She pulled it out with shaking fingers. There were safe words, boundaries. They would observe them. This was part of the role playing, getting into the atmosphere. She got out, prudent enough to lock the car, but then she gasped as he shoved her back against the closed car door. “Put your hands on your head. I’m going to frisk you for weapons.”
Okay, now she wasn’t sure. Her mind wasn’t keeping up though. He took hold of the front of her blouse and ripped it open with one jerk, his gaze crawling over her breasts, quivering in the demi-cups. “Nice tits. They’ll like that. Want to clamp those babies, make them black and blue.” He put his hands on them, squeezing them as if they were market produce, in an efficient, functional manner, then worked his hands down her body, over her hips, bringing one large hand up between her legs. “Spread them,” he barked. “This cunt is up for grabs tonight. You keep these legs open for any Master who wants to feel.”
He spun her then, ran his hands over her ass. Her heart was rabbiting in her throat, but she couldn’t stop him. She didn’t know how to say no. Which was exactly what she’d feared, right? She’d wanted to bring this into her life so badly, she would take even this in silence, for the hope that something better, something more “right”, was behind that door. She yelped as he snagged the upswept twist she’d done with her hair and dragged her by it toward the door. “When we walk in, you get on your knees, in line with the others. You’re late. You must not have gotten the latest from Mistress Natasha about the time change. They’re about to assign the meat for the night. You almost missed your chance.”
There was no time to stammer out a reply or question. She was thrust into gloom. Sweat and alcohol permeated the atmosphere, as well as a dank underside, perhaps from a past flooding that had gotten into the carpet, seeping under the cheap metal walls. She had a brief impression of a narrow stage, where a naked girl was suspended by her wrists. She cried out as she was tapped by what appeared to be a cattle prod. Sparks flew from it, and there was a fresh brand on her flank, the skin red around it and the brazier still set up with ominous intent in the corner. A Master f*cked her with a large vibrator. The girl was crying, yet shuddering with what appeared to be an impending climax.
“Knees,” her keeper barked, shoving Rachel down so she not only landed on her knees but fell forward. Before she could rise, a foot was on her neck. At close range, the vile-smelling carpet added a combination of cigarette smoke and other unthinkable bodily functions.
“You’ll obey instantly, slave, or you’ll be up on that stage next.” A new voice, deep and gravelly, issued that terrifying prediction. It was underscored by the icy trill of a woman’s cruel laughter.
“This one’s new. Turn her over and let’s see what we’ve got.”
She was rolled over by rough hands and pulled to her feet. Her hair had fallen out of the polished sticks she’d used to make the style appealing, exotic. But now it was disheveled, a rat’s nest falling around her shoulders and in her eyes. Tears she couldn’t stop were probably making her mascara run. With her blouse torn open, she probably looked like an attempted rape. Even as she recognized that seemed like the preferred dress code, her chaotic needs ignored it, kept clawing at her, making her helpless.
“Nice.” The gravelly voice belonged to a man dressed in only a body harness. His cock was cinched tight in a leather and silver sleeve. Even semi-erect, the organ seemed thick as her forearm, and just as long. “It’ll be my pleasure to break this one in for you, Mistress Natasha.”
The woman standing next to him was clad in latex. She had fire-red lips and kohl-rimmed eyes, and fingered a whip coiled around her waist. “Give her a good ass f*cking for me, Milo. I want to hear her scream when you’re deep in her hole, then we’ll put her on the flogging post and I’ll make that lily white skin red as a split strawberry.”
“No…” She was breathing fast. Hands came out of the darkness, holding her arms, pulling at her clothes. “No, I don’t want…I need to go, I—”
An explosion of pain and her head snapped back on her neck. She stared at Milo, stunned, as he followed through with the backhand. She’d never been hit in the face in her entire life, and it hurt more than she could say, that searing pain across the cheekbone and lip. She tasted blood. He kept the hand lifted. “You want to sass your Mistress or me again, little slave cunt?”
Something burst in her then, a volcano erupting. The docile and helpless side vanished and she was fighting, snarling in terror. She’d known this was a mistake, but this was beyond a mistake. It was blatant, staggering proof that what she wanted was beyond her reach, that she’d devolved into the most unimaginable, idiotic folly.
So what the f*ck’s your fantasy, Rachel? Letting me and my golf buddies gang rape you in an alley? Leaving you in some bum’s vomit and piss? Is that what gets you hot?
“Stop, stop, stop.” She was screaming at the top of her lungs, and the hands unexpectedly released her. When she stumbled against heated bodies in various states of undress, by some miracle she found her way through them to the heavy metal door. She pushed out of it with both hands, the doorman staring at her as she staggered onto the broken and uneven pavement. She’d left her purse in her car, with her pepper spray and Taser, but she didn’t think she could have used them anyhow. She was shaking so badly, she stumbled and fell, scraping her hands and ripping her slacks. It was her favorite pair, because they’d always made her feel sexy and feminine when she wore them. She was going to burn them as soon as she got home.
When hands closed on her arm, she shrieked and rolled to her back, striking out.
“Easy there, it’s okay. Calm down. I’m a police officer.”
The voice was a new one, and unlike Milo or the doorman, it projected firm, steady authority. Not a roaring bark that made her stomach jump as if it had been goaded by that cattle prod. When she managed to stop thrashing, she blinked up at this man. Built with the broad, solid lines of a football player, he was clean shaven, with shrewd, cynical gold-brown eyes. After taking in the jeans and dress shirt, she zeroed in on the shoulder holster for his gun beneath the open coat. Recognizing he probably was what he said he was brought knee-shaking relief, as well as mortified horror, imagining herself on some evening news program.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” He asked it in a tone that, to her way of thinking, sounded like “another twisted deviant hanging out where no decent person went”. She stared up at him and didn’t know what to say.
No, I’m lost. So lost, I’m not sure I’ll find my way back this time.
He studied her, then crouched to a squat. “This is my badge,” he said, pulling it out of the inside pocket for her to see. “I just went off shift and changed into my street clothes.”
She should have asked for that proof herself, but she wasn’t thinking clearly enough to manage it. When the doorman strode toward them, she shrank toward the cop, though she despised the weakness of it. The hand he put on her shoulder was surprisingly reassuring, as were his words. “It’s all right, miss. Cyrus, what the hell’s happening here?”
Cyrus stopped, gave her a look that was a mixture of disgust and exasperation. “Natasha’s having one of her private parties. Ten girls. I was told to give them the full treatment when they pulled in. I didn’t know she’d freak out. Natasha usually goes for the really hardcore ones.”