French Kiss (Decadence Nights Book 2) (2 page)

Parting her lips, she leaned in close to the mirror. As she raised the silver tube of lipstick, a bold shade of red that she’d never dare wear in the bright light of day, her hand trembled perceptibly. She hesitated, lowering it while closing her eyes and breathing deeply, counting to ten, and trying to will away her apprehension. It happened every time she prepared to make the nearly three-hour long trek down I-10 from Houston to San Antonio, walked in the front doors of a kink club—alone—and began trolling for a dominant for the night, her sole purpose for being there clear to one and all.

Her lashes slowly lifted and Marilee Hoffman stared at the woman in the mirror. Her children, her mother, the few friends that remained three years after she’d basically checked out of her old life, wouldn’t recognize her. She barely knew herself, still finding it hard to believe she had the nerve to walk around in public in skimpy leather and lace. From the top of her head, with its tousled mass of bronze-gold hair to the five-inch, peep-toed high-heeled hooker shoes, she looked nothing like the mother of two dean’s listed college students or the nice woman who chaired the annual fundraising committee for the women’s shelters of Houston. She was far and away the complete opposite of the owner of
Marilee’s
, the upscale women’s boutique she owned and operated in the stylish Highland Village shopping center.

What would everyone think if they could see her now? Her children would be mortified, the shelter staff would likely drag her in to see one of the counselors, and her customers at the boutique would whisper behind their French manicured, diamond encrusted fingers as they ran out the door activating their gossip circle on their iPhones as they went.

Heaving a sigh of uncertainty, she glanced at her bedside clock. The red LED display seemed to shout a warning about the rapidly dwindling window of opportunity. Vacillating as she always did, she scolded herself to be decisive. Put on your big girl panties and just do it already, or wimp out and continue to be irritable, unsatisfied and lonely. And didn’t that sound pathetic?

Tears misted in her eyes as she sought the 8x10 framed photo of Derek. She wondered frequently what her husband would think of her behavior. They’d never discussed it—what either wanted or expected of the other if the unthinkable happened. If it had been her, she wouldn’t have wanted him to suffer as she had, not after experiencing the sheer loneliness that had invaded her life. She had never known she could be around others and still feel utterly alone, until he’d left her, the fluke car accident making her a widow much too young.

Her gaze lingered on her husband’s handsome face. His boy next-door good looks—sandy brown hair, deep blue eyes and a brilliant white smile—had attracted her first. She then found out that beneath that boyish face lurked an enigmatic amalgamation of a doting husband, loving father and a brilliant and highly respected engineer at his company. But that wasn’t all. No, not by a long shot.

Deep beneath the surface, lurked a darker, kinkier side to the man she’d loved for two decades; a side he kept hidden from everyone except his adoring, submissive wife, one he only let emerge when they were alone and behind a firmly locked door. That’s when her master truly emerged, her wicked-minded, all controlling, sadistic master who knew how to bring out the masochist that lurked deep within his submissive wife.

Dragging her eyes away from the cherished photograph that stirred bittersweet memories, she appraised herself once again, clinging to the hope that although Derek had been possessive of her in life, that he would want her to move on, not wallow in the grief-stricken loneliness that her world had become after his passing. She clung desperately to the belief that he would feel the same way, if their roles were reversed, because if it weren’t the case, the ever-present guilt of her betrayal would consume her.

Tamping down her overactive conscience as best she could, Mari returned her focus to the mirror and leaned in once again. Carefully, she slicked on a layer of Chanel’s Rouge Coco, the shade called Crimson Kiss. In spite of her auburn hair, it suited her. Once it was perfectly applied, she dabbed on a second layer of sealer, which would keep it from smearing and make it last for hours, an absolute essential for the night she had planned.

Once finished, she took a step back, taking in the end result of two hours’ worth of preparation. Four if she counted the all over waxing session she’d endured yesterday. She was indeed a true masochist to undergo such painful torture, but most doms she encountered liked bare, or some sort of miniscule sculpted artwork that was too difficult to maintain. So she chose the easiest path because as a submissive, it was her job to please, even if he was a one-night stand, and she fervently hoped if her dom of the hour was happy with her efforts, that he would return the pleasure.

Turning from side to side, she ran her hands down the front of her black corset dress. Ultra-feminine, it was trimmed in lace at the bodice and adorned with a string of black beads and a black velvet rosette above her left breast. Clearly visible was the cross lacing up the front—chosen specifically for this feature as she would have never gotten back laces tight enough without help—it also had a flirty three-tiered ruffled skirt with satin edging on each hem. She’d paired it with sheer black stand-up stockings and a pair of black suede open-toed heels. They’d been a find, especially with the removable rosette that clipped onto the toe vamp and perfectly matched the one on her corset.

She checked her hair and make-up one more time. Her lips twitched slightly. Not quite a smile, which was a rarity of late, but she was pleased with her reflection in the floor length mirror. Not bad for a thirty-eight-year-old mother of two.

Another quick glance at the clock told her she needed to go, now. The commute to Club Decadence was not getting any shorter with her primping in front of the mirror. Stuffing her clutch into her tote bag that contained all the essentials for a night of indiscriminate sex, she flipped off the lights and rushed out the door.

* * *

Upon entering the dungeon at five minutes after nine, she paused, absorbing the carnal sights and sounds. Although a member for almost a year, it still took her by surprise every time she passed through the medieval doors that led to the enormous playroom. It wasn’t only the intimidating gothic atmosphere, or the circle of stations with all manner of BDSM equipment and scary torture devices, but the members themselves dressed in widely varied styles of fetish wear from the tastefully sensual, to blatantly vulgar, and completely bare. She spotted a woman in a PVC body suit covered from head to toe except for cut outs for her breasts, waxed pussy and ass cheeks. More shocking was a man, obviously a submissive, being led by his domme on a leash, dressed in nothing but a collar and some sort of torturous metal cage around his private parts. Mari couldn’t be sure what all it entailed as she deliberately avoided looking at him further, particularly below the waist.

Most of the men wore black jeans or leather pants—the dominants and masters, clearly—fewer in dress trousers, rarer still, a three-piece suit. Many were bare chested or wore vests with nothing on underneath, others in black tee shirts or black dress shirts. The color black uniformly embraced by one and all. A few dommes were in scarlet and an occasional submissive was dressed in pastel pink or yellow. Everywhere she looked there was visible skin, bare bottoms and blatantly displayed breasts, although the latter were usually adorned with jewelry or clamps.

She looked down at her own attire, overdressed by club standards, but daring by Mari’s conservative, suburban, mother of two yard stick. She’d come a long way from the black sheath dress she’d worn on her first venture here. Having left her killer shoes in a locker in compliance with house rules, she stepped barefoot down the short flight of stairs to the main floor. On the last one, she stumbled; her head coming up as she searched for the sound that had distracted her.

A distinctive whoosh and a loud, ominous crack drew her attention. The formidable and familiar noise rose easily above all others in the cavernous, yet crowded room. Mari knew immediately what it was. Not a flogger, or a strap, and it certainly wasn’t a paddle that made the distinctive whoosh and crack. As it sounded again, chills of both fear and longing coursed through her body.

Glancing around, she tried to pinpoint its direction. Never having seen one used in the crowded dungeon before, her eyes scanned the back wall where the larger stations were located. There simply wasn’t enough room to employ one safely anywhere else. Thinking she must be mistaken, she moved toward where she thought the sound came from. As another sharp crack sent waves of excitement racing to her nipples and clit, she stopped in the middle of the aisle, savoring the subsequent sound of the crowd, who as one, drew in an excited breath, clearly in awe as the snap and pop resonated loudly yet again. Actively seeking it out, she pushed through the crowd until she located the large roped off station that had been set up in the farthest corner of the room.

Mari’s eyes locked onto the culprit, a six-foot-long black braided whip. Mesmerized, she watched as it snaked out, seeming to cut through the air as it moved quickly toward its vulnerable target. When it landed, the fall snapped briskly against the submissive’s trembling flesh and the next moment was gone, quickly drawn away, leaving only a pink mark, no wheals or skin breaks. Mari knew, in the aftermath, it left something more tangible—the stinging kiss of delicious pain from the supple leather.

She followed the captivating black leather lash up to the handle and the strong, broad hand that held it in a confident grip, an extension of a long, corded, muscular arm. She could practically feel the power employed by the master himself, and the tight fisted control he exerted with every stroke. Bare from the waist up, his sinewy forearms and biceps flexed each time his arm drew back, his shoulders rippling and bunching as he let the whip fly with what she recognized as a masterful throw.

Her eyes caressed his broad back, the skin shiny and sleek from perspiration as he worked. He moved with a fluidity and grace uncommon in a big man, but also with an immense power one would expect of such obvious strength. On the next stroke, a cry of ecstasy rent the air as the submissive, who Mari hadn’t really taken notice of before now, let out a scream of pure ecstasy, shuddering and convulsing within her bindings as she came almost violently.

Her master stopped and walked forward, approaching the woman he’d reduced to a quivering, sobbing, blissfully replete mass of goo within her chains. As Mari’s body decelerated from the heart pounding voyeuristic excitement of the scene, she realized that throughout it all, he hadn’t turned and revealed his face, so focused was he on his charge.

In that moment, she recognized the potential danger of the man and staggered back, thinking if she didn’t know his face, she could stay away. Deeply shaken by the scene, she spun and made her way toward the front of the play space, taking a seat on one of the couches on the elevated platform along the wall. Nicknamed ‘sub space’ by the members, it was a spot where available submissives could see the entire floor while also being easily seen, and appraised, by dominants seeking a play partner for the evening.

Trembling, she focused her breathing, telling herself a low intensity dom was what she wanted. She knew it was a lie, but it was the way it had to be, for her own self-preservation. Tucking her quivering hands under her thighs, she tried to appear calm and serene for anyone who might be watching and possibly interested in approaching. Always hopeful that someone would propose a scene quickly, get down to the business of flogging and fucking her without too many delays so that she could be on her way, she decided that tonight, she wouldn’t be disappointed if given several moments to collect herself first.

* * *

As another stroke of the lightweight flogger landed in the center of her back, her body easily absorbed the blow. The subtle shift of her weight forward and back, sent a ripple of movement up her body and through the chains overhead. The soft clang as the links collided rang out like bells, the sound pleasant, which unfortunately was one of the few positives she could find in the protracted scene. While the multi-tailed lash continued to fall in steady strokes, moving over her butt and thighs, she acknowledged that the sensation was nice, like a massage, although not nearly as stimulating as the deep tissue bodywork she got from Mason, the masseuse at the day spa she frequented when she felt stressed. It in no way inspired the sexual response she should be experiencing right about now.

She cracked an eyelid and located her dom for the evening, anxious to see a sign that the scene might be drawing to an end soon.

Tell him how “nice” it is
, an inner voice suggested.
That should end things in about ten seconds flat.

Did she dare? Informing a dom who was set on rocking your world that the scene wasn’t doing it for you, would do one of two things. He would see it as a challenge, like waving a red flag before a bull, inciting him to step up the game, or it would be like dousing a single candle with a one-hundred-gallon drum of ice water. As good as calling a safeword, things would come to an immediate halt.

When he moved to her other side, switching the bright blue flogger to his left hand, she caught a glimpse of his flushed face and the light sheen of sweat covering his bare chest. He apparently was getting a good workout, which was more than she was receiving from this long, unfulfilling exercise in futility.