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  “Naughty,” he whispered, letting his lips brush her ear. She shivered and sent a quick, saucy look over her shoulder. The movement brought their faces close, their lips so close, he could practically taste the cherry flavor of her lip gloss.

  “Sorry, Master,” she whispered back, the very picture of innocence.

  “No you aren’t.” He didn’t even try to keep the amusement out of his voice. “But you will be, pet.”

  Stephen stepped back a bit and combed his fingers through her hair. The stage was well lit during performances—all the better to see the stripes and glowing red flesh of the punishments being meted out—and the crimson streaks in the long, dark strands glimmered wickedly. Casting a glance at one of the club employees stationed at the edge of the stage, he gathered the thick strands in his fist.

  Ginger sighed a little at the pull, so Stephen fisted his hand and tugged a little harder. Her head tipped back with the pressure, and a slight tension he hadn’t really noticed melted from her shoulders.

  In response to his unspoken command a club submissive approached, eyes down, to kneel at his side and offer up a pair of red lacquered chopsticks. Stephen took them and dismissed the sub with a soft word. Working quickly, he wound Ginger’s hair into a somewhat messy knot near her crown and speared the sticks through, pinning it in place.

  Once he had her positioned to his satisfaction, Stephen moved back to take in the whole picture. And what a stunning picture it was.

  Ginger was maybe five-six in her four-inch heels, and every bit of her was firm, rounded, irresistible curves. She stood with her feet at shoulder width, making a steady base to take whatever he wanted to give her.

  Hell, what didn’t he want to give her?

  Her back arched gracefully to the dip of her spine, the apple blossom tattoo emphasizing the elegant line. Her hips flared generously, curving into a full, rounded ass that just begged to be paddled.

  Stephen couldn’t remember why he hadn’t requested to do a scene with her before. She was sheer perfection, custom designed for him, and he intended to enjoy every inch of her.

  “Ready?” He tugged the flogger free of his belt loop as he spoke. He wouldn’t just jump in with the whip. He wanted to prepare her, sensitize her a little bit first.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  She didn’t look back at him, but he heard the smug satisfaction in her voice without having to see it in her face. He’d change that soon enough. He moved close enough to trail the tails of the flogger over her shoulder and down her spine, then did it again just to watch her shiver in reaction.

  “Okay, pet. Set of five. Count it out.”

  With no more warning than that, he laid the flogger along her right shoulder blade, hard enough to pink the skin up a bit, but not hard enough to actually hurt.

  “One, Sir.” Her voice was firm, though it was soft enough that most of the audience wouldn’t be able to hear her.

  “Louder, pet.” A second smack, this one a little harder, across her left shoulder, just above the line of her tattoo.

  “Two, Sir.” Louder, as he’d commanded, which was good. Still filled with mischief, which he intended to change right now.

  The third smack was back on the right side, along her rib cage, and he barely waited for her count before laying the matching blow on the left. By the time her count reached five, her voice had gone deeper, somehow quieter, though the volume didn’t actually change.

  It was more like something inside Ginger had gone quiet and was starting the slow descent into pain that would ultimately allow her the ecstatic flight to subspace.

  “Second set of five. Count it out, starting at six.”

  * * * * *

  If the tug of his hand in her hair had relaxed her, when Master Stephen began his light, teasing flogging, Ginger just plain melted. He wasn’t going for pain yet, and while her back was starting to feel warm and sensitive, it didn’t hurt.

  The pain was coming, though. She couldn’t wait.

  When the count reached ten and the music changed, he paused, giving them both a moment to catch their breath. He came closer, not touching, but close enough she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. His scent surrounded her too, citrus and bergamot and just a hint of musk. Delicious.

  Then his hands were on her again, not rough from manual labor, but firm and undeniably male. He rubbed over her back, pressing into the heated flesh, forcing a tiny sting where the tips of the flogger had bit a fraction deeper.

  “All good?” He’d placed his lips against her ear again, and his soft words buzzed against the sensitive flesh.

  “Yes, Sir.” Even she could hear the low purr in her voice. Oh yeah, she was good. And she was about to be much better.

  “Ready for more?” He flicked his tongue against her earlobe, and she fought the urge to rub back against him. Now wasn’t the time for that.

  “Yes, please, Sir.” She rested her forehead against the whipping post and tilted her head, offering her neck—maybe she couldn’t rub against him like a cat in heat, but she could darned well offer him easy access.

  “Excellent.” He placed a soft, surprisingly chaste kiss on the spot where neck and shoulder met, and she shivered. She shivered again when he stepped back, taking his heat and scent away.

  She’d seen Stephen do scenes, though they’d been informal, and she’d seen him dance, so she had an idea of what he’d look like, spinning away from her and moving to the far end of the staging area. She also knew the audience would have been moved back by several feet as a precaution as he uncoiled four feet of braided leather.

  Closing her eyes, Ginger pictured Master Stephen. He had a way of sauntering, getting where he was going with a deceptively lazy-looking stride. There was something graceful and sensual and crazy masculine in his movements that never failed to leave her with a nagging ache of arousal pulsing deep inside.

  The stage was well lit, the better for the audience to see but, more importantly, the better for Stephen to keep absolutely aware of what was going on with her. Ginger knew the light would be glinting off the subtle blond highlights in Stephen’s hair, sparking off the silver barbells in his nipples. It would gleam on his bare skin and cast intriguing shadows on the curves of his thighs and, oh dear Lord, the heavy thrust of his erection under those tight, tempting leathers.

  She was lost enough in her imagination that the first crack of the whip, a sharp accompaniment to the music throbbing through the bar, startled her. The second, then the third, falling on every other beat of the song, filled her with stillness. Anticipation. She knew he was performing to the crowd now, but in just a few moments he’d be performing for her.

  “Now.” His voice was pitched just loud enough to carry over the music, and meant all for Ginger.

  The next crack of the whip kissed her shoulder with fire.

  She knew she cried out, felt it in her throat, but she didn’t hear it. She wasn’t hearing anything but the beat of the music and the percussion of the whip. Stephen would be moving with the beat of the song in a sexy box step, punctuated every fourth beat by the bright snap of the whip.

  Each strike, moving in an irregular circle on her right shoulder—the shoulder without the tattoo, she’d later realize—was the perfect strength. Each bite of leather was perfectly placed, slicing into her with searing precision.

  And each biting, searing, slicing crack of the whip sent lightning from her shoulder to her clit.

  The music slowed, but the beat grew in intensity, and the blows intensified with it. The whip danced across her shoulders, kissing skin warmed by the flogger with sparks of fire. Later, much later, she’d look in the mirror and the sight of the short, crimson streaks would flood her body with heat and her pussy with arousal.

  Now? Now she was a pillar of flame, ready to combust for the man who was playing her body so expertly.

  * * * * *

  Absolutely stunning.

  Ginger undulated against the post, moving in time with the music, though h
e knew that was unconscious on her part. It was deliberate on his part. Every snap of his wrist, every crack of the whip, was precisely timed. Each bloom of red on her creamy flesh was precisely placed.

  As the music changed again, Stephen began working his way down, painting a strip of red blooms to the right of the apple blossoms that emphasized the graceful curve of her spine. When he’d made a path of short crimson lines the length of her back, he paused, coiling the whip in one hand and approaching the woman all but writhing before him.

  Heat poured off her body, wrapping around him as he laid his hand—the hand holding the whip—against the soft curve of her hip. Her damp, satiny flesh contrasted vividly with the rough coiled leather, making his palm tingle.

  This time when she arched against him, rubbing her ass over his groin, Stephen let her. In fact, he pressed closer, grinding against the luscious globes even as his free hand landed on her belly, pressing her more firmly against him.

  Her breathy moan was soft, more felt than heard, and the heat pouring off her was making him dizzy. It was easy, natural, to drop to his knees and feather light kisses down the length of her tattoo, then back up, opening his mouth against every mark he’d left on her silky skin.

  As his mouth moved up, the hand on her belly moved down, sliding over the soft slope and into the lacy front of her thong. Scant, silky hair met him, then plump, slick folds. Then, oh holy fuck, a curve of metal, hot and slick from her body, neatly piercing the tender hood of skin over her clit.

  Perfect, beautiful little pain slut. He wanted to eat up every fucking inch of her.

  He bit down lightly on a spot of unblemished flesh under her shoulder blade at the same time as he gave the clit ring a sharp tug. He was rewarded with a shudder and a moan, and a gush of moisture over his fingers.

  “Can you take more, pet?” He murmured the words against her skin, enjoying the way she shivered in response. Any other submissive he’d think was done, but Ginger’s curvy body seemed to be growing tenser, rather than relaxing into subspace.

  “Please, Master.” Her voice was raw. It would be sheer cruelty to leave her in this state.

  “Hold on then,” he told her, rising. He reached up and worked her grip free of the hook so he could slip the cuffs over her wrists. He didn’t fasten them, didn’t mess with the loose binding of scarlet silk either. He did wrap her hands firmly around the chains holding the cuffs in place. It would give her something to pull on if she needed to, and having the leather wrapped around her wrists, even unfastened, would give her some support if her knees went weak. He had every intention of making her knees go weak before he was done.

  There was a low murmur from the audience when he went back to his place on the stage and once again uncoiled his whip. They knew as well as he did that most submissives would be done for the night at this point. He had her repeat her safe words as much to reassure them as to check on her.

  He gave Wicked a nod and the music, which had been playing at a slightly lower volume, rose to fill the room again.

  Stephen began working with almost methodical precision, painting fire across the center of Ginger’s back with absolute focus as everything, everyone, in the room except his submissive faded from his consciousness. He was aroused, cock a throbbing brand against the fly of his pants, but even that seemed distant. The only thing real to him was the crack of the whip and the red streaking Ginger’s creamy skin.

  She was moving still, more urgently now. Using her grip on the cuffs, she’d pulled herself up, stretching on her toes against the whipping post. He continued, strokes slowing, drawing the pleasure and pain out, trying to give her as long as she needed without damaging her or crossing any of her limits.

  She responded beautifully, as she had to everything else so far. One leg wrapped around the post, curving her back gently even as she ground her pussy against the whipping post with no gentleness at all. She shuddered, and he thought she might have come, but that was okay. He hadn’t told her not to. And she was so gorgeous this way, grinding against the post gracelessly, back rippling with each motion, body jerking with each crack of the whip.

  His arm was burning, shoulder on fire. He practiced regularly, but even an hour daily of practice was nothing compared to half an hour with a submissive. The tension, the electric connection between them, wound his muscles tight. The energy in the room washed over him, energizing him even as it ramped his tension higher.

  Another glance in Wicked’s direction and the music segued into something slower, less intense. Keeping in time with the music’s downbeats, he slowed and lightened his strokes, until he’d stopped entirely.

  Moving quickly now, he wound the whip around his hand and elbow before clipping it to his belt. In seconds he was pressed close to Ginger, hands wrapped over hers, blanketing her shuddering body with his.

  “Shhh…” He knew she wouldn’t hear him, not his words, anyway. She was lost in subspace, that alternate reality where pain and pleasure blurred and lifted a submissive out of their body, sending them flying. In a good scene, something similar happened to him, transporting him to a place of pure power and emotion. This had been a very good scene.

  Ginger pressed back hard against him, and he knew the barbells in his nipples were digging into skin left raw by his whip. Either she wasn’t feeling it, or her body was processing it as pleasure, because she kept pushing harder, writhing in his embrace, looking for more and more contact.

  Stephen continued to hold her, murmuring low words of praise and making soft sounds of approval. “So beautiful, pet. So perfect.” She might not be processing the words, but he knew the meaning would penetrate the cloud of endorphins she was floating on.

  When her shudders had calmed to occasional tremors, he ran his hands up her arms to where the cuffs wrapped loosely around her wrists. He was a little bit amazed, and more than a little impressed, that even as her body had trembled uncontrollably, Ginger had kept her feet, had kept her grip on the hook. Now it was just a matter of slipping her hands free of the cuffs and tugging the sash free of the hook.

  Releasing her from the bindings, as symbolic as they’d been, had the same effect as flipping a switch. Stephen felt the change in the tension flowing through Ginger’s body just in time to shift, catching her in his arms as she went limp against him.

  Chapter Two

  The first thing Ginger focused on was the light herbal scent of aloe. The second was the cool drag of a damp cloth and the warm stroke of Stephen’s hands over her back.

  Then she felt the pain.

  Oh God.

  Each place the whip had touched her sparked and flared with flame-tipped electricity, and each spark echoed in her nipples and clit. When Stephen’s hands, slick now with soothing aloe gel but still so warm, spread over her shoulders, it was all she could do not to squirm against the thick cushion of the massage-type table he’d laid her on.

  Aloe. Table. Lack of music and absence of the murmuring crowd. They’d moved to a private room while she was flying, she realized. A little whimper escaped. She wasn’t ready for them to be done yet.

  “Hush, pet.” His voice stroked her as surely as his hands, and Ginger found herself obeying, relaxing into his touch. “Are you back with me now?”

  “Hmmm.” Forming actual words was harder than she expected. She’d flown before, of course. It was kind of the point of being a masochist, wasn’t it? That out-of-body bliss? But she didn’t think she’d ever gone so high so fast. And while Stephen was keeping her from crashing, her return to reality was still a little bit jarring.

  He seemed to sense what she needed, and went back to his gentle stroking. The aloe would take a lot of the sting out of the lash marks, she knew, and would speed the healing process. Even if he hadn’t broken the skin—and she was totally confident that he hadn’t, the man was a master with his chosen instrument—there would be abrasions that would last for days.

  She shivered. Days of feeling the pull of tender skin to remind her of her Master’s tou
ch.

  “Thank you, Sir,” she finally managed to mumble into the soft cotton under her cheek. “So, so good.”

  That got her a gentle touch over the small of her back, which lengthened into a sweeping caress over the curves of her ass. When she hummed again, pressing unconsciously into the touch, he rewarded her by cupping the cheeks with firm hands, massaging the soft flesh and, when she squirmed, squeezing and separating the globes.

  She sighed as his hands moved down her thighs and back up to the small of her back. Her throbbing back echoed the throbbing in her clit. Every twinge of pain went straight to her pussy. She was tired. She shouldn’t be thinking about sex, but she was. She wondered how it would feel to have this gorgeous man take her so soon after her whipping.

  “Let’s get you to the bed, pet. You’ll be more comfortable there.” She sat up and he helped her off the table. He held her elbow lightly as he steered her toward the rather large bed.

  She moaned as she lay down on her tummy. The sheets were downy soft and cool against her heated skin. He sat next to her and squeezed some more aloe gel onto her back.

  “That feels so good, Master,” she whispered. He slowly worked the gel into the skin of her lower back, then up to her right shoulder and back down to her thighs. Every time his finger traced over the welts and abrasions it felt like someone was licking her clit. The pull was so powerful—she’d never gone to this kind of place before. She was floating on the edge where pain bled into pleasure. Stephen’s touch was magical and he played her body like a fine instrument.

  “I’m going to shower. I’ll only be a few minutes. I want you to close your eyes and rest.” His simple command made her smile.

  “Yes, Master.” She wanted to say more but she couldn’t even manage to open her eyes. She didn’t want this night to end, didn’t want reality to interrupt them. If she left her eyes shut she could remember every touch, every strike and every crack of his whip. It should be illegal to feel such overwhelming pleasure but here she was, lying on his bed. He’d been so careful with his movements and with her body. He’d stayed away from her tattoo as she’d asked.