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Masters of the Hotel Bentmoore: Chapter 4


Later, Mr. Sinclaire would wonder if he hadn’t sensed something was wrong as soon as he saw the couple walk into the meeting room.

For all intent and purposes, they looked liked any other couple visiting the Hotel Bentmoore. In this case he, the Dom, walked ahead with an authoritative gait, while she, the sub, walked behind him, looking submissive and diffident.

Perhaps it was the way the woman glanced nervously around as she walked; perhaps it was the way the man gave no regard to the woman taking a seat beside him, not even to acknowledge her presence. Or perhaps Mr. Sinclaire could see already that the woman only wore her submission like a mask, hiding humbling, quivering fear beneath.

Regardless, as he studied the man and woman sitting before him, he kept his senses on high-alert, looking for any sign of trouble, trying to figure out what was setting off this tingling sense of foreboding.

He reached his arm out to the shake the hands of his guests. They were, both of them, new visitors to the Hotel Bentmoore.

“Welcome to the Hotel Bentmoore,” he began in his easy, baritone voice. “I am Mr. Sinclaire. I will be your host.” He shook the hand of the man sitting in front of him easily, who gave him a conspiratory smile and a nod, like the two of them were now friends who had just shared a lewd joke. Mr. Sinclaire had to fight off the urge to wipe his hand off on his pant leg, although he had no idea where this aversion to his new guest was coming from.

He shifted his arm over to shake the woman’s hand, too. Mr. Sinclaire took note that while the woman wasn’t exactly pretty, she was incredibly alluring, two very different things in Mr. Sinclaire’s opinion. She had the face any hot-blooded male would turn around to look at twice.

The woman raised her hand to take his, but before Mr. Sinclaire could touch her, the other man stopped them both from completing the social gesture.

“Put your hand down, Samantha,” he ordered.

The woman slowly lowered her hand into her lap, looking pained and embarrassed.

“You are not to touch anyone unless I give you permission,” the man continued. He did not bother to look at her. The woman, Samantha, looked down at the floor.

“These women,” the man sighed, giving Mr. Sinclaire a sneering grin. “You gotta keep them in their place, you know what I’m saying? Of course you do,” he laughed, leaning back in his chair. Mr. Sinclaire glanced back at the woman, then cut back to the man, this time studying him with shrewd eyes.

The man looked to be in his early thirties, average height, with a wide chest. His arms were like clubs, thick with muscle. His legs, too, looked wide and hard, compressed inside ill-fitting jeans. Mr. Sinclaire thought the man could have passed for attractive, except that his eyes were a little too close together, his brows a little too low, and his face a little too savage.

Right now, the man was giving him a twisted smile, but Mr. Sinclaire realized that in a neutral pose, when he wasn’t actively trying to look pleasant, the man would look mean. There was an aura of cruelty about him, like he would have no problem shooting a wounded animal. His smile was malicious, and made Mr. Sinclaire cringe.

Of course, the man’s looks weren’t his fault, and Mr. Sinclaire could be wrong. It was possible the new guest would end up being a complete gentleman. But given the warning signals Mr. Sinclaire’s brain had been sending him since the couple had walked through the door, he wasn’t willing to discount his first impressions all too quickly.

The woman, Samantha, didn’t seem a match for her companion at all. Dark haired, brown-eyed, with a pert nose and full lips, Samantha looked at Mr. Sinclaire with something akin to wonder. Her eyes were wide, curious, open in their assessment of him and their fascination…and yet, a hint of yearning flitted through them now and then. This one wanted something from him, Mr. Sinclaire was sure of it. He would just have to figure out what. But that was his job as their host of the Hotel Bentmoore: figure out what the guests wanted, then satisfy their every need.

But first he had to get through his instinctive dislike of the man Samantha had arrived with.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Mr. Sinclaire said. “You are…?” Of course he knew both their names. He had been given their basic information before walking in the meeting room. But he decided to play ignorant.

“Paul. Paul Derrgy. This is my girlfriend, Samantha.” The man pointed back to the woman, who had shifted her seat to sit at an angle, slightly behind him. “We’ve been together a few months now.”

“That’s nice,” Mr. Sinclaire replied blandly. “What can I do for you, Mr. Derrgy? What, exactly, are you hoping to get out of your stay at the Hotel Bentmoore?”

“Well, like I said, Samantha here is my girlfriend. She’s great, a real plum, but she needs to be kept in line. You know, strict rules, strict punishments—she needs to be told what to do, exactly how I want it.”

“So she is your submissive? You have a Dominant/submissive relationship?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Paul replied, looking smug. “I tell Samantha what to do, and she does it. She likes it that way.” Paul glanced at Samantha, giving her a self-satisfied grin, but Samantha did not grin back. She cast her eyes down, looking fearful. Mr. Sinclaire took note of her reaction and frowned.

“The other thing about Samantha is, she likes pain,” Paul continued. “She’s a real pain slut, little Samantha is. She can take a beating like a bitch in heat. Can’t you, Samantha?” He looked back at her with stern eyes.

Samantha only glimpsed at him before averting her eyes away. “Yes,” she said softly, a blush spreading across her cheeks.

“I thought it would be fun to watch someone else work her over, see what she can take, watch her squirm and scream. Might give me pointers on how to handle her better,” Paul said, like they were discussing a work horse.

“I see,” Mr. Sinclaire said, looking thoughtful. “Is this what you want, Samantha? For me to inflict my own brand of pain on you?”

“Of course that’s what she wants,” Mr. Derggy snapped. “It’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

Mr. Sinclaire sighed. During his years working at the Hotel Bentmoore, and being a Master Sadist, he had met many couples adhering to a Dominant/submissive dynamic. Often the sub, typically the woman, was not allowed to answer for herself, at least for the most part. She consented to let her Dom do the talking for her, and went along with whatever her Dom decided.

But before a planned scene, especially one involving humiliation and pain, she was always given the opportunity to make her consent clear and show her willingness to go along with whatever her Dom had in store for her, so there would be no confusion later on that her submission had been of her own free will.

Paul was not giving Samantha this opportunity. Mr. Sinclaire decided his first impression had been right: there was something wrong going on here. He would go slowly and figure out what.

“I can help you, if that’s what you both want,” he said. “But we’ll have to go through some paperwork first, get some things out of the way so I know what the hard limits are and what I should avoid.” He didn’t typically do this in the meeting room. Usually he waited until he had brought the guests inside their activity room, where they could get ideas of what they wanted to try as they admired the dungeon furniture, before getting into a discussion of hard and soft limits. But he decided to follow every protocol in the book for this particular couple.

Mr. Sinclaire got up, walked over to a file cabinet nearby, and pulled out a sheet of paper with questions on it.

“Pain implements, for instance,” he said, tapping the sheet. “Are there any I should absolutely not use?” When Paul looked at him blankly, Mr. Sinclaire said, “You know, like, needles? Hot wax? Electrical wands?” When Samantha looked at him in horror but remained silent, too afraid to speak, Mr. Sinclaire said gruffly, “Mr. Derggy, please tell your submissive she is allowed to talk. I need answers to these questions if I am to work with both of you, and I need to hear these answers from her.”

“Why?” Paul said, surprised. “She is my sub. She will submit to anything I want her to.”

Mr. Sinclaire decided at that moment he thoroughly disliked the man. “She may have agreed to that arrangement at home,” he said, doubting the words even as he said them, “but here at the Hotel Bentmoore, we hosts have our own rules to follow, and I need to know she consents to everything I will be doing to her once we get started.” He stared at Paul. For a second their eyes did a battle of wills; but Paul looked away first, scowling.

“Fine, ask her. She’ll just tell you she can take whatever you hit her with.”

Mr. Sinclaire’s jaw tightened. But when he turned to look at Samantha, he did his best job of making his face look gentle.

“So, Samantha, hard limits…shall we go over them?”

“I don’t want needles,” Samantha said. “Or electricity.” Paul turned around, shock and anger covering his face. Clearly it had not entered his mind she might contradict him, and now his pride was bruised. His brows furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line, making him look even meaner. Samantha glanced at him, and fear flitted over her face. She closed her mouth.

“Look at me, Samantha.” Mr. Sinclaire pulled her eyes in and held her gaze, trying to get her to focus on him, and only him. “Just answer a few questions for me, okay? It’ll be over soon. We’ll go down the list.” He held up the paper again, as if to say, this is no big deal. Samantha nodded and looked at him gratefully.

Forcing her to focus on him and ignore her “Dom” as much as possible, Mr. Sinclaire was able to glean what Samantha’s hard limitations were: no needles, no electrical play, no fire or hot wax play, no breath asphyxiation, nothing that would require serious medical intervention…some of the questions were mere formality, Mr. Sinclaire wouldn’t have tried to inflict those brands of pain on her anyway during her first visit. But some of her answers surprised him.

“So you’re willing to be welted and bruised, even if the marks take weeks to fade from your skin?” Mr. Sinclaire clarified. “You can be whipped, spanked, slapped, anywhere on the body?”

“Not on my feet,” Samantha said, thinking fast. “And—not on my face. I…I don’t like to be slapped across the face.” She passed a look to Paul as she said this. Loud, clanging alarm bells went off in Mr. Sinclaire’s head again.

But he kept his voice polite and even. “Very well,” he said. “That’s easy enough to work with. There’s just one more thing: your safeword. What’s your safeword?” When Samantha simply looked at him, confused, Mr. Sinclaire tried to clarify. “You know, the word you use when you need things to stop? When it’s gone too far?”


“We don’t have a safeword,” Paul stated. “It’s up to me to decide when to stop, not her.”

Mr. Sinclaire clenched his teeth. “Here at the Hotel Bentmoore, all guests must have a safeword to use, especially when the activity involves pain,” he said, his voice stiff and final. “It’s policy.”

That wasn’t exactly true. He had lots of frequent guests who no longer used a safeword with him—but that was because they were familiar patrons of the hotel who visited with Mr. Sinclaire often, if not exclusively. They had requested to do away with the safeword because they trusted Mr. Sinclaire completely, and it excited them to know once they entered the activity room, he could do whatever he wanted to them, and there was nothing they could say or do about it. Of course, Mr. Sinclaire would already know their hard and soft limits, and would always respect their boundaries.

For a new couple who claimed to be in a D/s relationship, who were coming to him to learn new pain techniques to try on the sub, for them to admit they did not have a safeword….in Mr. Sinclaire’s opinion, that pushed past the land of suspicious and into the sea of dangerous.

He turned to Samantha and said, “a safeword needs to be a word you would not normally say in the middle of a play or sex scene, because it is used to stop the action from continuing. It is a word you can use to keep things from going too far, so you always have a measure of control. You need to be able to remember it at all times, no matter how cloudy your head gets. Something that will easily come to your mind if you panic. Do you have a word like that?”

Samantha slowly shook her head no.

“I can give you a safeword while you’re here at the hotel, but it’s better if you can create your own,” Mr. Sinclaire said. “Think for a minute.”

“What kind of word should I pick?”

“Anything you want.” When he saw his answer hadn’t helped her, he said, “For some, it’s a color—like ‘red’ for stop, or ‘yellow’ if you need a rest word, to let me know to slow down. For some, it’s a name of a safety object, like a childhood teddy bear or a favorite doll. And sometimes it’s whatever the sub sees in her head when her mind starts to rebel against the pain, like balloons, or flowers….”

“Jasmine,” Samantha cut in. “When the pain starts to get really bad, I start….” She looked down, embarrassed. “I start to smell jasmine.”

“Interesting,” Mr. Sinclaire said, tilting his head. Samantha looked up at him, trying to detect any hint of mockery or judgement on his face. She smiled when she saw none. It was the first time Mr. Sinclaire had seen her smile since she had come into the room, and he gave her a wide smile back. “Some women do have associative smells when they enter subspace,” he said. “Are you familiar with that word, subspace? Do you know what that is?”

Before Samantha could answer, Paul snapped. “Could we get on with things? Or are we just going to talk all day? Cause I didn’t come here for an oral lesson.”

Mr. Sinclaire’s eyes cut back to him. “If we are agreed that Samantha’s safeword is jasmine—” he looked at Samantha, who nodded—“and since now I have some idea of her hard and soft limits, I guess we can get started.”

“Good, because I’ve got some punishing to do,” Paul growled. Samantha’s face blanched. Mr. Sinclaire watched the couple, but said nothing. If this was the type of relationship they had, if this was what they both consented to, then it was not his place to judge or interfere, no matter how much it bothered him. But he would watch and supervise the scene in the activity room from beginning to end.

Calling the liaison to escort them down the hall, Mr. Sinclaire took them over to their designated activity room and showed the couple in. He took note of Samantha’s face when she saw the St. Andrew’s cross in the middle of the room: she looked surprised, and a little scared, but more than anything else, she looked fascinated—and aroused. Mr. Sinclaire caught her unclouded look of arousal and felt his balls tighten. He enjoyed working with women who got turned on by the sight of their own mechanisms of torture, and Samantha was clearly one of them.

Paul, on the other hand, looked over the cross, completely confused. It was as if he’d never seen a St. Andrew’s Cross before, not even a picture, and had no idea what he was supposed to do with it. This man is supposed to be a Dom? Mr. Sinclaire thought. A St. Andrew’s Cross is as basic as you can get. Samantha clearly knows what it is. So why doesn’t he?

Mr. Sinclaire sighed and gritted his teeth again. It was his obligation to take control over what happened in his activity rooms, and if he needed to give Paul a lesson in the basics of dungeon furniture, he would. But he had a feeling he’d be having a lot more fun with Samantha if Paul wasn’t in the room. The idea caught him off guard, and while pleasant, he had to push it away. It was not up to him to pick his guests, and certainly not his place to be jealous of a Dom’s sub, no matter how much of a ignorant brute the Dom seemed to be.

Mr. Sinclaire began to roll up his sleeves. Time to get to work.

“Why don’t we dive right in and start with the St. Andrew’s Cross,” he said. “Samantha, if you could please get undressed.”

Samantha’s eyes widened. “What, you mean take off all my clothes?”

“Yes, that usually is what ‘get undressed’ means,” he replied.

“Take your clothes off, Samantha,” Paul barked, looking at her with gleaming eyes. “A slut should be naked in the company of men.”

Samantha looked down at the floor and licked her lips. Mr. Sinclaire waited to see what she would do.

Slowly, she began the process of removing her blouse, working the buttons with shaking fingers. But as she peeled the sleeves down her shoulders, she looked up and stared at Mr. Sinclaire. She held his eyes as the shirt dropped to the floor. Then she reached around her body and unhooked her bra. It was as if she was doing a little striptease act, but it was just for Mr. Sinclaire—she was ignoring Paul completely.

Mr. Sinclaire caught his breath. With any other submissive, he would have taken note of this small act of defiance and given a harsh scolding. He should have called her out for her cheeky sauciness, for snubbing her Dom; instead, he decided to play along with Samantha’s little ruse.

He let his eyes do a silent mischievous dance with hers. Samantha continued the show, trailing her fingers down her body, slipping them under the hem of her skirt and peeling it slowly down. As she bent to lower it to the floor, she kept her eyes on her host, giving him a hint of a smile.

She bent again to strip out of her panties, this time squeezing her dainty tits together with her arms, letting him admire her cleavage. Her hair fell in her face, looking lush and disheveled, and she squinted at him through her tresses, looking at him like a seductive temptress.

Paul noticed the byplay going on between the woman and the host, and he tensed his whole body. It was obvious whatever was going on between the two other people in the room, he was being cut out of the action.

When Samantha was naked, she stood up straight, holding an expression of bland pride, and a gave a look of challenge to her host. It was clear she knew she had a luscious body. Pert, pink-tipped breasts cupped delicately above her lean torso and tight waist. Smooth thighs tapered out from compact, almost boyish hips. Her pussy, bared and denuded, was a thin line starting low between soft nether-lips. Mr. Sinclaire’s mouth went dry, and he licked his lips, unable to hide his obvious attraction to her womanly charms.

“Turn around,” he ordered before he could stop himself. He should not be the one ordering her around—her Dom was supposed to do that. But Samantha turned, and Mr. Sinclaire gazed at her lavish soft ass, surprisingly rounded considering her small size and overall narrow shape. There was not the slightest hint of ripple in the skin.

Paul noticed Mr. Sinclaire’s obvious admiration, but instead of getting angry, he gloated.

“Yeah, she keeps herself in shape, Samantha does, like a good slut. Gotta keep the men’s tongues wagging, gotta keep their cocks up. Isn’t that right, Samantha? I said, isn’t that right, Samantha?” Paul’s voice grew louder when Samantha didn’t answer right away.

“Yes,” she said, keeping her focus on Mr. Sinclaire. She didn’t seem scared by Paul’s raised voice, and she didn’t look at him. Paul scowled.

“How does this cross thing work?” He asked, walking around the heavy piece of dungeon furniture. Mr. Sinclaire looked at him, trying to remember his job was to instruct, not to judge—and certainly not to come between a Dom and his sub.

“I will cuff her in so she can’t move, and then we’ll get to work. Tell me, do you want her facing forward or back?”

“What difference will that make?”

Mr. Sinclaire tried to keep his voice calm. “Well, if you want to have access to her ass, she’ll need to face back. If you want to work over her breasts first, she’ll need to face forward.”

Being presented with a choice of options in methods of Samantha’s torture put Paul in a better mood—he felt more powerful, more in control.

“Put her face forward,” he said with a twisted grin that showed too much teeth. “I want to work her breasts over first.”

Mr. Sinclaire studied him for a moment. Paul didn’t look so authoritative anymore: he looked almost giddy with excitement, like a sadistic school boy about to be let loose on a mangy dog.

“Very well,” Mr. Sinclaire said. “Samantha, come here.”

Samantha walked toward him slowly, keeping her arms folded in front of her. But she followed directions when Mr. Sinclaire told her to hold out her hands and feet against the X of the cross. He buckled her into the strong leather cuffs, already attached to all four posts.

Mr. Sinclaire stepped back and admired the picture she now presented. Stretched and bound to the St. Andrew’s Cross, Samantha was a sight to behold. But Paul didn’t take any time to admire her sleek lines and contoured body.

“Now what?” He asked. “What have you got for me?”

Samantha looked at Mr. Sinclaire with pleading eyes. She was trying to tell him something, he realized. But he had no idea what, and without her speaking up, it was impossible for him to figure it out. He decided to go very, very slowly.

“We’ll start with a light flogger, and see how that goes. No reason to jump ahead,” he said, keeping his voice even. He needed to tread carefully and see what would happen.

Retrieving the lightest, softest flogger he had from the wardrobe and handing it to Paul, he said, “Go ahead and let me see how you warm her up. I’ll just watch for now.”

“Oh, I’ll warm her up, alright,” Paul said under his breath. Mr. Sinclaire had a hard time letting go of the compact flogger, but he released it into Paul’s hand. Paul slapped it against his thigh a couple times, looking at Samantha, his eyes bright and cruel.

“Here I come, Samantha,” he said with a taunt, and raised the flogger high in the air.

The leather came down against Samantha’s left breast with a stinging slap, and Samantha scrunched up her face in pain. Despite its worn-out straps and soft leather, it was still a flogger, and Paul was wielding it with force.

Paul flogged her left breast, then her right, and then worked indiscriminately between them, smiling as Samantha’s cries of pain grew louder. Tears were spilling down her cheeks, and her breasts were mottling an angry red.

“Think you can embarrass me, Samantha?” Paul said when Samantha’s cries grew into screams. Her tears smeared her makeup; her eyes were shadowy pits. Paul’s voice spat pure venom. “Think you can contradict me like that in front of other people? Make me look like a chump? Think I’ll let you get away with that?”

Changing the direction of his swing, Paul began to bring the flogger up and inside Samantha’s spread pussy. Samantha shrieked, squeezing her eyes shut in agony. Mr. Sinclaire didn’t stop him; Samantha had agreed to be whipped everywhere but the face and feet, and she had not safeworded. But he could feel the adrenaline rushing his blood like an open hydrant, and he kept his eyes open, alert, and focused on Paul.

Things were happening, now—something was going on inside Paul, something dark and menacing—and Mr. Sinclaire could feel his nerve endings standing on air.

“I saw the way you were looking at Sinclaire here,” Paul continued, swinging the flogger with renewed vigor. “Horny for him, Samantha? Think he’ll stuff your cunt up good? Hungry for his cock?”

His strikes came faster, harder, a blur of leather hitting skin, and Samantha’s screams became frantic. Mr. Sinclaire took a step toward Paul without even realizing it.

“Nobody fills your slut cunt but me, Samantha! You hear me, you stupid little bitch? Nobody!”

Samantha’s body twisted and struggled in the cuffs, her howls of pain ricocheting off the walls. Paul’s face twisted into an evil grin, and his eyes glazed over with excitement. A particularly vicious hit struck her right between her pussy lips, slapping against the sensitive nerves of her clit, and Samantha let out a shrill cry.

“Jasmine! Jasmine!” She said, her voice high and desperate. “Please stop! Jasmine!”

Mr. Sinclaire raised his arm to take the flogger from Paul, assuming the scene was now over. Later, he would realize how relieved he had felt to hear her cry out her safeword—in his opinion, things had gone too far already.

But before he could do anything to stop it, Paul raised his hand and let fly the flogger once more, cutting it right into Samantha’s pussy folds. Samantha’s eyes rolled back, and she let out a sound like a wounded animal.

“Stop it, Paul,” Mr. Sinclaire said loudly, grabbing Paul’s arm as he held up the flogger again. Mr. Sinclaire wrested the flogger out of Paul’s hand, pulling it out of his tight grip. “Samantha has safeworded. The scene is over.”

For a second, Paul stared at him. He tried to focus and take a deep breath. But then his face became a vision of rage.

“I say when the scene is over, not this bitch,” he whispered. Before Mr. Sinclaire knew what he was about, Paul stepped forward and backhanded Samantha across the face. Samantha’s head snapped back from the force of the blow, and she cried out again. “She doesn’t decide anything. She doesn’t get to think. Not even think. She is nothing but a slut. She is a dirty stupid slut.” He hit her across the face again, and a few drops of blood sprayed from Samantha’s mouth.

Mr. Sinclaire forced his way in between Paul and Samantha and shoved Paul away, using all his strength. Paul didn’t just move back; he fell back on his ass, skidding a little against the floor as he fell.

“The scene is over, Paul,” Mr. Sinclaire said, pale with anger, his lips pressed into a hard line. “You don’t get to touch her again.”

To Mr. Sinclaire’s surprise, Paul stood up and rushed at him. He raised his arm as he ran, closing his hand into a fist, ready to punch Mr. Sinclaire anywhere he could.

With Paul’s arms looking like steel anvils, another man might have panicked and moved away. But Mr. Sinclaire easily deflected the punch, used Paul’s momentum against him to swing him around, and landed his own punch across Paul’s face, sending the wider man crashing down to the floor again.

As soon as Paul was down and a good few feet away from Samantha, Mr. Sinclaire realized he had limited options. Paul was acting psychotic, Samantha was bleeding…and he needed backup. He ran to door, found the button that would normally summon the liaison, and pressed it repeatedly in rapid succession: poke poke poke poke.

Unfortunately, the time it took Mr. Sinclaire to do this was just enough time for Paul to get up off the floor and cuff Samantha across the face again, this time splitting open her lip. Samantha screamed. A trickle of blood began to flow.

A wave of rage washed over Mr. Sinclaire like nothing he had ever felt before. He ran at Paul, keeping his head down, and rammed the man right in the side of his ribs. Then he turned and swung his arm into Paul’s hard body like a blade hacking into flesh; the move would have cracked the ribs of a smaller man.

Paul folded in. He exercised a lot and looked strong, but it was obvious he was used to working with weights, not fighting, and he knew nothing of defending himself.

Mr. Sinclaire, who looked leaner but had years of experience in the boxing ring as well as martial arts training, punched him in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Then he went for Paul’s face, punching him again and again, not giving the man one second of respite. Paul was completely outmatched, a fact he barely had time to register before realizing the other man was about to pummel him into oblivion.

It felt like the fight had gone on for a long time, but it was only a few seconds later that the door exploded open with a bang. About a dozen people rushed into the room. Taking in the scene quickly, they grabbed Mr. Sinclaire by the shoulders, pulled him off Paul’s limp, lifeless body, and hauled him off to the side. Paul slumped to the floor.

“It’s okay, Sinclaire, it’s okay, we’ve got him, relax,” one of the men said, an older gentleman with graying hair. He put his palms up in front of Mr. Sinclaire’s face, trying to refocus him and calm him down. “You can stop now, we’re handing this. Sinclaire…Brian, look at me. It’s okay. Brian.”

Finally, at the use of his first name, Mr. Sinclaire tore his eyes away from the crumpled, beaten Paul, and looked at the older man in front of him.

“Okay,” he said, breathing hard but regaining his composure. “Okay. Okay.” He looked wild, but his eyes told the older man what he needed to know, that Mr. Sinclaire wouldn’t rush at Paul again. The older man put his hands down.

Mr. Sinclaire’s eyes looked for Samantha: she was still cuffed into the St. Andrew’s Cross. Her eyes were closed. She had not responded to the explosion of activity in the room; in fact, she looked asleep.

“How is she?” Mr. Sinclaire asked. Another woman had stepped in front of Samantha’s lifeless form, and was now lightly slapping her face, trying to get her to come back from wherever it was her mind had gone. Samantha blinked her eyes and looked at the woman. Then she began to cry.

When the woman began to uncuff Samantha from the cross, Mr. Sinclaire rushed forward.

“Let me,” he said. He worked as quickly as he could, uncuffing Samantha’s feet first: he knew she would crumple as soon as her hands were freed. He was right. Samantha fell forward as soon as she was freed from the cross, and Mr. Sinclaire caught her before she hit the floor. She continued to cry.

“It’s alright, Samantha, it’s alright,” Mr. Sinclaire soothed, holding her close and caressing her face, keeping his hands away from her bleeding and swelling lip. The woman went to the wardrobe and retrieved a thin, satin blanket. It wouldn’t serve to warm her, but it would hide her nakedness in the room full of people.

“What the hell happened here?”

The older man who had managed to restrain Mr. Sinclaire looked around the room before resting his eyes on the limp, befuddled Paul.

Paul was being held up by two other men, but only just. His knees were bent and his feet were dragging behind him, his toes scraping the floor. He was beginning to wake up a bit, but his head lolled back and forth; he was acting dopey and slow, like a wasted drunk. Mr. Sinclaire saw that one of the punches he’d delivered to Paul’s face had opened up the man’s nose. Blood was still trickling down and drying all over the man’s chin. It made Mr. Sinclaire smile.

He would have loved to watch and see if Paul would choke on his own blood, but he had to focus on someone much more important: Samantha. Samantha was clutching the blanket to her chin and crying against his chest, sobbing softly. Mr. Sinclaire gathered her close.

“The bastard didn’t honor her safeword,” he said in answer to the older man’s question, rubbing Samantha’s back. “Or any of her consent rules. It was like he didn’t even know what the word ‘limits’ means. He came at me when I told him the scene was over. I had to stop him.”

The older man nodded in understanding. “She doesn’t look like she got hurt badly enough to need a trip to the hospital,” he said. “She just looks very traumatized. But am I wrong? Do we need to call an ambulance?”

“No, she got cuffed in the mouth a couple times, but I stopped that idiot before he could do anything worse. She’ll need some help for her lip, though.”

“Shern will bring the nurse,” the older man replied, giving a nod to one of the other men in the room. The man nodded back, and left the room.

“The woman will be cared for here in the activity room before she is escorted back up to her own room,” the older man said: a voice of authority. “I don’t think it would be wise to drag her to First Aid looking the way she does. I don’t want to embarrass her more than she already is. Mr. Sinclaire, you will stay with her until she feels ready to return to her own room upstairs.”

“What about that scum?” Mr. Sinclaire bit out, motioning toward Paul.

“Oh, don’t worry about him—we’ll be handing him. Won’t we, Marissa?”

Another woman standing nearby, who was staring at Paul’s supported but restrained body with dispassionate interest, now turned her head. She smiled a wicked, ominous grin, and a cold chill seemed to enter the room of men.

“Oh, yes,” she said, her voice soft and dripping venom. It sent shivers down the backs, and cocks, of all the males. They recognized her tone. Some of them glanced at Paul with varying looks of sympathy.

Paul was about to find himself delivered into the hands of a Hotel Bentmoore Dominatrix, one of the most respected and feared around, and God only knew what Marissa was going to do to him.

But Mr. Sinclaire had no pity for Paul. He looked at Marissa with a look of satisfied pleasure.

“Good,” he said, giving her a brief nod.

“We’ll leave you, then,” the older man said. “Offer your guest what help you can, whatever she’s willing to take. We’ll let your other guests know there’s been an emergency.” His message was clear: Mr. Sinclaire’s focus, from now until Samantha left the hotel, was to be on making this one guest happy. Mr. Sinclaire would be serving as host to her and her alone until she left the hotel.

Samantha had suffered through a horrible attack on hotel grounds, and it was up to the hotel to heal her, and help her, as best they could. They would do whatever it took to make sure she still left the hotel satisfied.

The older gentleman looked down at Samantha with compassion, his eyes tender and full of sympathy. Samantha didn’t notice. Her eyes were pressed tight against her host’s chest.

“Thank you, Mr. Bentmoore,” Mr. Sinclaire said, hugging Samantha a little tighter. “For everything.”

“No problem, Mr. Sinclaire,” the man answered. Then, tight lipped, he turned to the men holding up Paul. “Get him down the hall to one of Marissa’s rooms,” he ordered. “We’ll care for him there…and he’ll be staying there for the remainder of his stay. Does that work for you, Marissa?”

“Oh, yes, that will work fine,” she purred. “I will enjoy having a new pet, even if he does need some training.”

With that, the men hoisted Paul up and dragged him out of the room, with Marissa following behind, looking almost gleeful.

Mr. Sinclaire could only hope Marissa would be able to teach Paul a few things, and give him the kind of instruction he deserved. But one thing was for sure: Paul would not be getting the kind of service he had been expecting from the Hotel Bentmoore.


~ * * * ~


Samantha held the cold compress to her lip as the nurse packed up her bag, getting ready to leave.

“It will be fine,” the nurse said, giving Samantha a comforting smile. “No stitches required. Keep the ice on it if it helps, but the swelling’s already almost gone. By tomorrow, with some makeup, you won’t be able to even see it. You’re lucky: your skin is in great shape.”

The nurse was a tall woman wearing a slinky dress and high-heeled shoes. She looked nothing like a nurse. But she seemed to know her stuff, and Samantha looked at her with relief.

“Thank you,” Samantha said. Her voice was low and hoarse. Her throat hurt.

Mr. Sinclaire walked over to her, holding a glass of water. “Here,” he said. Samantha drank, and felt better.

“I think you can handle things from here,” the nurse said, looking at Mr. Sinclaire. “I’m upstairs if you need me.”

“Thanks, Marie.”

“No problem. It’s why I’m here. Take care of yourself, hon,” she said to Samantha. Carrying her bag of medical supplies with her, she left the room.

Samantha held the compress to her lip, looking away from her host. Mr. Sinclaire had propped her up in the bed and wrapped her in a thin blanket, and now Samantha held it tightly around her. She felt tired, and overwhelmed, and her lip hurt…but mostly, she just felt embarrassed. She would not meet her host’s eyes.

“Samantha, look at me.” Mr. Sinclaire sat down on the bed next to her, forcing her eyes to look directly into his. “Talk to me,” he said. “Tell me what that was all about, what happened with Paul.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well, for starters, how did a woman like you end up with—Paul?” He had wanted to say “that loser,” but stopped himself.

Samantha sighed and put the compress down. “I met Paul a few months ago, at a club.”

“A club. What kind of club?”

“You know, the kind you go to meet people who are into bondage, ropes, spankings….”

“You mean, a BDSM club? A dungeon club?”

“Yes, exactly. It was my first time there, and Paul was at the bar, getting a drink, and he struck up a conversation with me, and….” she waved her hand out, as if to say, the rest is history.

“How long ago was this?”

“About three months ago.” Her brows went up as she said it. Had it been only three months? It felt to Samantha like three years. She sighed.

“And he’s been behaving like this with you for three months?”

“No,” she shook her head. “In the beginning, he was actually really nice. Swept me off my feet, really. He took me out, showed me off. But when he figured out what I wanted…I guess, what he could get away with…he began to change. He started trying to control me, and giving me orders. But—it’s never gone as far as it did today.” Her voice cracked.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s never lost control like that before—he’s never gone completely crazy on me, hitting me like that. But—” she stopped. Mr. Sinclaire waited while she found the words to continue.

“I think I always knew Paul had a dangerous side. I think…I think that’s what attracted me to him. But I never thought he was that dangerous. I never thought he could hurt me like he did today. I thought…I thought he at least cared about me. Now I don’t know.”

“Well, I guess we’re lucky you caught a glimpse of Paul’s true character while you were here, in a safe place, and we could help you.” Samantha looked miserable and heartbroken. It pulled at Mr. Sinclaire’s heart, but it angered him, too. She clearly didn’t realize how much danger she had been in.

“Samantha, do you understand what would have happened if Paul had changed like that in a place where the two of you were alone, where there was no one else to help you?”

“Yes.” But she sounded unconvincing, so Mr. Sinclaire spelled it out for her.

“He would have beaten you senseless. He might have killed you, Samantha.”

Samantha’s eyes grew large, filling with realization, shame, and regret. Mr. Sinclaire sighed.

“Why did you even stay with him for that long? Even if he wasn’t this bad in the beginning, even if he was nice most of the time, he must have, at some point or another, started to show signs of the kind of cruel person he really is. No one can hide that kind of uncontrollable rage for three whole months.”

“I thought that kind of attitude from him was what I should expect from, you know, a Dominant man. I thought I just had to accept it, because of what I wanted from him.”

“You thought you just had to accept his abuse? Why?”

Samantha looked taken aback. She had never thought of what Paul was doing to her as abuse before. “I met him at a BDSM club,” she said again, trying to explain. “I was looking for someone to…” she couldn’t finish the sentence.

Mr. Sinclaire quickly put two and two together. “You were looking for someone to give you pain,” he whispered. “You wanted someone to hurt you, hurt your body, and you thought that meant you had to put up with what Paul was putting you through.”

“Yes. I mean, if I want the pain, I can’t really call it abuse, can I?”

Mr. Sinclaire made a sound of impatience. “Tell me something. This club you met him in, you said it was your first time there. Was it your first time in any BDSM club?”

“No. About a year ago I was visiting a friend in another town, and she took me to a club. That was my first time, being in a BDSM club and seeing that kind of thing firsthand. I volunteered to come up on stage and get worked over by a Dom. They told me he was a Master Sadist. He put me on a St. Andrew’s Cross, too. It was the best night of my life. It changed me.” Her eyes dilated and took on a dreamy look as she remembered.

That’s why she recognized the cross and Paul didn’t, Mr. Sinclaire thought.

“But the club you met Paul in three months ago—that night, you went alone? No friend came with you?”

“No, there was nobody to go with me. I don’t really have any other friends close to me I could ask to go with me to a place like that.”

“So there was no one to vouch for Paul, no one to tell you he was a good guy.”

“No, I guess not.”

“It could have been his first time there too you know, or he could have been there just to prey on unsuspecting women.”

“I guess…But he was so sweet….”

“No, Samantha, he was not sweet. He saw an opportunity and he took it.” He looked furious, but tried to tamp down his fury so he wouldn’t scare her. He took her hand.

“I think I understand now what’s really going on. You went to a BDSM club a year ago, and ended up under the skilled hands of a Master, but before that, you hadn’t really known you would like that, had you? Like the pain. You didn’t even know that about yourself. That night awakened something inside you.” Samantha could only nod her head. “You went back to a new BDSM club near your own town, wanting a taste of it again. You were looking for someone to help you, guide you, teach you a few things.” He cupped her cheek in his large, calloused hand. “Ahh, Samantha, you’re nothing but a fresh-behind-the-ears newbie. Unfortunately, you got really, really unlucky.” Samantha’s mouth quivered; a tear fell from her eye and rolled down her cheek. Mr. Sinclaire gently wiped it away.

“Samantha, I want you to listen good. I’m going to tell you a couple basic rules. These are rules we follow at the Hotel Bentmoore, even if we don’t always spell it out every time for every guest, and these are rules you should follow if you want to keep yourself safe, and out of the hands of people like Paul.”

He leaned closer in, his voice growing stern. “One: there is a difference between sadism and abuse. I know that might confuse you, and it might take time for that to sink in, but—you need to learn the difference. A sadist will enjoy hurting you, he’ll get off seeing your pain, but he will only work within your rules of consent. He will only do what you agree to let him do to you, what the two of you have agreed to in advance. A man who crosses your limits, who goes beyond what you consent to, is an abuser, plain and simple, and you should run from men like that as fast as you can. They will not stop what they are doing before they really hurt you, like you saw today.”

Mr. Sinclaire took a breath. “Two: you’re a masochist. That’s obvious—” he stopped when he saw Samantha’s look of surprise. “You didn’t realize?”

“I…I knew I liked the pain I got from the Master, but I never really labelled myself that before.” She looked upset.

“It’s okay,” he soothed her. “There’s nothing wrong with being a masochist. Obviously a lot of women are, that’s why there are Doms and Master Sadists at clubs, doing what they do. Sadism and Masochism, it’s an integral part of the BDSM scene. Masochists are always looking for sadists to satisfy their own needs, just like you were when you met Paul. But here’s rule number two: being a masochist does not mean you have to put up with abuse. It means you like pain, yes—but you get to decide on the kind of pain, and amount of pain, you can take. The choice is always yours, and must always remain yours. Anyone who tries to take the choice away from you, you should stay away from them. Understand?”

Samantha slowly nodded her head yes. Mr. Sinclaire leaned back, still holding her hand.

“Good. Now in a way, it’s a good thing Paul showed his true colors for the first time here, so we could put a stop to it…out of curiosity, how did you two find out about the Hotel Bentmoore? What made you decide to come here in the first place?”

“My friend, the one who took me to the club in her home town, she called me. I told her about Paul, and how I wasn’t always enjoying what he was doing to me. She told me about your hotel. She said maybe Paul could learn some new stuff.”

Mr. Sinclaire looked at her shrewdly. “You didn’t tell her everything Paul was doing to you, did you? You didn’t tell her how Paul was making you feel, how he was turning into a controlling, manipulative bastard.”

“No, I guess at that point I was too embarrassed,” she said, realizing for the first time how deep down a spiral of self-loathing and shame she had gone. Paul had made her second-guess herself at every turn, had made her think she deserved the kind of “training” he was giving her, because of the pain she craved. But Mr. Sinclaire was right: she wasn’t being given what she wanted. She had been exploited to satisfy Paul’s twisted needs.

“Paul didn’t want to come to the hotel at first,” she said. “I told him to consider it a paid vacation.” Mr. Sinclaire needed a moment to understand what she was saying.

“Wait a minute—you paid, for both of your stays at the hotel?” He asked. Hosts didn’t usually discuss money and cost with their guests, but in this case, Mr. Sinclaire made an exception.

“Well, yeah,” Samantha said reluctantly. “Paul doesn’t make as much money as I do. I pay for pretty much everything.” Her eyes darted away.

He had been starting to talk about moving in together, Samantha remembered. Luckily, she had always managed to push away that conversation, feeling a sick sense of dread every time Paul had brought it up. Now she knew why: inside, she must have known it would lead to her living with, and supporting, her own abuser. She shuddered.

“What’s going to happen now? And—where is Paul?” She looked around, as if realizing for the first time he was no longer in the room.

“Paul is in very safe hands,” Mr. Sinclaire said vaguely. “But he will not be with you anymore. The rest of your stay will be spent alone. We took the liberty of taking out all his things from your room.”

“What? Where is he? Where have you put him?” She began to rise from the bed, and Mr. Sinclaire pushed her back down.

“I don’t want you to think about Paul anymore. We’re handling him. You won’t be seeing him again unless we think there’s a reason, so just put him out of your head. In fact, I want you to promise me here and now that when you leave the Hotel Bentmoore, you won’t ever see Paul again. You and he are through, Samantha. Understand?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “He and I are through. Just—just don’t punish him on my account.”

“Now that I can’t promise.” Samantha looked at him in alarm. “But let’s talk about you,” he said. “You’ve still got some days scheduled with us, and I’d be happy to keep working with you as your host. If you want me, that is. It’s clear there’s a lot I could teach you.”

“You mean…you would still work with me? Do…things….” Her eyes darted back to the St. Andrew’s Cross sitting in the middle of the room, and her breath caught. Mr. Sinclaire smiled.

“Oh yes, I would ‘do things’ to you. I am considered a Master Sadist too, you know. Samantha, I could make you feel things you didn’t know possible. I could make you fly.” His eyes became dark and liquid, deep endless pools full of hidden knowledge, and Samantha couldn’t tear her eyes away.

“Yes, I would like that,” she breathed. “Please.”

“I’m warning you though. I will make you hurt. Afterwards, you will love it—love what I did to you, what I made you feel. My time with you may become the most erotic memories you ever have. But when I’m hurting you, while it’s happening, you may not like it. In fact, I can guarantee you there will be many moments you won’t like it at all.”

Samantha swallowed hard. She knew she should be afraid of what he was saying, but instead, all she felt was aroused. The idea of putting herself in the hands of a trusted Master made her pelvis tighten and her breath catch. To feel again what she had felt that night…it felt so long ago….

“I’ll have my, what did you call it? My safeword.”

“Yes. You will always have your safeword, and when you give me your safeword, I will stop, immediately.”

“And you won’t try to do anything I told you not to. Like hurt my feet.”

“No,” Mr. Sinclaire smiled, “I won’t touch your feet. I won’t cross any hard limit you’ve given me.”

“Then,” she licked her lips, “then please, work on me, Mr. Sinclaire—”

“Sir,” he corrected.

“Sir,” she said breathlessly. “Sir, please do what you would to me. Make me hurt. Make me fly.” She repeated his words back at him, almost swooning.

Mr. Sinclaire recognized her reaction and grinned. “Samantha, I will see you tomorrow morning. Eat a light breakfast, because when I get you back in that cross, I’m going to work you over but good.”


~ * * * ~


When Samantha re-entered Mr. Sinclaire’s activity room the next day, she felt like a different person. Some of her old sauciness had already returned, and she walked in with a spring to her step. She felt light, free, like a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders and out of her life. It was a little scary to realize now how much Paul had managed to change her in only three months, turning her into a meek, frightened, cowering woman. She never wanted to be like that again.

True to Mr. Sinclaire’s words, by the time she had returned to her room upstairs the night before, all of Paul’s things had mysteriously vanished. It was as if he had never arrived to the hotel with her at all.

Samantha had curled up in the large bed and cried, letting the sobs go freely in the dark. It was the kind of crying that hits a person after an averted catastrophe, after everything is already fine, crisis averted, and they can face how close they had come to being seriously hurt. Her crying was cathartic, and when she was done, she felt clean, renewed, and ready to move on with her life.

Now, standing in the middle of the activity room and facing the St. Andrew’s Cross once more, she hoped Mr. Sinclaire could help her make that move in the right direction.

“Hello, Samantha,” he said. Samantha turned to look at him. He seemed different, too. The alert tension he had been cloaked in the day before was now gone. He seemed much more at ease, like he was looking forward to a playful scene with his new guest. A warm smile curved his mouth.

He still wore a pressed white shirt and tailored suit pants, but this time his shirt sleeves were rolled all the way up to his forearms, showing off his wide muscles. The shirt was open down the front, too. Samantha could see a tiny crease of tantalizing skin and flat stomach. Her mouth went dry.

“We’re going to start like this is a brand new beginning, okay? It’s just you and me now. A whole new scene, and a whole new set of rules—mine.” He said this as he walked toward her, and put his hands gently on her shoulders. But his gentle touch was enough to make Samantha’s senses go haywire; she closed her eyes and tried to breathe. They hadn’t even started yet, and she already felt lightheaded.

“Easy,” Mr. Sinclaire said, as if reading her thoughts. “Very soon you’ll be off in subspace, but right now I need you here, focused on me.”

Samantha tried to focus. “Subspace?”

Mr. Sinclaire smiled at her natural curiosity and innocence. She really is so new to this, he thought.

“Subspace is what we call the place where the mind goes when a sub or masochist starts to submit to the pain. The chemicals and endorphins hit your bloodstream, and it effects your mind. Thoughts start to drift, or just disappear. Often the senses also go haywire. Some women see colors, or fireworks, and others hear rushing noises—and some smell strong familiar scents, like you do your jasmine. Subspace is a kind of mental high. Women can experience multiple orgasms that way—I’ve been told an orgasm while in subspace is like no other.”

Samantha made a sound of surprise, and her cheeks blushed crimson. Mr. Sinclaire looked at her shrewdly.

“When you were being worked over by the Master Sadist at the club that night, you came, didn’t you?”

Samantha could feel her entire face grow hot. She had never admitted it to anyone before, but she had come twice on stage that night. It had seemed so perverted to her that she had enjoyed being tied up and beaten, to the point of orgasm. But Mr. Sinclaire didn’t look at her in disgust. He looked at her in pleasure…and lust.

“A woman who can orgasm by pain alone is a lucky find,” he said, his voice soft and hungry. “It opens up a whole world of opportunity. This day is going to be a turning point for you, Samantha. I feel honored to share it with you.”

Samantha didn’t know what to say to that. Mr. Sinclaire seemed so earnest, she wanted to kiss him, but at the same time, a part of her was wishing he would turn her around and start spanking her ass. “Thank you, Sir,” she said.

“Your welcome,” he said, walking to the cross. “Now get undressed.”

“You first,” she said. Mr. Sinclaire turned and looked at her in surprise.

Samantha put a hand on her mouth, looking just as shocked as he did by her insolence. She had no idea where those words had come from! More of her cheekiness had returned in full force, it seemed.

Mr. Sinclaire regarded her for a second, then sighed. He stepped forward to stand in front of her, raised his hands to her blouse, and began to unbutton it from the top down. Samantha made no move to stop him; she was too embarrassed by her outburst. Mr. Sinclaire gave her a stern look as he spoke.

“I realize it’s your masochistic cravings we’re delving into today, and not any predispositions you may have towards dominance or submission, but let’s be clear: right now it’s me giving the orders, Samantha. You will follow my instructions to the letter, and without argument. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir.” She lowered her eyes in shame. Where had those impertinent words come from?

Mr. Sinclaire finished unbuttoning her blouse. He spread it wide. Samantha’s nipples puckered under her bra, and her skin flushed under his heady gaze.

“Now, finish getting undressed,” he ordered again, stepping away from her. He watched, and waited, and Samantha realized he would make a point of staring at her as she undressed. If it was to somehow teach her a lesson, he was mistaken. Samantha didn’t mind if he wanted to watch her. She’d never had any qualms with undressing in front of a man, especially one who aroused her, and clearly desired her back.

When all her clothes were off and laying on the floor in a pool by her feet, she stood up straight and proud, looking Mr. Sinclaire in the eyes and giving him a look of pure haughtiness. Mr. Sinclaire noticed her brazen posture and narrowed his eyes.

“Put your clothes on the shelf over there and stand in front of the cross,” he said, pointing to a narrow shelf by the bed. Samantha dutifully followed his instructions, feeling her nervousness begin to rise. She knew what was coming, and she was already so aroused her cunt was creaming. Her inner thighs felt slick.

She stepped up to the St. Andrew’s Cross and turned around, facing out, the way she had the day before.

“No,” Mr. Sinclaire said from behind the cross. “Face the other way. I’m going to work on your back and bottom today. That’s what the Master did at the club that night, am I right?”

“Yes,” Samantha said, her voice hoarse. “He had me lift up my skirt and lower my panties.” The flood of memories hit her like a rush, making her whole body flood with tingling warmth.

Samantha suddenly felt a hand on her ass, and she jumped.

“I can understand why the Master wanted a taste of your ass,” her host said. He caressed the mound of her bottom with a light touch, rubbing his hand up and down her soft curve, dipping it into her crease. “But it’s not just your ass I’ll be marking today.” He lowered his hand down her leg, feeling her satiny flesh, then trailed his fingers up her slim back. His feather-soft touch sent goosebumps down her body, and she shivered.

“Turn around, hands and feet against the Cross. Spread ‘em wide,” he ordered now, lowering his voice into a no-nonsense tone. Samantha did as she was told, pressing her arms and legs against the Cross. Mr. Sinclaire worked quickly to cuff her in, making sure she would not be able to move away from it one bit.

Now Samantha was strapped against the Cross, at her host’s mercy, and feeling incredibly horny. Her nervous anticipation began to get the better of her; she felt like she couldn’t control her breathing at all anymore. She wanted to struggle against the cuffs, and stopped herself by shear force of will.

“Now then. Let’s go over my rules,” Mr. Sinclaire said calmly, moving to where Samantha could see him. “First of all: you’re not on any kind of noise restriction. You can scream, cry, yell, curse, anything you want. In fact, I insist you don’t hold back. I like it. Understand?”

Samantha nodded her head, surprised. It had not even occurred to her he might put her on some sort of noise restriction. How could a woman be cuffed into a St. Andrew’s Cross, get her bottom spanked, and not make any noise?

“Next. If you need to come at any time, then come. You’re not on any kind of restriction for that, either. Come as many times as you like, but let me know if you’re about to. I want to know how many times you come tonight. Understand?”

Again, Samantha nodded, feeling out of her depths. She would ask him about the restrictions, and the lack of them, later.

“Next. I’ll be giving you fair warning about what I’m about to do. I might even tell you how much to expect once I get started. But that doesn’t mean you can argue with me about it. It’s not up for discussion. It’s just me going easier on you this first time. You’ve still got your safeword, but you don’t get to negotiate with me. Understand?”

Samantha nodded silently, feeling her fear begin to overflow.

“Last thing.” He paused. “I’m going to take you all the way to your edge, Samantha. But this is our first session together, and it might take me some time to learn how to straddle the edge. So: do you remember your safeword?”


“Yes. Use it if you feel like you have to—but only if you absolutely have to.”

“How will I know I have to?”

“Oh, you’ll know, believe me.” When she gave him a dubious look, he leaned down and peered into her face, smoothing her brow with the pad of his thumb, like a soft caress. “Samantha, I am going to make you fly so high, you won’t be able to see the ground. When you’re so close to the edge you can feel yourself about to fly off into the abyss, that safeword will be the only thing stopping you. That’s when you use it.”

Samantha could feel herself melting inside. Mr. Sinclaire’s voice was like a gentle flow of water, and she was already drifting away. Her body relaxed against her bonds.

As she stood there, her eyes closed, Mr. Sinclaire went to the back of the room, where a large, double-doored wardrobe sat closed. He opened it up, began pulling things out, and laid them on a large wheeled tray. When he was satisfied, he took his place once more behind Samantha’s stretched and quivering form, pulling the tray behind him.

“Let’s begin,” he said. Samantha sensed he had grabbed something off the tray. Mr. Sinclaire gave her no time to ready herself: she had barely taken a deep breath before she felt the first searing smack against her soft skin.


Whatever it was Mr. Sinclaire was using on her, he hit her right between the shoulder blades with a soft thud. What felt like a few dozen pin pricks dug into her back, stinging painfully.

“This is a braided bullhide flogger,” Mr. Sinclaire explained as Samantha inhaled. He hit her with it again, using an easy, relaxed swing; Samantha winced as it came down, but otherwise made no noise. “It’s not as mean as some of the other floggers. I thought we would start off slow.”

Samantha was barely listening. As he spoke, he hit her again with the flogger, then again, aiming for the space between her shoulder blades, making her gasp and tense up her muscles. The pain was there, and it was bad, but at the same time it was a delicious kind of pain, exactly what she wanted. What she needed.

Soon, Mr. Sinclaire began to use heavier strokes, and Samantha pressed herself into the Cross, never wanting it to end.

He flogged her for a long time, and by the time he was done, Samantha’s whole upper back was a beautiful, deep red. She was already off in subspace, feeling nothing but the pleasure in the pain. She was flying.

Mr. Sinclaire looked at her still form and smiled. “Time to move on,” he said, knowing full well Samantha was barely listening. But still, he thought it important to talk to her as he worked, letting her know what he was doing and what he was using. She would remember it later, he knew.

He put the flogger on the tray behind him, and picked up a flat, wide-handled tool.

“This is a leather paddle, Samantha,” he said. “I’m going to work that sweet little ass of yours now. Ahh, I can see how this is making you wet. Your pussy is dripping. Come when you need to, just let me know.” He maneuvered himself next to her side and let the paddle wing, smacking it against the jutting rump of her derriere. This time, Samantha shrieked.

Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!

He worked methodically, taking his time, alternating between ass cheeks as he paddled her. Samantha began to cry out with each stroke, feeling the sting of the paddle grow sharper.

Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!

Samantha’s tears flowed freely now. The pain was bad, much worse than the flogger had been. The paddle seemed to be biting into her flesh; Mr. Sinclaire was picking up his pace, giving her almost no time to recover between strokes. She couldn’t get away from the sting, all she could do was cry out, and it hurt…but it was a good kind of hurt, it was her kind of hurt. Samantha could feel her pelvis tighten and her pussy clench, and she knew she was about to come. Then she remembered: she was supposed to tell him.

“I’m going to come, I’m going to—ohhh!” The orgasm hit, making her arch as far back as her restraints would allow. She cried out in ecstasy; Mr. Sinclaire continued to paddle her as she came, making her orgasm last even longer. Every time she thought she was coming down from the crest, the paddle would smack her again, and she would go right back up, convulsing against the cross. But after the third wave, she just couldn’t do it anymore. She felt wrung out and limp.

Mr. Sinclaire stopped swinging the paddle. He was breathing hard behind her.

After a few moments, he leaned in to whisper in her ear. “It’s going to get more intense now, Samantha,” he said. Samantha couldn’t articulate a reply; she was still high in subspace. But she could hear him, and inside, she shivered at the warm breath of his words, and steeled herself for what was to come.

“Get ready, Samantha. This is going to hurt, a lot. I’ll do two at a time, and alternate between each cheek.”

Samantha could hear a swish through the air, and then—impact. What felt like a few dozen wasp stingers pierced into her like needles. She screamed.

“It’s a brush,” Mr. Sinclaire said, his voice calm against her scream of pain. “Stings a lot more than you’d think, yes?” He swatted her again, and Samantha screamed again, desperate for one second, just one second, to compose herself. But Mr. Sinclaire didn’t give it to her. True to his word, he swatted her twice on one side, and then did two quick swats on the other. They weren’t even hard swats; Samantha could tell he wasn’t putting a lot of force behind the blows. But the blunt bristles prickled her flesh like holy fire.

Samantha shook her head violently, twisting against the cross. The bristles began to feel like white-hot pokers against her flesh. Mr. Sinclaire began to put more force behind his blows, ignoring her screams.

He began pausing for a fraction of a second between each ass cheek. Samantha thought he was slowing down to go easier on her, but then she realized there was a secondary pain hitting her during that moment of respite, and Mr. Sinclaire just wanted to give her a chance to feel it. The bristles bit, and Samantha howled.

Swat, swat, pause. Swat, swat, pause.

The pain escalated until all thought was gone from Samantha’s head and all that existed was her world of pain. Her breathing came fast and heavy. She could smell a sweetness in the air, the pungent odor of flowers: roses, lilacs, lilies, and above all else, the thick sweetness of jasmine…whole fields of them, overpowering her senses…the pain was shooting her up, and up, and up….

The smell of jasmine grew heavy and she couldn’t bear the agony anymore. It was too much.

“Jas—oh! Oh, God!” Just as she was crying out her safeword, an orgasm exploded inside her, shocking her to her core. It burst from her center, slamming into her extremities, and then bounced right back. The force of it was intense; her head fell back, and her eyes rolled.

She must have blacked out for a few seconds, because when she came to, she was no longer cuffed to the cross. Mr. Sinclaire was carrying her like a baby over to the bed. His hands on her back and bottom hurt like rough sandpaper, but it felt comforting.

“That was…that was…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. She rested her head against his chest, and then Mr. Sinclaire was putting her gently on the mattress.

“One more,” he said, getting undressed. “Come for me one more time, Samantha.” With half-hooded eyes, Samantha watched him take his clothes off, then gasped when she saw his stiffened cock. It was standing straight up against his belly, reaching high above his bellybutton. He had obviously gotten very aroused by what he had just been doing to her, but the man was huge.

He opened the drawer of the bedside table and pulled out nipple clamps, held together by a very long, thin chain.

“I didn’t give enough attention to these today,” he murmured, staring at her breasts.

Holding one of the nipple clamps open, he aimed it toward Samantha’s left breast and fitted it right around the nipple. Then slowly, oh so slowly, he let go. The clamp bit into her nipple as it squeezed, and Samantha moaned.

Mr. Sinclaire did the right nipple next, staring in fascination as the rubbery nub of flesh swelled and bulged from the wicked metal mouth.

“It hurts, it hurts,” Samantha cried, flailing.

“I know,” Mr. Sinclaire answered, his voice soft. It was clear he was enjoying watching the way Samantha struggled with the pain of the clamps. “Do you need to safeword?”

“No,” she whimpered. The pain was acute, making it hard for her to talk.

He pulled on the chain, just a bit, and Samantha shrieked. Her torso lifted off the bed. Tears spilled from her eyes as her face contorted with agony. Just when she began to panic from the pain, Mr. Sinclaire let go, and she came back down.

But before she could recover from his little stint, Mr. Sinclaire took the long loose chain and slipped it over his head. He moved himself directly over Samantha’s wracked body, spread her legs wide with his own, and thrust his cock deep inside her cunt.

Samantha was very hot, and very wet after her multiple orgasms. But she was also very tight, and Mr. Sinclaire’s large prick slamming into her caused her a different kind of pain. She cried out.

Supporting himself on his hands, Mr. Sinclaire pounded into her, thrusting hard. The chain around his neck kept her nipples high and erect. Every time he lifted his chest the slightest bit, the chain stretched, and the clamps pulled, tightening around her nipples even more. Samantha whimpered, and cried…and responded.

She widened her legs even more, lifting them high around her host’s body. She held his shoulders, but didn’t try to pull him down; she began to love the feel of the clamps pulling at her sensitive nipples, biting into them like tiny teeth, shocking her every time Mr. Sinclaire lifted himself up to slam into her cunt again with his ramming prick.

Her back hurt, and her ass hurt, her nipples were in agony, and her host was taking her brutally, pounding into her well-oiled cunt like a battering ram. Samantha could feel the orgasm building inside her, growing as big as before. But this time she knew what was coming, and got ready for it.

“Oh Jesus,” Samantha had just enough time to say before the orgasm hit. Her muscles tightened, and her pussy clenched, squeezing around Mr. Sinclaire’s thrusting cock like a glove. As her pussy spasmed around his length, Mr. Sinclaire came himself, groaning above her and shooting his cum deep into her sopping cunt. Once he was done, he collapsed on top of her, putting his head against her chest and breathing hard.

Samantha didn’t notice. She was already out cold.


~ * * * ~


She woke up a while later to the feeling of someone smoothing the hair away from her face.

“Wake up,” her host’s voice came from above her. “Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

Samantha opened her eyes and looked around. She was lying on her stomach on the bed, one arm draped over the side. Her back and ass hurt like hell.

“How long have I been out?” She asked, looking at Mr. Sinclaire standing above her. He smiled.

“About half an hour,” he answered. “I took the liberty of coating your back and butt with some ointment we keep here at the hotel. It really helps with the pain and healing.”

Samantha tried to get up, but when she pushed herself into a sitting position, she winced. The cream did seem to be helping, but she still hurt.

“How do you feel?”

She took a minute to really think about it. “Good,” she said, grinning. “I’m sore, but I feel really, really good.”

Mr. Sinclaire smiled at her answer, and Samantha’s breath caught. He was so overwhelming to her senses. She had not felt this satisfied since that night at the club a year before, when the Master had taken her in hand.

“Do I need to feel rushed to get dressed?” She asked.

“No, take all the time you need.” Mr. Sinclaire retrieved a short robe from the wardrobe, belted it loosely around his narrow waist, and sat back down on the edge of the bed next to her. Samantha fell back against the pillows with a thud, sighing in contentment. She felt very languid.

“So?” Mr. Sinclaire asked. “How was I compared to the Master you had at the club that night?” How did he know I was just thinking about that?

“Oh, I don’t know,” she answered, being flippant. “He was so good at what he did…but you were okay too. I guess.” She tried to hide the grin curving her lips. Mr. Sinclaire scowled, rolled her onto her side, and started pinching her ass hard.

“Ow! Ow! Okay, you were amazing too,” she cried, her voice full of laughter. Mr. Sinclaire growled but let her go.

“Samantha…Sam…I have a feeling you are going to live up to your name,” he said, moving aside some stubborn stray hair in her face and patting it down behind her ear.

Samantha’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you are a SAM. It’s an acronym for Smart-Assed Masochist—which I have a feeling is exactly what you are.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It depends. Smart-Assed Masochists tend to get themselves into trouble. They need a strong hand of a Dom, one usually wielding a heavy instrument, to keep them in line.”

“I see.” She batted her eyelashes at him. “And you think you have that heavy hand? You have what it takes to keep me in line?”

“Oh yes…at least, while you’re staying at the Hotel Bentmoore,” he said.

Samantha lowered her eyes. Mr. Sinclaire missed her fleeting look of sadness; he was already getting up from the bed.

“You want some water?” He asked, pouring himself a glass from a pitcher sitting on the opposite bedside table.

“No, thank you.” Her voice was whisper-thin.

“We should talk about what you want to do tomorrow,” he said, gulping the water down and returning the glass to the table. “Is there anything else specific you’d like to try? Or would you just rather leave things up to me to decide?”

“Sir, can I ask you some questions first, before we talk about tomorrow? You said some things that confused me, and it’s not like I have anyone else I can ask.”

“Sure, fire away,” Mr. Sinclaire said.

“Well, you taught me about using a safeword, and told me to use it when I thought I couldn’t take the pain anymore.”

“Not just the pain, although that’s most of it. Sometimes it’s the fear that gets too much. Sometimes the whole scene just gets too psychologically overwhelming.”

“But when I was on stage at the club that night, no one gave me a safeword.”

“That’s because the Master would have stopped immediately if you had told him to. You didn’t need a safeword, you just had to say ‘no’ or ‘stop,’ and the scene would have been over. You didn’t tell him to stop, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. I…I really liked it, all the way up to the very end.” She paused to think. “But the woman who went up after me, he was much harder on her than he was on me. She begged him to stop, and he didn’t. If she had gone before me, I don’t think I would have agreed to go on stage at all. I would’ve been too afraid, after seeing what he put her through.”

Mr. Sinclaire thought for a moment. “Did she go on stage alone?”

“No, a man came up with her, but he stood to the side. I got the feeling they were together, like boyfriend and girlfriend. The guy watched the Master flog and whip her. He seemed to like it a lot.”

“Sounds like they were together, but not as boyfriend and girlfriend. He was her Dom, and she was his sub, and he had ordered her to go up.” When Samantha looked confused, he slowed down, trying to pick his words carefully. “She was following his orders. She had no choice.”

“But you told me about rules of consent, and how the choice is always mine.”

“Well…the choice to enter into a BDSM scene, to engage in that kind of play, is always yours. But sometimes, a person can also consent beforehand to give up their control completely while the scene is going on. Rules are discussed in advance, but the details of what goes on once the scene starts is up to the Dom. Often in those cases, the sub will no longer have a safeword.” When he realized he was only confusing her more, he sighed. “Samantha, it really depends on the relationship of the two people. The most extreme example I can think of is the Master/slave dynamic.”

“Slave?” Samantha breathed, looking shocked.

“Yes. But there are different kinds of slaves, too. It all depends on what the couple has agreed on in advanced.” He thought about Marissa and her collection of slaves, and wondered what was happening to Paul. He pushed the thought away. “Some Doms insist on having absolute control over their slaves all the time, night and day. But the slave always has Right of Last Refusal.”

“Right of…?”

“Last Refusal. It means the ending of the relationship. The slave can sever all ties with her Master. It’s hard, but the slave always has that choice, as painful as it is, to walk away.”

Samantha took a minute to digest everything. “Mr. Sinclaire, Sir…do all your other, um, guests, have safewords?”

“No. Some of them have been coming to me for long enough that we don’t use safewords anymore. I know their limits.” He suddenly felt uncomfortable discussing his other clients with her, even vaguely, but didn’t know why. “A scene with no safeword, it’s…it’s wild, and it’s exciting, but it’s exciting because it’s dangerous. You can never really know how far things are going to go. It can get really, really intense.”

“Then, that’s what I want for tomorrow,” Samantha said, her voice eager. “I want you to do a scene with me where I don’t have a safeword.”


“No? What do you mean, no?”

“I mean no. I will not do a scene like that with you.” When she frowned, he said, “Samantha, you have just ended an abusive relationship. You are brand new to experiencing the pleasures of your own masochism—you don’t even know your own limits. How can you expect me to agree to something like this, when you don’t understand what it is you’re asking for?”

“But I trust you. I know you’d never really hurt me.”

“Then you’re completely missing the point. No safeword means you will get hurt—more than you ever have before. What you felt today? That in nothing compared to what you’d go through with no safeword, even with me being the one working you over. Remember what I said before about being in subspace, straddling the abyss, and how you’d know when to use your safeword when you were about to go over the edge?”

Samantha nodded her head.

“No safeword means there is no straddling the edge,” he said. “It means you get pushed over, stuck in that black zone of subspace, and it’s up to me to get you to the other side. Once you start a scene like that, you have no choice but to finish it, no matter how badly you wish you could take it back and change your mind. The pain will feel like nothing you’ve ever felt before, and it won’t stop until I decide to make it stop.”

Samantha stared at him as he spoke, mesmerized. Her eyes grew wide.

“But that’s what I want. To give up control completely to you, to see where the pain will take me.”

“No, Samantha. It is simply too early for you to do this. I will not allow you to give up your safeword.”

“Fine. I’ll just find someone else who will.” She jumped from the bed and grabbed her clothes from the shelf. “I’ll be checking out of the hotel tomorrow morning. Thank you for all your help.” She pulled her panties up her waist and began to put on her bra.

“Now hold on just a fucking second.” Mr. Sinclaire grabbed her by the arm. “You’re going to leave the hotel, and then what? Go to another BDSM club on your own, find another asshole like Paul to smack you around?”

“You told me I got unlucky. I shouldn’t get unlucky twice,” she quipped, yanking her arm back and lifting up her bra straps till they snapped over her shoulders. “Maybe I’ll find another Master who can help me. And anyway, it’s not like you’re willing to give me what I want. So what choice do I have?”

Mr. Sinclaire gnashed his teeth together. It was obvious she had no idea what kind of predicament she was putting him in.

If he did this scene with her, and she became overwhelmed by the fear and the pain (and he knew, at some point, she would), he would have only two choices: keep going despite her cries and pleas to stop, or give in and stop the scene. If he stopped the scene, she would always wonder what could have happened, how far she could have gone with him, and whether she would have still enjoyed it in the end. She might even resent him for honoring her pleas to stop, when she’d specifically called for no safeword.

But if he kept going, and ignored her pleas, she may later come to hate what he had put her through, and feel like she’d been abused again.

He didn’t want her to walk away unsatisfied. But he also didn’t want to hurt her, at least not psychologically. He was a sexual sadist, not an emotional one. Mr. Sinclaire liked to seduce consent out of his guests, not manipulate them into doing things they weren’t ready for.

He’d called her a Smart-Assed Masochist, and he’d been right. She was goading him into doing what she wanted, manipulating him with her needs, and she was driving him crazy. And yet, the idea of having Samantha under his will, with no safeword…to have the freedom to take her as far as she could go, to see how high she could fly…could he really refuse such a demand? The sadist in him cried out NO.

And one thing was for sure: if he didn’t agree to do this scene with her at all, and she left the hotel now, she would certainly get herself into trouble. Mr. Sinclaire had no doubts about that.

“Fine,” he growled. “I’ll do it.” When Samantha’s mouth widened into a huge, satisfied grin, he scowled even deeper. “I just hope we don’t both end up regretting this. I’ll give you until tomorrow to change your mind. I want you to really think about this, Samantha, because if I don’t hear from the liaison that you’ve had a change of heart, once you walk through that door tomorrow, there will be no turning back.”

“I understand,” Samantha said. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Wait and see if you’ll be thanking me tomorrow,” he answered, handing her the rest of her clothes. He knew one thing: he planned on punishing her long and hard for being the Smart-Assed Masochist she was.


~ * * * ~


The next evening, Samantha arrived to her activity room right on time. The liaison had escorted her from her room, to the elevator, and down the hallway, without once raising his eyebrows at her attire or giving her a single strange look.

Samantha, on Mr. Sinclaire’s orders, had donned a loose, shapeless dress that he had sent up to her room. Samantha wore nothing underneath. Again, her host’s orders.

Inside the activity room, Mr. Sinclaire was waiting for her. But this time, the room looked very different: the St. Andrew’s Cross was gone, and another piece of furniture took its place. It looked wicked indeed, but Samantha tried not to imagine too hard what would be done to her on that piece of equipment. She would find out soon enough.

Mr. Sinclaire also looked different. He still wore the formal slacks, but no shirt, and his feet were bare. His contoured muscles shaped him into a fine specimen of a male, Samantha thought. She smiled.

“Hello, Samantha,” he greeted her. “You had a good morning? Enjoyed the pool a little?”

“Yes, Sir,” she replied. She lowered her eyes. “Sir, I saw Paul today, briefly, during my breakfast. He looked very…different.” There was no word to describe the drastic change she had seen in Paul. He had been meek, subdued—almost frightened of her. The kind of person she had been a few days ago, she realized. But there had been no disguising the wide leather collar Paul had been wearing around his neck.

Mr. Sinclaire took on a worried frown. “Yes, I was informed he had been instructed to seek you out and apologize for his behavior. Did he? And to your satisfaction?”

“Yes. Very much.” He had been desperate, in fact.

“Did you accept his apology?”

“Yes. It seemed very, um, heartfelt.” Like his life depended on it.

“Did he say anything else to you?”

“Only that I wouldn’t have to see him ever again, if that was my wish.”


“He was wearing a collar. Sir…what’s happened to him?”

Mr. Sinclaire gave her a thin, twisted smile. “We have our own ways, here at the Hotel Bentmoore, of dealing with abusers. Marissa likes to call it her ‘training camp.’”


“One of our Dominas.” When he saw her look of confusion, he frowned again. “Put Paul out of your mind. He’s fine—better than fine. He’s going to walk out of here a new man.” Samantha thought Mr. Sinclaire’s tone quite ominous, but she decided to follow orders and drop it.

“Sir, what would you like me to do?”

“Before we start, I want to give you one last time to back out. I know I told you yesterday once you entered this room it would be too late, but I realized that might have come across as too harsh. We can still do a different scene, one where you have a safeword, and you’ll feel just as good as you did yesterday, if you want.”

She shook her head. “No. I want to see where this goes. You’re the only one I trust to help me without violating my boundaries, and to keep control over the scene.” She looked so earnest, in that moment, Mr. Sinclaire knew he could not refuse.

“Very well then,” he said, taking control. “I have your consent to do as I wish, no matter how much you may beg me later to stop. And you will beg me, Samantha. You will beg and plead and cry and scream, and your cries will only press me on. Understand?”

Samantha nodded. Her mouth had gone too dry for her to speak.

“Get undressed.”

There was no refusing him or getting smart-assed about it this time. Samantha only had to unbutton the first three buttons of the loose dress for the opening to be large enough for her to slip it down. In a matter of seconds, she was naked.

“Come here.” Dutifully she obeyed, walking over to where he was standing next to the large, foreboding piece of furniture. Most of it was a long padded table, but there were two lower padded shelves protruding out the lower end, one on each side. “Get up,” Mr. Sinclaire ordered. “On your stomach. Legs on the pads.”

Samantha climbed on. She could rest most her body on the table; her hips, though, folded down and fell off the edge. She had to spread her legs wide to center them on the lower shelves. Her ass was thrust up, her pussy was fully presented and vulnerable, and her breasts were crushed beneath her. She felt akin to a rump roast being served on a silver platter.

Mr. Sinclaire began to strap her in, buckling her hips, waist, legs and ankles. Then he tucked her arms to her sides, and cuffed her wrists to the lower legs of the bench. Her hands were stuck to her sides now, useless. She instinctively began to fight her bonds, testing her restraints.

Ignoring her twists and jerks, Mr. Sinclaire tossed a long strap across her shoulder blades and cinched it down tight. Samantha kept her head to the side, her cheek pressed into the padding.

Fear was riding her hard now. It was not just how Mr. Sinclaire was restraining her—although that was most of it—it was the way his manner had changed while doing it. The intent expression on his face, the way he worked methodically, checking every buckle and strap twice to make sure it would hold her in place, made her think he wasn’t even really seeing her anymore. Not as Samantha, anyway. She was his toy, to be used as he saw fit.

The thought aroused her, and frightened her to hell.

“Most of the same rules you had yesterday still apply,” he said, stepping back once he was satisfied with his handiwork. “You can make as much noise as you want. You can come whenever you want, you don’t even have to tell me beforehand. But there will be no safeword. I may, or may not, explain to you what I’m doing or what I have planned for you next.” He didn’t ask this time if she understood. It didn’t really matter.

Samantha could feel her limbs begin to shake. She tried to close her eyes and take a deep, calming breath, but the straps around her shoulders and waist bit into her and she only managed to scare herself more.

The room became quiet, eerily so. She had no idea what her host was doing; she heard no footsteps, not even his breathing.

Minutes ticked by. Samantha could hear her heart beating in her chest. She was being induced to panic before they had even begun.

Finally, when she could take the silence no more and was about to call out, Mr. Sinclaire spoke.

“I will start with a flogger again,” he said. Samantha wanted to groan in relief—at least she knew he was there and something was about to happen. “But this flogger is not the same as yesterday. I think you’ll feel the difference immediately.”

A second later, Samantha felt the flogger hit her ass, and he was right—she did feel the difference immediately. The straps of leather on this one were thinner, bendier…more mean, as had he called it before. The pain was intense: it felt like the strands were cutting into her skin like string through clay. Very quickly, she was crying in pain. The blows weren’t hard, but they were hitting her at an angle, like Mr. Sinclaire was adding a flick to his wrist with each one.

Mr. Sinclaire fell into a rhythm, alternating between ass cheeks, and soon the pain wasn’t so bad anymore. It was still there, but Samantha wasn’t stuck in its grip. She was somewhere far away. She was being lulled into subspace.

And then she felt something else smack across her ass, something much longer and stingier, and she screamed. It had whipped her right at the lower curve of her butt.

“This is a split-tongued tawse,” Mr. Sinclaire said. Samantha could only gasp, trying to overcome the pain of that single blow. Her head came off the padding, and she panted, trying to breath through the pain.

“Head down, Samantha.” When she didn’t obey immediately, he whipped her once more with the tawse, harder than before. “I said, head down, Samantha!”

Slowly, Samantha lowered her head, burying her cheek into the padding. She began to sob. Mr. Sinclaire took no pity on her: he whipped her ass with the tawse, again and again, and all Samantha could do was twist against her restraints and cry out with each hit.

But soon she realized Mr. Sinclaire was adopting a rhythm with the tawse, just as he had with the flogger. He would whip her on the rising swell of her ass cheek, then on the sloping curve; then he would move around the table and do the other cheek the same way.

Samantha was crying, and panting, and tensing with anticipation, but pleasure was slowly starting to unfurl in her belly, until it was a huge ball of pain and pleasure all swirling into one big orgasm.

She yelled at she came, only this time they were yells of ecstasy, and it was clear Mr. Sinclaire could tell the difference. He whipped her ass back and forth as her orgasm went on and on, and when she was finally coming down from the ride, he stopped completely.

As her breathing returned to normal, Mr. Sinclaire came around and wiped her face with a cold wet cloth. It felt soothing, and helped to refocus her.

“Thank you,” she said raggedly. Mr. Sinclaire didn’t answer. When he decided she had recovered enough, he moved back behind her, and Samantha knew her ordeal was about to continue.

But she wasn’t expecting to feel her ass cheeks being spread apart and something pressing against her asshole.

“What—what are you doing—wait—ahhh!” Something cold, meaty, and slightly juicy was being pushed through her sphincter. There had been no warning and no let-up to the pressure. Her tight ring of muscle was forced to yield, quickly and painfully.

“Please, you didn’t say you would put things in my—”

“We did talk about your limits, Samantha. Your asshole was not one of them.”

“But—but—ohhhh,” she groaned as the thing being stuffed up inside her grew wider, stretching her muscles apart. Mr. Sinclaire was telling the truth: during his questioning, she had admitted to being fucked in the ass before, and not minding it. She had not put it as one of her hard, or even soft limits, because she had not envisioned being violated in this way. Now it was too late to try to protest.

But the thing being shoved rudely up her ass was clearly not his dick or a dildo; it was something else, something much more menacing. It was too wide, and too long, and Samantha felt like she was being impaled.

“Just give me—a minute—to get used to it—”

“No.” He pressed harder, and Samantha was crying all over again.

“Please! Please!”

“No.” He pushed it in hard, and Samantha thought her skin would surely rip apart. But then it stopped, and Mr. Sinclaire let go. Her ass cheeks snapped back. Whatever it was, it was in, and there to stay until her host removed it.

“We have a few seconds,” he said. Samantha didn’t understand. Why did they have only a few seconds?

“This is the where things get hard, Samantha,” he said. “I’m going to use a crop next. Every thirty second, you’ll get a swipe of the crop. When five minutes is up, I’ll use a vibrator on your clit, and you’ll come. That’s ten swipes every five minutes.”

Samantha was trying to pay attention to what he was saying, but something was going on inside the rim of her ass…a stinging sensation…whatever it was her host had put inside her, it was starting to burn.

“Oh,” she gasped. The burn was growing worse.

“I see you’re starting to feel it,” Mr. Sinclaire said. “What you have inside you is a ginger root. It won’t cause you physical damage, but it will feel like the fires of hell are licking your asshole. You’ll try to relax your muscles against the pain, but it won’t help—and every thirty seconds I’ll be coming at you with the crop, and you’ll clench that root right up your insides.” His voice was calm but eager with anticipation.

The burn was growing like fire, and Samantha’s eyes were tearing.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please, I don’t know if I can take this.”

“You’ll take it. There’s no going back now. I’m setting a timer for the crop. You’ll feel the first hit, and then a secondary pain as your flesh bounces back.”

He backed away, and Samantha started to cry in earnest. If she could have, she would have safeworded right then. But she could not.

A hiss came through the air, and then the crop hit. Mr. Sinclaire had aimed it across her upper thighs, and Samantha had not been expecting that.

If felt like a branding iron pressed into her flesh…but that was nothing compared to the secondary pain he had warned her about. That pain was indescribable.

Samantha’s whole body stiffened with the pain, and in doing so, her asshole squeezed around the ginger. She let out an ear-piercing scream.

“Thirty seconds,” Mr. Sinclaire said.

“Oh, GOD.” Samantha tried to relax her asshole around the root; it seemed to lessen the pain somewhat. But the root was huge, and there was no releasing it completely. She even tried to push it out; it was well planted and not budging, and her efforts only hurt her more.

There was a couple of short beeps, followed by a long beep: the timer was going off. The crop came down again.

Samantha screamed until she had no voice left. Her head came off the padding; her body strained against her bonds. And her asshole clenched.

Ten times the crop came down, and ten times Samantha took it. She tried to escape into subspace as much as she could, but the timer did a good job of warning her before the crop came down again, just enough time to pull her out of subspace but not enough time for her to prepare for the impact.

Finally, the first five minutes were up.

“Time to come,” Mr. Sinclaire announced. Samantha could hear a buzzing noise behind her. Mr. Sinclaire put a wide vibrator against her cunt lips, just kissing her clit.

Samantha didn’t know how Mr. Sinclaire thought she would be able to come. She was still crying in pain. But as soon as the vibrator started to work its magic, she could feel the orgasm growing. Pleasure fought with the pain, doing a short, erotic dance inside her groin and head, and then she was coming hard, tensing against the ginger, and the burn mixed with her pleasure until she couldn’t tell the difference.

But all too soon the wave of the orgasm had washed away, and all she felt was the fire raging inside her asshole, worse than before.

As soon as Mr. Sinclaire was sure the orgasm was gone along with any tiny aftershocks that had rippled her body, he came at her with the crop again. Samantha cried out in shock and dismay. She had to try to safeword. She had to. She couldn’t do this.

“Jasmine, please Sir, jasmine, I can’t—”

“Thirty seconds,” he reminded her.

“Sir, PLEASE—”

But he ignored her.

Samantha began to sob, this time with desperation. Mr. Sinclaire had tried to warn her what this would be like, but she had stubbornly refused to listen. Oh, God, how could I have been so stupid? She thought. She would have given anything to take it all back, anything. But there was no changing course now.

Three sets left. God help her.

Beep. Beep. Beeeep!

The crop came down again, and Samantha barely had any voice left to scream. She fought the bonds violently, rocking the table, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped. She was breaking inside.

Beep. Beep. Beeeep!

Another hiss through the air, another swat, another agonizing cut, and then the secondary pain. Samantha sobbed.

When the five minutes were up, all she could do was sigh in blessed relief when the vibrator hit her pussy, not because it felt good, but because it meant she would get a break from the crop, however short it was.

She actively tried this time not to come. She wanted to enjoy the soothing comfort of the vibrator for as long as she could. The fire in her ass was like a volcano, but at least with the vibrator, she could push that aside just a little bit.

But what Samantha didn’t know was that the ginger was turning her body’s natural reactions against her. Blood was engorging her entire pelvic area, turning her clit a deep pinkish hue. Her pussy was dripping juices. All her nerves were going haywire, reacting to the slightest touch. She was being primed to come, whether she wanted to or not.

“Oh, oh no, oh please,” she begged. But she came, long and hard, and when she was done she began to cry again, because she knew the crop would soon resume its assault on her thighs and ass and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

She was not wrong.


Thirty seconds later, again.

And thirty seconds later, again.

And again. And again.

The ginger burned like molten lava against the sensitive tissues of her anal sphincter. The crop was a steady, relentless meter of torture.

She couldn’t live through this. She couldn’t.

Samantha’s mind began to break down. She could smell the spicy aroma of jasmine, filling her consciousness and drowning her with its sickening scent. It was all her mind could register, the only thing that existed for her now. The smell of jasmine…and the pain.

She wasn’t in subspace anymore. She was somewhere in a black and endless void, utterly lost.

The vibrator returned; she could feel her host nestling it against her clit, deep inside her swollen pussy lips. This time, the orgasm broke out of her like crystal hitting concrete. It didn’t feel good; it felt like she was being torn into pieces. Another assault of her body’s reactions that she had no control over.

“Five more minutes, Samantha,” Mr. Sinclaire’s voice came from far away. “You can get through this.”

Despite her despair and pain, Samantha wanted to laugh. What choice did she have but to get through this? He wasn’t going to stop now. All she could do was lay there and take it and hope she didn’t end up broken, inside and out, by the time it was all over.

The crop didn’t come down as she was expecting it to, but Samantha didn’t hold her breath waiting for it. There was no use; there was no place safe for her mind to go to fly away from the pain.

She felt a gentle hand brush against her cheek, and when she opened her eyes, Mr. Sinclaire was looking down at her.

“You are so beautiful, Samantha,” he whispered, piercing her eyes with his own. “You are so strong.” Samantha held his stare for a moment. Something deep and powerful passed between them.

Mr. Sinclaire nodded. Samantha nodded back. Then her host disappeared behind her, and took his place to whip her once more with the crop. But it felt different now: Samantha could take it. She knew it. She would not break.

Even the ginger didn’t burn as before. It was still bad, but the heat was coming down, leaving a strange, tingling warmth.

Nine last smacks with the crop, and Samantha cried, but she knew the end was near, and some of her cries were in relief. Three more, three more, I can take three more…two more, just two more…one more…OH GOD!

The last hit was the worst. Mr. Sinclaire put his full force behind the blow, and Samantha let out a noise that was shrill and completely inhuman. But by the time she was done, Mr. Sinclaire was already putting down the crop and turning off the timer. He pulled the ginger root out of her ass smoothly, with one slow pull, and Samantha felt like crying all over again. It was finally over.

“Come with me this time, Samantha,” Mr. Sinclaire said. He entered her pussy from behind, filling her cunt with hard, demanding cock. He pumped into her gently, using deep but slow thrusts.

At first, Samantha was in heaven, enjoying the gentle and easy fucking he was offering her. The cropping was over, the ginger was out, and now he would just fuck her until they both came.

But somehow his slow, gentle thrusts soon weren’t enough. Her ass felt tingly all over, inside and out. It was a new and strange sensation, and she didn’t know how to handle it. Her asshole throbbed, and tingled…she needed…she needed…

“Fuck my ass,” she begged. She had no idea where the words had come from, but once they were out, they felt exactly right. “Please Sir, fuck my ass.”

“Samantha, I’m too big,” Mr. Sinclaire grunted, still pumping into her from behind. “You won’t—”

“Please!” She said, barely rasping out the words. “Please, Sir—my ass.”

Mr. Sinclaire was about to say he didn’t want to hurt her, but then he stopped himself. What the hell am I thinking? He thought. She wants the pain. With that, he pulled his entire length out of her sopping cunt, and pressed the helmeted head of his prick right against the cringing gate of her asshole. He lunged.

Samantha cried out. She couldn’t scream, she had no voice left to scream, but her lungs released until she had no breath and her diaphragm froze. It was a stabbing assault, and Samantha felt skewered.

Mr. Sinclaire began to pump into her ass just as he had her cunt, with steady, even strokes, and Samantha moaned. Her engorged and highly-sensitive asshole spasmed and pulled; the feel of his huge cock sliding and rubbing against her tight hole was exquisite, a perfect balance of pleasure and pain, and Samantha closed her eyes and let herself just feel it.

She couldn’t move her body, she couldn’t rock back against him, but Mr. Sinclaire seemed to know what she needed, and began to thrust faster, pumping into her hard. Samantha gasped with each thrust, taken by surprise by the increasing pleasure. It felt so good, so good…

Mr. Sinclaire reached around, nestled the vibrator against her clit, and turned it on. The orgasm that had been building inside Samantha exploded, and she came with a screech, desperately trying to grind her ass against her host. Mr. Sinclaire moved in kind, grinding in, savoring the feel of her soft mounds slapping against his groin. He kept pumping in and out of her asshole, and for the first time that night, completely lost control of himself. Her asshole was clenching and throbbing around his cock, trying to swallow him up whole. He couldn’t hold on.

He didn’t have to.

As Samantha came down from her intense orgasm, tiny aftershocks still racking her body, Mr. Sinclaire came too, shooting his cum straight up her warm, delicious ass. He collapsed on top of her as he finished. Samantha could feel his cock shrinking inside her, but he didn’t pull out.

Only when his body was done shuddering with his own aftershocks, his cock limp within her depths, did he ease out slowly, trying not to hurt her further. The scene was over, and he knew her asshole would be very sensitive for a while, possibly even sore. Smug satisfaction filled him with the thought.

She watched with hooded eyes as he walked around the table to release her, one buckle at a time, but she didn’t react. She didn’t say anything: she only lay there, flaccid, watching. Only when he picked her up from the table and gently lifted her into his arms did she finally react.

“What?” she said. Her eyes darted; her head fell back against his arm, then snapped up. She looked dazed, almost drunk. “So sweet. Too much. Why?”

“You’re okay, Samantha,” Mr. Sinclaire reassured her. He walked over to the bed and carefully put her down onto it. “You’re okay.”

She looked at him wildly; then she started smacking his chest. “Please,” she cried, starting to sob. “Too much. Jasmine—too sweet. Oh God. The smell. Too much. Please.”

“Shh, sweetheart, shh,” Mr. Sinclaire said softly. He wrapped the blanket around her like a mummy so she wouldn’t hurt herself, then lay her down next to her and held her.

Women would often act loopy after their drop from subspace, he knew well. They would sometimes say insane things, cry for no reason, or just generally act highly charged and emotional. Mr. Sinclaire had been expecting it from Samantha, and was ready for it. He would give her responsible aftercare for as long as she needed it, and make sure she came to no harm.

So he held her close, making soothing noises as she babbled and cried. For a while, Samantha fought the blanket and his strong hold, but then she gave up and simply keened.

Finally, she fell into a light sleep.

Mr. Sinclaire continued to hold her.


~ * * * ~


This time when Samantha woke up, she did so on her own. Mr. Sinclaire was laying next to her, watching her as she slept, a smug smile on his face.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” he said back. “How do you feel?”

“Give me a few minutes to answer that.” Her voice was gone; she couldn’t talk above a hoarse whisper. She tried to sit up.

“Slowly,” Mr. Sinclaire instructed. “Here, let me help.” He unwrapped her from the blanket, then carefully pulled her up by her hands. Samantha cried out in pain.

“Oh Jesus, my legs,” she gasped. They felt like they had been cooked on a barbecue.

“They’ll be sore for a while. Here, drink some water.” He poured her some water from the pitcher and helped steady the glass in her hand as she tipped it to drink. She felt very shaky.

“Thank you,” she rasped. The water helped; her throat felt a fraction better. But she doubted it would be back to normal anytime soon.

“I want you to lie down until you feel okay to get up. Take your time; there’s no rush. I don’t want you getting up too soon.”

“Thank you,” she repeated. He had just flogged, cropped, and violated her ass, and all she could do was thank him. The thought made her smile.

“You’re smiling, so you must be recovering,” Mr. Sinclaire said with a grin. “That’s good. Are you still feeling emotional, or are you calming down? Does the room still smell strange to you?”

It took a minute for Samantha to understand what he was talking about. “I was pretty out of it there for a while, wasn’t I?” She was horribly embarrassed.

“Don’t feel bad. Hey.” He leaned in to catch her eyes; she was too busy looking down at the bed to first notice. “Don’t be embarrassed, okay? A lot of women act the way you did after a scene like that. It’s the ‘drop’ after subspace. Some women do even crazier stuff than you did, believe me.”


“Yeah, but those are guest secrets, so you’ll just have to take my word for it,” he said with a laugh. He lay down next to her and snuggled her into the crook of his arm.

Samantha took stock of herself. Her ass cheeks hurt, but nothing really bad. Her thighs hurt worse. But she realized the pain was well above her knees. Mr. Sinclaire had kept the worst of the welts on her upper legs and the swells of her bottom. They would not show under a skirt. Even while cropping her, Mr. Sinclaire had been thoughtful of her needs. And her asshole no longer hurt at all. He had told the truth, there would be no lasting damage.

His lips brushed against her forehead. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m…okay,” she decided. “What you just did to me…it was…intense. More than I thought it would be. You tried to warn me, but there was no way for me to imagine that.”

“I know. And now that you’ve gone through it, and you’re on the other side?”

“I feel like I’ve gone through a religious experience,” she said, trying to find the right words to describe how she felt. “Like a whole new level of understanding has opened up inside me. It’ll take me some time to let it settle, though.”

“That’s true. But you don’t have any bad feelings?”

“Bad feelings?”

Mr. Sinclaire suddenly looked uncomfortable. “You’re not angry at me?”

“Why would I be angry at you?”

“Because I’m the one who did all this to you.” He looked nervous, like he was sorely afraid she would be furious with him for what he had done to her, and too scared to say so.

“No,” she said, her voice final. “I’m not angry. I wanted you to do all that to me. Well, maybe not like that…it was really, really hard. But I wanted the pain. I wanted to experience what it would be like, to be under the complete mercy of a Master Sadist, one who would still honor my limits and stay in control. You showed me.” She was thoughtful for a moment. “While it was happening, I think for a while there I was just lost in the pain, and I wanted it to be over, because it hurt so bad…but now that it’s all over, I’m glad I did it. It was an experience I’ll never forget.”

Mr. Sinclaire looked relieved. “Thank you.” He kissed her forehead again. “Thank you for trusting me, Samantha. It was an experience I’ll never forget, either.”

She moved away so she could look into his face, really look at him. She was surprised by his gentle tone and softened expression. It seemed she wasn’t the only one who had felt the intensity of their shared experience.

“It was my pleasure, Sir,” she said.

“Was it really?”

“Well, no. But you know what I mean.”


~ * * * ~


They snuggled on the bed for a while, and then Mr. Sinclaire helped her dress to return to her room. She understood now why he had instructed her to wear the loose dress: it barely touched her legs or ass as she walked. Samantha didn’t think she’d be able to handle panties or jeans right now.

She checked out of the hotel the next day, as scheduled.

She only saw her host once more, when it was time to say goodbye. The liaison didn’t bring her to the activity room this time, or even to one of the meeting rooms. He brought her to Mr. Sinclaire’s private office.

“It’s small,” she said, looking around the square room.

“We don’t generally spend a lot of time in our offices,” Mr. Sinclaire smiled. Samantha smiled back.

“Samantha, I know this goes against propriety, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but…can you tell me the name of your city?”

“Phoenix,” she answered without hesitation. “I live in Phoenix. Why?”

Mr. Sinclaire swiveled around to his filing cabinet and rummaged through some files. When he found what he was looking for, he pulled it out. It was a small black business card.

“This is the name of a reputable Master who works in your city,” he said, handing her the card. “He does occasional work at BDSM clubs, but mostly he does private functions, working through referrals. If you call him and tell him I sent you, he will connect you with other people in the BDSM scene who are trustworthy, and can help you move forward in whatever direction you decide to go.”

“Thank you so much.” She tried to focus on putting the small card inside her purse. The tears were threatening.

“I want you to know, Samantha, that I’ll never forget what we did together. I hope you’ll come back to the Hotel Bentmoore and let me be your host again. It would be my honor.”

“Thank you Sir.”

“Good luck, Samantha.”

“You too, Sir. Goodbye.” She quickly rose and left the room before the tears could escape.

Mr. Sinclaire was not her boyfriend, or her Dom; and she was only his guest, one of many. He had changed her in ways it would take a long time for her to work through, but in the end, there was no lasting bond tying them together. He would move on to the next guest, and she would go home and go on with her life. Her new life. Her new self.

She left so quickly, she didn’t catch Mr. Sinclaire’s expression. If she had, she would have recognized all the longing and desire she was going through herself.

But she didn’t see, and Mr. Sinclaire, by sheer force of will, kept himself from running after her and giving her one last, yearning kiss goodbye. Hosts of the Hotel Bentmoore simply didn’t do things like that.


~ * * * ~


“You wanted to see me Sir?” Mr. Sinclaire took a seat across Mr. Bentmoore’s desk. The older man looked up and leaned back in his chair.

“Sinclaire, yes,” he said. “I take it you and Samantha got along well?”

“Yes, very well.” His tone was wistful.

“But you’re ready to move on with your other guests? Lauren has been waiting for you.”

“Yes, I’m ready,” Mr. Sinclaire said. It was time to get back to work, put his mind to other thoughts. “By the way…where’s Paul?”

“Ah. Paul has requested a chance to stay on here at the hotel, and work as Marissa’s assistant.”

“By assistant, you mean slave.”

“Yes, but let’s not worry about semantics.”

“Of course not, Sir. You are ready to give him this chance?”

“I’m thinking about it. Paul is not the same person he was when he walked in here, same as your guest. He is quite the changed man.”

“I’m sure he is.” Mr. Sinclaire and Mr. Bentmoore both looked at each other, and shuddered.

“If that is all then, Sir…?”

“Yes, that’s all. I’m glad you were able to help that young lady, Sinclaire. You did good work.”

“Thank you Sir.” He left the room and shut the door quietly behind him.

His time with Samantha would be forever etched into his memory, scenes never to be forgotten. But he was a host of the Hotel Bentmoore, a Master, and it was time to get below and put his talents to good use.

Lauren would be first. She had a thing for clothing clips….


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