Page 100 of At Her Pleasure
The St. Andrew’s Cross and spanking bench, the gold standard of home BDSM equipment in a limited space, were sturdy and anchored. On the wall were four framed photographs, blown up to 18x24 size, and a center painting, slightly larger.
He recognized the photos right off. They were pictures of her “canvases,” men’s backs, buttocks and thighs. The different flesh tones were layered with cuts, welts, red lines and bruising.
Would she have asked to take a picture of him, if they’d finished tonight the way she’d intended?
The center painting was a mix of the same tones, colors and slashes, perhaps inspired by the others, but this was abstract art, not a specific person.
He moved his attention onward. A table next to a wooden wardrobe held a sous vide tank. He wondered why it wasn’t in the kitchen. He also wondered why it was turned on.
A U-shaped copper tube rested in the water. The two prongs, about ten inches long, plugged into a rubber handle like a bicycle grip. The lip was hooked over the side. The length and cock-sized width of the U’s rounded end suggested a lot of unthinkable things.
From the rising temperature of the water, available via a print display attached to the tank sensor, she had to have switched it on before she went to change.
He put that distracting thought to the side to see what had thumped against the back of the door. Almost thirty different weapons for impact play. Christ. Slotted paddles, slappers, tawse, spatula, rulers—both metal and wooden—switch, cane. The wardrobe next to the sous vide table probably held other supplies, plus her longer whips, lubricants and whatever else she chose to pack into her go bag for Progeny. Including the always present first aid kit.
Did she still have the original paramedic go bag, tucked away somewhere?
Another of those plug-in things was in here, but the scent hinted at leather and sand, silk and heated flesh.
It was probably called Fifty Shades of Grandma.
He imagined her expression if he suggested it, and the chuckle, though it didn’t get past his throat, didn’t feel bad. He needed that. Compared to what his roughest days or nights had been, it was strange to feel so raw over what had happened in the past few hours, but he kept his core emotions locked down, which semi-protected them. Tonight had required that he strip and put them out there. For her.
An old-fashioned wooden classroom chair with attached desk was in the center of the room. Did she sit there to look at her sub, bound on the cross or bench? Absorb his energy and admire her work, what she’d done to him?
“This room doesn’t fit the rest of the house, does it?”
He turned to find her leaning in the doorway. She’d changed into a black tank, soft and clingy, no bra beneath. It was the first time he’d seen her in a skirt. The knit fabric stopped above the knee, showing off her legs. He suspected it shaped and clung to her firm ass.
Feet still bare, but clean now. He wanted to press his lips to the arch, the painted toes, rest his mouth against the ankle he’d thought about washing for her. He’d kneel in front of her as she ran her fingernails along his back, dug into the marks she’d left on him. He’d prove how much he wanted to keep letting her hurt him.
He dipped his head toward the sous vide. Bubbles had started to gather and stream around the pipe. “Do I want to know?”
“That’s not the right question. What’s the right question, Mick?”
He pressed his lips together. “No questions at all.”
“Fucking right.” She moved past him, letting her fingers drift along the back of the door, pausing on the slapper. “This one has metal threaded through it. One of my subs said it was the most painful thing he’d ever experienced. I took that as a personal challenge, next time we had a session. You have that dangerous look again, Mick. You’re wondering how many I’ve had in here.”
“Not my business.”
“No, it’s not. None.”
From the significant pause, he realized she wasn’t reinforcing her right not to tell him. She’d answered his question with that one word.
None.
She nodded toward the chair. “I use that to sit and think. I come up with ideas for sessions at Progeny. No one comes here. No one sees where I live.”
“Is this where you tell me I don’t get to leave now that I have? And it’s not a garden bed but my own grave you had me dig in the backyard?”
Amusement glimmered in her dark eyes. “If that was true, I would have had you dig it much deeper.”
He thought about being laid to rest here, where her fingers could sift through the soil his flesh and bones enriched, helping her flowers grow. His peace with the idea, bordering on yearning, unsettled him, and he pushed it away. Her eyes tracked him too closely for that kind of thought.
For a long time, in his mind, she’d remained a scared, angry kid, with the seeds of the Mistress she was going to be there to intrigue and haunt him. Nothing he’d envisioned himself ever getting the chance to experience.
The scared kid was gone. She was a Mistress. Her volatility was a sincere, crazy, wild part of her, but so were her advanced perception skills, the decisions she made. The man who thought her unpredictable nature took the place of rational thinking missed how complicated her mind was. The two worked hand in hand.