A seductive tempo played across the burgundy room as Abigail stepped further inside.
There was no denying what the focus of the room was meant to be. The grandiose double staircase curved sultrily around black rims. Above it, hung a magnificent chandelier, casting cuts of crystals onto the cheeks of each guest. Once again, she wondered if the designer had done so on purpose.
But it was the rectangular stage that stood below it that made Abigail’s body tingle with anticipation.
She counted fifteen seats in front of it.
Abigail felt a set of eyes watching her. Had she been caught? She took a cautious glance, turning her head from east to west, searching for the stalker in the shadows.
She saw no one.
Most people had gone upstairs or saved a spot for the scene that was about to start. Not knowing what to do and too scared to head to the unknown upstairs, she took a seat on the last row in the array of chairs.
Waiters and waitresses dressed in black sheer jumpsuits walked around the room offering horns d’oeuvres and non-alcoholic beverages. With their hands bonded behind their backs, they could only balance the tray with the triangular chain that hung from the hoop of their collars.
Contemptuous men and women sat on the chairs facing the stage while their slaves knelt on the floor. A leather collar, similar to the one worn by the servants, fully wrapped around their necks.
Dominants took a bite of the bruschetta, not caring to leave some for their slaves. The submissives were fed half-eaten scraps of bread and patted on the head with a job well done. Except for one.
A red-headed sub sitting on the floor wrapped his tongue around the thumb and index finger of his Mistress. She slapped him firmly across the face. With a blushed cheek, he was tugged and dragged on the floor through the bumps of stairs. His owner couldn’t care less that her slave was having trouble breathing.
The perimeter of the stage flickered with LED lights, drawing Abigail’s eyes away from the redhead and the torture he’d no doubt endure.
A blanket of loneliness coated her shoulders as she noticed she was the only person without a Master or slave. No one to feed her. No one to drag her up the stairs. No one to torture her.
She looked around, searching for the dominatrix of nights past, but couldn’t find her.
Nonetheless, she focused on the positives and enjoyed the experience even if her desires wouldn’t be met tonight.
The lighted stage showed an empty table with a barrel in front. The water inside it was almost overflowing. Abigail wondered what the scene would entail. She’d heard of rape-play, animal-play, daddy-play, baby-play, anal-play, but never water-play. The anticipation was making her itchy all over.
Seconds after Abigail wondered such thought, a man and woman stepped on stage. The man wore dark jeans and a naked chest that showcased a strong stomach and muscular arms. The woman, who stood with her face down staring at her toes, was fully clothed. Her black hair was pulled back into a French braid.
“Undress,” the man demanded with an annoyed flick to her dress.
The brunette unbuttoned her dress to reveal full breasts and a shaved pussy. Her master inhaled a breath, seeming satisfied with what he saw. He walked toward her and cupped her sex. “Did you do this for me?”
“Yes, Master John.” Her body shook as he inserted a finger inside her.
“This won’t save you from what I’m going to do to you, but because you’ve pleased me, I’ll make it hurt less.” The woman nodded, not daring to meet his eyes. “Get on the table.”
She did as her master commanded. With her belly resting on the wooden table, her head was only centimeters from the barrel.
From his back pocket, the man retrieved a yellow rope. Drawing her arms back, he tied her wrists, doing the same to her ankles. He brought her legs up so that her ankles touched her wrists and tied them together.
The woman was constricted. It was impossible for her to move.
Master John stood back to admire his work. He walked in front of the woman and, grabbing her head, pushed her face underwater. He did this more than a few times, each time the bulge in his pants grew bigger and more prominent.
He unbuttoned his pants and walked behind his slave as the woman took shallowed breaths. “No. No more, Master. Please.”
Abigail’s own breath caught as the man entered her with a single thrust. God, she must’ve been so wet. The woman bit her mouth with each brutal thrust. A drop of blood lingered on her bottom lip.
His large hand caressed her ass with a loud smack that made her head fall inside the barrel. He pushed her head down as deep as he could, pounding his cock even harder inside her. His sub resisted to no avail. Her master was stronger than her and the fight excited him all the more.
Master John continued to thrust inside her, tugging on her braid to provide her with enough time to breathe. Just as the woman took a breath, he pushed her down again. She begged him to stop over and over each time she came up, but her pleads went unheeded.
The sub pushed her body back into her master’s cock, an orgasm ready to spew. He felt her clench around him, milking his own pleasure. One last time, he pushed her face down into the water, bubbles rushing to the surface as she screamed her release.
Abigail closed her eyes. It was she who was bounded. It was she who was being drowned. It was she the man was fucking. Her thighs clenched, wanting to relieve the itch on her clit. When was the last time she’d been this aroused? She couldn’t think of the answer.
“Are you the one being drowned or the one doing the drowning?” a smoky and mysterious voice asked.
Abigail opened her eyes in an instant. She breathed in, pleading with her heart to slow its pace.
The stranger was handsomely attractive in a clean-cut kind of way. His jaw was sharp, and his chin held an equal structure. There was nothing rough about him. Abigail could tell this man never had to lift a finger in his life. He got everything he wanted, and all signs pointed to her.
His black hair, the color of a panther’s fur, was swept back, revealing the sexiest widow’s peak she’d ever seen on a man. Her lips curled as she noticed he wasn’t naked. He didn’t wear leather or latex like most of the men. Instead, he wore a dark gray suit that elongated his already tall posture.
A renegade, she liked it.
She licked her lips, the taste of cranberry still lingered on them. Abigail focused on every little detail of the stranger’s face, but not once did she look into his eyes. Somehow, she knew she wasn’t deemed, just as she knew this man knew the answer to his question, so why did he ask?
“Don’t you already know? You’ve been watching me all this time.”
“I want validation. Now answer me.”
“I’m the woman being drowned and fucked in front of an audience,” she said breathlessly. Her bluntness encouraged her to look past his lips.
His eyes darkened. Was it due to anger or desire? Abigail hoped both.
“You’re new here.”
“Yes.”
“How did you find this place?” Why must everyone ask that? Did she stand out that much?
“I did my research.” She shrugged casually.
“We shouldn’t start this relationship on the basis of lies, Abigail.”
“What makes you—. How do you know my name?”
“I know everything about you.”
His cockiness made her giggle. “What is it you think you know?”
She fought the instinct to cover herself as the man eyed her up and down. His eyes settled on her ample chest. Though her underwear left little to the imagination, his scrutiny made her feel naked not just physically, but emotionally. This man excavated deep within her until he stole the chest that held all her hidden desires.
Human instinct overpowered her need to appear brazen. She wrapped both arms tightly around her breasts.
“There’s no need to be modest. We both know this night will end with me seeing them.”
Abigail hated how much his arrogance turned her on. How moisture was already pooling between her legs, drenching her with sinful want. She shouldn’t want a man like him, yet he was exactly who her body and mind desired.
The man leaned closer, his mouth a whisper from her ear. “I know that if I push this finger inside you, I’d find you soaked. I know you want me to own you. Isn’t that right, Abigail?”
She nodded, too stunned to speak, but the man didn’t advance a muscle, so she spoke, “Yes.”
“Two things you must learn about me, Abigail. One, you must speak. If you don’t, I’ll assume you agree with what I say. I can’t promise what I’ll do if I’m not stopped. Two—” he uncrossed her arms, “—do not hide from me. Ever. Understood?”
With a sigh, the man stood. He buttoned his suit jacket and adjusted his cufflinks. “Let’s take a tour.”
He turned on his heels and walked ahead, not waiting for her. Abigail quickly followed behind. He was almost at the top of the stairs when she finally caught up to him.
Man, those legs took long strides.
“Um, what’s your name?”
“You will call me Master Trice.” She loved how he demanded and didn’t ask. How he didn’t give her any other option but to do as he said. Yet, she was so confused. “But you’re not my master.”
Didn’t they have to sign a contract or talk about their hard and soft limits? She knew nothing of his sexual history, either. There needed to be a bond before they performed any scenes.
He stopped mid-step. His shoulders went rigid as a vein on his neck uprooted. She was sure it’d burst.
“We’ll have to rectify that, won’t we?”
“How?” She could tell his patience was growing thin, but she needed answers.
Master Trice pushed her against the wall. Abigail stumbled to a lower step, but Master Trice picked her up with a squeeze of her neck. She didn’t have time to gasp. Her eyes widened.
“Dare ask me one more foolish question again and I swear to the Greek Gods, I’ll make you bleed without a consent form. Do. You. Fucking. Understand?”
She nodded, wanting his words to be a promise, not a threat. Jesus, she was so fucked up.
“Use your words, Abigail,” he snarled, loosening the grip on her neck.
“Yes, Master Trice.” Something flickered in his eyes. It happened so quickly, she wasn’t sure it’d happened at all. But when he stepped back and let out a heavy breath, she was sure what she’d seen was exhilaration. It pleased him to hear her say Yes, Master Trice. It pleased her, too.
Abigail deflated against the wall, her heart thudding loudly, her desire so intense, it dripped down her thighs. Her heart sank at the loss of contact, and she wished she’d say something to raddle him further, so she’d inhale his scent again.
No man had ever squeezed her neck with such tenacity. No man had ever squeezed her neck period. It was as if he wanted to choke her, not for sexual pleasure but because he wanted to see her lose all the color from her face.
The men she’d been with had only had her missionary style and whenever they felt “frisky”, they moved to the illicit doggy style.
Master Trice, Abigail was slowly finding out, was nothing like those men. He was intense. He was furious. He was mean and held no empathy. His anger didn’t just control his actions, it controlled his entire being. It controlled her.
What would that anger do in the bedroom? She gnawed her bottom lip at the possibilities.
“Walk with me, Abigail.” It lit a fire inside her when he said her name.
Master Trice took the last flight of stairs. Abigail was sure the distance was a failed attempt to keep his cool.
When she stepped into the foyer of the stairs, the hallway split like an insect expanding its legs. The ceilings were high and painted gold with black geometric shapes. The floor’s rotunda was covered in traditional tiles that added to the Ancient Greek design of the palace.
That’s what it was—a grandiose residence fit for very important people with their very important fantasies.
“Some hallways are divided into play preferences. Others are named after Gods or Goddesses,” Master Trice said, walking a good length ahead of her.
They proceeded into a hall with the name Therianthropy. Abigail thought of the college course she took a few years back on Mythology and Folklore. For once she was able to use the knowledge she’d gained in that class.
“The metamorphosis from human to animal,” she whispered under her breath. The floor and walls in this hall depicted an array of mosaic humans transforming into animals. She was walking into animal-play territory.
There were fifteen rooms in the hall. Some of the rooms were made out of glass. One could see inside it with a simple peek. Some were normal doors with a green or red button over the top that allowed or denied access from outsiders.
Through a glass door, Abigail witnessed as a woman dressed in a pig harness was fucked in the ass by a man wearing a similar costume. Out of all her dirty fantasies, she’d never once had had a desire for animal-play, but the scene happening before her was making her rethink her desires.
Master Trice was showing Abigail the reality that lived beyond the books she’d read, walking her in and out of hallways. Each had the same number of rooms with mosaic tiles and wall murals hinting at what each hall entailed. If one didn’t know anything about Greek Mythology, all they had to do was look at the drawings in the rooms to inform them of where they were.
Hermes, the God known for his trickery ways, was the perfect name for those who had fetishes. The hall Abigail and Master Trice visited next was all about role-play—doctors, teachers, incest, autonepiophilia.
They stepped into a room designed to look like the inside of a Catholic church. A confessional booth stood on the far left along with pews and the image of the Virgin Mary with a collection of candles paying tribute.
A man wearing a clerical suit whipped a woman tied to a St. Andrew’s Cross. It was an erotic scene to watch, one she’d read and seen many times. But the hypocrisy behind the corrupt act had never been done in costumes. This authenticated it.
Abigail was so hypnotized by the scene, Master Trice had to tug hard on her arm to get her attention.
“Something you’d like to try,” he said.
Although he said it as a matter of fact, she felt the need to profess, “Not with the clerical suit. Not my style.”
Master Trice nodded in acknowledgment as if taking note. He led her to the hallway belonging to Athena. Although she was mostly known as the Goddess of wisdom and reason, she was strategical when it came to handicrafts.
The mosaic in this hallway was of ropes, shackles, and humans suspended in the air. As they walked past a glass door, Abigail saw a woman battling with her toes as her arms were pulled above her head and a man fucked her from behind.
“The Japanese use bondage as art. They refer to it as Kinbaku-bi. The beauty of tight binding. One must be strategical, as Athena, to know just how tight to tie the knots so that if something went wrong, the dominant could easily free the slave. Safety is a must. We don’t let just anyone play here.”
The hallway of pain also known as Algea was all about flagellation—flogging, spanking, whipping, paddling. The men and women in this room exerted pleasure from being whipped or doing the whipping. Abigail wasn’t surprised as she peeked into a door to see mostly women doing the flogging while the men took the pain.
It was a known occurrence in the business world that men took great pleasure when being degraded to such acts as kissing a woman’s shoe. She didn’t judge, she had once had that same desire.
Master Trice took her to another hall named after the God of healing—Asclepius. This hall was all about masters taking care of their slaves. Bedrooms, bathrooms, saunas, and rooms that held oval steaming pools.
This was how a submissive knew their Master or Mistress cared about them. After their act, the dominant would heal the sub—put them back together. They’d discuss the scene and take care of each other. Mentally and physically. In and out of a scene.
It was something that rarely happened in vanilla relationships. Men would extract their pleasure and fall asleep right after, even if the woman wanted release. This never happened in a BDSM relationship.
Abigail thought she’d seen every hidden crevice in Master Trice’s palace, but he’d saved the best for last.
This hall was dark, darker than any of the other five. It was so dark, it was named after the God of the darkest part of the underworld—Tartarus.
The murals in this hall depicted blood, torture, and tears. This hall was all about edge-play. The scenes that if done wrong could result in death—electrostimulation, blood-play, asphyxiation, and plenty of acts Abigail hadn’t heard of before but knew she’d want to try.
Abigail turned to Master Trice as he opened another door.
She was shocked. Could it be possible Master Trice knew what she wanted—what she’d desired for so long? How? How did he know when he knew nothing about her?
She couldn’t help but ask, “How do you know?”
He stepped closer to her, so close, her chest brushed against his suit. “Because I own you.”
Simple as that.
Chills erupted all over her body, cooling when she stepped inside the room. Her hand came up to cover her mouth in an instant. She stumbled back on her heels as a gush of blood dropped on the floor and painted the walls crimson.
Screams threatened to shatter her eardrums.
Closing her eyes, Abigail breathed in the woman’s fear. Although the room trembled in panic, she didn’t utter her safeword and allowed her master to cut deeper into the soles of her feet.
What the man was doing wasn’t erotic, but pure torture. The fact it was consensual didn’t ease the tightness in the pit of Abigail’s stomach. She needed time to heal her eyes of the brutality she was witnessing, but she also wanted to stay and watch—switch places with the woman.
As Abigail walked backward, she felt something hard poking her tailbone. Reaching behind her, she tried to push the item away when she felt it grow erect.
“I’m sorry, Master Trice,” she begged for forgiveness. “I didn’t mean to…”
His eyes grew into angry slits. He wrapped a hand around her wrist and took her out of the room with a hard tug that made her twist on her heels.
“You’ve seen enough. It’s time to leave.”
