The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(110)

Kingsley laughed at Irina’s answer.

“Technically that’s true,” he admitted as Blaise covered her mouth to stif le her own laugh. “I’d rather couch it in more chivalrous terms than litigious. Male dominants can be dangerously aggressive. We never want a woman involved in something she doesn’t want to be involved in. So, what will you do in a case like this, Mistress?”

“Step into the hallway, please,” Irina said to him. Kingsley kissed Blaise’s hand, bowed to Irina and walked out. He could guess what they talked about while he was gone. Irina, like the good dominatrix she was, would ask Blaise if she was here of her own free will and fully consenting to this session. Once Blaise assured the Mistress that she was, Irina would ask her a few questions about what she enjoyed in a scene, what sort of pain she liked. Thudding? Stinging? Impact play that left welts and bruises? Bondage? Knowing Blaise, she’d answer “All of the above.”

The door opened and Irina waved him back inside.

“She said you aren’t holding her hostage and forcing her to do kinky things against her will,” Irina said.

“Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow,” Kingsley said, and Blaise winked at him. She’d played his willing victim many a night. She did put up a beautiful fight when they did rape-play. They’d had to establish two sets of safe words because her acting was so good that he hadn’t been able to tell her feigned terror from real terror one night. It might have been the best sex they’d ever had.

“I’m thinking we should give your girl some souvenirs of this night,” Irina said. “What do you think?” She walked a circle around Blaise, looking her up and down. He couldn’t say who looked more alluring tonight—Blaise in her elegant 1940s pencil skirt and blouse or Mistress Irina in her leather corset and boots. They were a sight to behold, both of them. He wished Sam were still with him. He would have loved to tell her about tonight. But she was gone and would stay gone. Five weeks later and he still regretted what had happened. Regretted? No. He’d done the right thing. Mourned. That was the word he needed. Grieved. “Kingsley?”

“Oh, oui, souvenirs,” he said, forcing his mind back to the present. He needed to stay focused for Irina’s sake as much as Blaise’s. “Blaise loves the f logger and the whip.”

“She told me that,” Irina said, gathering Blaise’s hair into her hand and lifting it. She tugged lightly and Blaise’s breath caught in her throat. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good girl. Kingsley, you should undress your girl for me. Let me see what I have to work with.”

Kingsley went to work taking Blaise’s clothes off. He unbuttoned her blouse, unzipped her skirt, stripped her to her stockings, garters and high heels.

“In a session with a client,” Kingsley said, “you’ll do what before you start the play?”

“Make the client or clients undress,” Irina said.

“And why do we do this?”

“It’s a security measure. We’re making sure our clients aren’t carrying hidden weapons.”

“Very good,” Kingsley said. “You can frisk me if you like.”

“I would, but you’d enjoy that too much,” Irina teased.

When Blaise was naked but for her stockings, he took her wrists in his right hand and raised them, presenting her to Irina like a slave for inspection. He was taller than Blaise by half a foot, and she had to stretch to hold the position.

“Beautiful.” Irina placed a hand on Blaise’s chest. The Mistress caressed her breasts gently, carefully—but only at first. She pinched Blaise’s right nipple then—pinched hard—and Blaise gasped. “Turn her.”

Kingsley turned Blaise to face him so that Mistress Irina could see her back. At his command, Blaise hadn’t done kink with anyone in the past week. He wanted her body to be a clean canvas for Irina’s first session.

“Very nice,” Irina said. “Beautiful skin. It will look better when I’m done with it. Put the cuffs on her.”

Irina held out a set of leather cuffs. Kingsley lowered Blaise’s arms and cuffed her wrists and ankles.

“What is the rule with couples?” Kingsley asked Irina as he handed Blaise over to her.

“The couple may touch each other as much as they want,” Irina said. “They can have sex during the session.”

“And you?”

“Dominatrixes don’t have sex with their clients,” Irina said, smiling. “Prostitution is illegal. S and M isn’t.”

“Bon,” Kingsley said. “But feel free to give Blaise an orgasm if you like. If she earns it.”

“I’ll earn it, monsieur,” Blaise said, and Kingsley slapped her hard on the bottom for speaking out of turn.

Irina put Blaise on the X-shaped cross, face to the wood.

“What’s your safe word, Blaise?” Kingsley said.

“Casablanca.”

Safe word established, Irina took a deerskin f logger off the wall. Good size. Good weight. Good heft. It would hurt like f*ck, just the way Blaise liked.

“Start slow.” He whispered the reminder.

He watched Irina take a steadying breath. She moved her feet into position, gripped the f logger by the tips of the tails and raised it over her head. Kingsley gave her a nod. And then Irina smiled, a wide, deep, dark sexy smile. She could play aloof all she wanted, but he could tell she was enjoying this scene as much or more than Blaise would. A true sadist— he did know how to spot one. Irina let the f logger go, and it struck Blaise in the center of her back. She raised it, let it go again—another center strike. For the next few minutes she dusted Blaise with the f logger, hitting her again and again— not too hard, not too light. Blaise’s skin turned from creamy white to blazing red. She traded the deerskin for eel skin— a smaller, more vicious f logger. Blaise gasped and f linched as dozens of tiny welts raised on her back. The little f logger struck far more sharply, and soon it looked as if a dozen hands had clawed at Blaise’s back with cruel fingernails.