Servicing the Target (Masters of the Shadowlands #10)(9)

“Roger that.”

A month ago Ben had cut back his hours, recommended Ghost, then given him the token training needed. The position required a miniscule amount of paperwork, a closed mouth, good fighting skills, and even more common sense. Z said if his security guard had to fight, he’d already failed.

Ghost settled into the chair and leaned back. “I do appreciate the job though. It’s interesting—and I was hell of bored.”

“I know that one.” Soldiers didn’t do retirement well.

Ben entered the club, feeling his anticipation rising. He’d been told to report to the dungeon in the back. As he crossed the main room, he gave it a careful study.

Wall sconces were dim in the shadowy room, except near the well-lit equipment along the walls and the center bar. To the left was a munchie area with food, tables, and chairs. On the right was the dance floor. Farther back, planters offered privacy for scattered sitting groups. BDSM scenes were held in roped-off sections, and more seating had been provided for the viewers.

Even this late, people were dancing, and the scene areas were busy.

He had to say, the Shadowlands was damned sinister this evening. Innocent-looking schoolgirls—and boys—were wandering about at the mercy of some f*cking ugly creatures. The place looked like a movie set for “Slaughter at Metropolis High.”

He’d been inside a few times, but always to report in to Z about something. Never as a spectator. The clubroom looked and sounded different now that he was to be a…a participant.

Not that he hadn’t paid attention when he’d been in here. Nah, he knew what he’d volunteered for. Had even seen Mistress Anne working over some poor schmuck before.

Now he’d be that poor bastard. Once again, he was being an idiot—like when he’d voluntarily taken the SERE course. Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape—yeah, he’d accepted he was going to get hurt. At the time, the knowledge had been a lead weight of determination in his gut.

Tonight was much the same. One lead weight…along with a full-fledged cockstand. Mistress Anne would take one look at him and know precisely what he wanted.

Maybe. He wasn’t exactly sure himself.

On the way through the room, he passed various scenes. Flogging. One where a zombie Dom was dumping wax on a woman’s tits—although she did seem very onboard with the idea.

Not for him. Safe, sane, and consensual or not, he’d never be down with hurting a woman, which was why he’d known he wasn’t any Dom type. Why he’d confidently told Z he was “vanilla.”

He’d never given a thought to a gorgeous female hurting him.

Totally different mindset.

A scream made him stop. Tied to a post, little Uzuri was trying to evade a man caning her. “Red,” she shouted, but the dumb f*ck was too caught up to understand she’d safeworded.

Ben walked right in and trapped the swinging cane in his palm. Hurt like a son of a bitch. He yanked the stick away. “She said red.” His voice came out threatening enough that the Dom paled and jerked back.

“Thanks, Ben.” Vance Buchanan slapped his shoulder and tugged the cane from his hand. Dressed as Frankenstein’s monster, he wore the gold-banded vest that marked a dungeon monitor.

“Not a problem.” Good to know that if he hadn’t been present, a DM would’ve rescued the pretty black submissive. Olivia slipped past him and tucked an arm around Uzuri, untying her with the other hand.

“Hey, I didn’t hear her,” the * protested and took a step toward the little trainee, who cringed back. “Listen, Uzuri, I—”

“Stay put, please.” Vance gripped the Dom’s arm hard enough to silence him, then lifted a quizzical brow at Ben. “I didn’t know you provided security in here too.”

Looked as if Buchanan had shit under control. “I don’t.” Ben waved a couple of fingers near his forehead and headed for the back.

Mistress Anne rested on a stone corner bench in the dungeon room, her back against the wall with her left leg outstretched. She’d pulled part of her hair up, spiking it into two horn-like shapes. A black, ankle-length robe covered a my-mouth-went-dry latex catsuit that clung to every one of her sweet curves. A long zipper ran down the front and he wanted to pull it down more than he wanted his next breath.

And his f*cking jeans were way too tight.

She watched him walk in, her light eyes unreadable…until her gaze reached his crotch.

He could swear he saw a dimple appear. Yeah, she was sadistic.

After bending her left knee to lean against the wall, she patted the bench between her legs. “Sit here, please.”

Good start. He sat where she indicated, feeling her left leg behind him, a pressure on his ass. To his pleasure, she set her right leg across his lap, close enough that the inside of her knee pressed on his dick.

He stared straight ahead and considered the merits of icy mountain streams, glaciers, and igloos. Didn’t relieve shit.

“Now, Ben, first, this is just a scene for the next hour or so. Nothing more. I don’t know how much you know about BDSM, but I’m not taking you on as a slave. I’m just going to give you a taste and perhaps help you put a curb on that tongue of yours.

In other words, she was warning him not to get his expectations up. They’d play and then she’d toss him back where she found him. He kept his face impassive and nodded. “I understand.”