her feet, working his way up. Leaving her shaken. Always friendly, polite, yet this solid immovable core. More than his self-confidence and ability to give a command, he showed his certainty she’d not only obey him, but that she wanted to.
And he didn’t hide his satisfaction or even pleasure when she met those expectations.
His big hands squeezed one thigh and the other, moving higher until his fingers grazed the crotch of her pants with each movement. Her fear flashed and faded, leaving…anticipation. Warmth.
God, she wanted him to touch her. The realization slashed into her, more painful than a knife stroke. How could she live through rape and slavery and ever want to be touched again? What kind of slut was she?
I really am the dirty fuckhole that the—
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said. He’d moved up the table to regard her closely with shadowed eyes.
Not ever
. “Nothing.”
“Gatita, I know when my touch heats a woman. Why does being aroused bother you?” He waited; then his voice deepened in an explicit command. “Tell me now, Kimberly.”
The words spilled from her like a dam breaking, releasing a torrent. “I shouldn’t ever want anyone to touch me. He said I was a dirty slut, and I am.
I am
.” Sobs broke from her.
A cunt, an animal, not worthy to be human
. She knew it. Like a sewer, filth filled her, running through her core.
“
Hijo de puta,
” Master R muttered and picked her off the bench. He cradled her to him as he carried her to the small living room.
He shouldn’t touch her. She was not fit to be near a real person. Dirty all the way through. Tears streamed down her face, making her even uglier.
A f-fuckhole and a—
He sat on the couch, leaning her against his chest. “Stop.” He shook her lightly. “
Stop. Now.
” A master’s voice. Her master.
She choked, pushing the sobs down.
“Better. You will listen to me. Do you remember how your memories work?” Memories? “What?” She blinked, trying to focus on his face.
“When something horrible happens, your brain doesn’t process the memories right. It stores everything—sounds, pain, smells, feelings—all mixed up. It doesn’t matter if you believed it or it made sense; it gets stored. Did Gabi or Faith not tell you this?”
They both had. Kim nodded, her cheek rubbing on his chest. His scent came to her, clean as an ocean breeze.
“So if your memory is triggered, you get parts of the mess back—and maybe what you heard or felt at the time. Are you listening, Kimberly?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“He told you over and over that you were bad. Made you feel dirty. So sometimes, when your brain accesses those memories—the ones you haven’t thought about—you’re going to hear those words and feel that way again.
Sí?
”
She hauled in a breath. He was right. She didn’t normally think she was a bad person. “I guess.”
“Gabrielle told me she was raped when she was a teenager. Is she a filthy slut?”
“No!” Wonderful Gabi, who cared for everyone and brightened any room she entered. “How can you—” She bit her lip.
Duh. And neither am I.
“That’s it,” he murmured. He kissed the top of her head, then her lips, ever so gently. After picking up the TV remote from the side table, he said, “Let’s watch something really dirty. Like football.”
As the Saints took on the Packers, she fell asleep wrapped in comfort.