Lyon on a Leash (4 page)

“Will you stay for the buffet afterward and the social later? I only ask because word has gone out that we have younger Dommes this time. Many of the subs are eager to see and socialize with you even if you chose someone else. My Mistress would count it an honor.”

Tired but not crazy, Vera nodded. True, once she’d graduated from law school, she’d quit the business. But Marguerite’s training was ingrained in her: always help another professional when you can. You never knew when that person would be in a position to return the favor.

“Of course. Inform her I am at her disposal but I have need of a special sub and will not waste time on those who do not meet my criteria.”

Ada’s bright smile confirmed she’d made the right decision. “Do you require anything before we enter the lion’s den?”

Vera looked down at her Alexander McQueen red, black, and white sleeveless dress with its short jacket. She tugged on the cuffs, fluffed her hair, straightened her shoulders, and rubbed her lips together to make sure her lipstick was even. She inhaled and pulled on her dusty, but solid pro-Domme mantle. “No, I just need another program and a place to sit for the interviews.” Her mouth dried at the thought of what she was about to do, but she’d gone over it a hundred times in her mind. A submissive was the best option for her right now. She’d be in control of things this time. No emotional fall-out and her needs would be met. Swallowing hard, she dug deep from her reserves and walked forward.

Ada nodded and opened a door. “It will be done.”

Ada smiled and extended her hand. “Marcus…Marcus Lyon, it’s so good to see you again. You missed the last auction. I was pleased to see your application for this one.”

He took her small hand in his and raised the back of it to his lips. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Ada. I took some time to complete all the recommendations you gave me from the last auction I attended. It took longer than I expected, but I didn’t want to miss this one.” He stepped back and turned slowly for her perusal. “What do you think?” He was dressed in a well-cut gold-brown suit that fit his wide shoulders. The finely creased pants brushed against the tops of his dark brown, stylish loafers. The tan-and-brown short-sleeved collarless shirt completed his attire.

She studied him intently. “You lost a lot of the weight. Still have a few more pounds to go, though.”

“I know.” Grinning, he rubbed his flat stomach. “I’m working on it.” In truth, he was in good shape, not body-builder quality, but well-toned and muscular. Not bad for a thirty-three-year-old male. He understood Ada based her assessment on the types of men who were typically chosen at auction, and under that microscope, he came up lacking.

“Still, it’s an improvement,” she said, continuing to watch him. “You lost what? Twenty? Twenty-five pounds?”

“Try thirty-five,” he stated in a voice full of well-deserved pride. He’d worked out at the gym, changed his diet, and learned how to cook this last year in preparation for this event. The difference all the changes had made in his life were phenomenal. His self-esteem rocketed to the point he had started hanging out with friends again. He hadn’t done that in years.

“Well, you look great.” She gave him a one-armed hug. “You know what they say, third time’s the charm.” She walked back to a small desk and tapped a few letters on the keyboard. Seconds later, she handed him a pin with the number twenty-one on it.”

His shoulders dropped. “How many here today?” He tried to sound casual but suspected he failed.

“There are forty men registered today.”

“Forty?” he blurted out. “That’s way more than the last time.”

“I know. More and more men are applying to be auctioned off. A lot of them flew in from across country just for this.” A smidgeon of pride coated her voice.

He couldn’t blame her. Madame Chertier had worked hard for years to make the auction a premier semi-annual event.

Although it was labeled a charity auction, it slashed through layers of bullshit and brought real people in the BDSM community together. Since the number of male submissives outnumbered female dominants almost ten to one, the odds of meeting a Domme who lived the lifestyle proved difficult. A lot of submissive men, like himself, paid high fees for the opportunity to meet potential Mistresses.

He’d been seeking a Mistress for three years. He smiled even as his stomach clenched in disappointment. “How many Dommes?” he whispered.

She sighed. “Only twenty-eight made the cut. Hopefully, they’ll all show.” She brightened. “But we have some new, younger ones this time. That’s always fun.”

He nodded without a response.
Forty men prancing about trying to gain the attention of a few Dommes
. Some Mistresses took more than one submissive. Perhaps he’d get lucky. Just as he allowed his hopes to rise, he dashed them. Most of the Mistresses who could afford to attend this event had a specific type they wanted and based on his past two failures, he was unlikely to fill the bill.

“Did everyone show up last night at the social?” he asked as he walked away. By the time his flight had arrived last night, he’d been too tired to do more than grab a quick bite and go to bed. He wanted to make a good first impression today and that wouldn’t have happened if he’d dragged in last night.

“No, maybe fifteen to twenty men and only half the Dommes. We had a lot of fun. The dungeon was open. Mistress demonstrated some great rope ties. Madame Bree did some play with wax, and some other things going on as well.”

He nodded, glad he hadn’t missed much.

The walk through the long gallery seemed much longer this time. The door to the salon opened as he reached it. “Francis.” Marcus nodded to another of Chertier’s house servants.

“Marcus.” Francis pointed in the direction of the muffled noise behind a closed door. “This way, please.”

Marcus nodded and checked out Francis’ attire. Every time he saw the older gentleman, he was dressed according to a different time period. Today, Francis was dressed as a butler from another era Marcus couldn’t put his finger on. The knowledge escaped him, but the man’s flair for the dramatic lightened Marcus’ flailing spirits.

A black-and-gold frock coat, black knee breeches, white shirt with a huge cravat, and a white wig completed the outfit. Standing three to four inches over six feet, Francis carried the look well. Marcus was tempted to applaud all the work and energy that went into creating such an authentic costume but thought better of it. Instead, he smiled and nodded his appreciation.

As he walked through the door, Marcus’ jaw dropped. Exasperated, he snapped his mouth shut as he looked around the room. The exotic collection on display robbed his breath, leaving him light-headed.

In his wildest dreams, he never thought the auction would come to this point. Tall and shorter men of all hues stretched their arms, twisted their torsos, and walked around in various stages of undress. A couple men wore transparent loincloths, leaving nothing to the imagination. All chests were shaved, as was his.

Two Latino men stood a few feet from him in the middle of the room, speaking quietly in Spanish. Their dark, curly locks brushed the tops of their shoulders. They glanced in his direction, nodded, and continued talking. Marcus couldn’t believe how pretty one of the Latino guys was. It was one thing to cross-dress, to wear make-up and wigs, but to be naturally prettier than most of the Mistresses was frigging ridiculous. As he moved slowly through the room, his gaze landed on a black man rubbing some type of oil on his skin. He was tall with a smaller, rangier build. Long dreads reached the middle of his back. He eyed Marcus for a moment, tipped his head in greeting, and turned away. But not before Marcus glimpsed the long muscle barely concealed in his boxers.
Damn
. Problem was, in this room that black guy was not unique. Normally, Marcus felt more than adequate, but it seemed as though a casting call had gone out and only men with seven inches or more had applied. It was a sobering thought.

A few more men glanced at him and then with an arrogant twist of either their lips or head dismissed him. The testosterone level in the room reached a high that bordered on uncomfortable. There were few greetings. Very little idle chit-chat. Mostly, intense focus. Every man in this room wanted the gold ring—the gold collar—that signified they were taken.

And every Domme who showed up today could make that a reality. Every woman who attended could afford a man in this room. If a sub wanted to be a Mistress he didn’t have to financially support, this was the place to lock down a position.

Marcus rubbed the back of his neck as he navigated to the rear of the crowded room to check his bag.

“New meat, huh?”

Marcus smiled at the comment. “What’s up, Michelle? How you been?” Michelle was a six-foot-two, slim cross-dresser and an excellent cook. Today he was dressed in a French maid’s outfit that Marcus was certain had been custom-made, since it fit him to a tee.

“Better before I walked in and saw all the damn competition. That one over there.” He pointed a red fingernail toward a tall, muscular man with long, black hair and green eyes.

Marcus nodded, remembering the man had checked him out and dismissed him earlier. “Yeah.”

“He’s an actor. Well, an aspiring actor. He’s done a few commercials, some print work. How the hell am I going to compete with that kind of beef?”

Marcus didn’t say anything. He slapped Michelle on the back in camaraderie and moved away from the lockers.

“Here comes Sandy,” Michelle murmured.

Sandy was another submissive who’d attended a few of the auctions. He’d been purchased once but his Mistress had been extremely abusive and he’d landed in the hospital. The auction organizers had been appalled at his treatment and upped the vetting process for Dommes. Now both Mistress and submissive were required to undergo background checks, physicals, submit financials and referrals.

“Good to see you, Sandy,” Michelle said. “Nice outfit.”

Marcus shook the older man’s hand in greeting but refrained from commenting on the tight black leather pants and red fishnet top.

“Good to see some faces I recognize,” Sandy said in a gravelly voice, rough from years of smoking. He glanced over his shoulder, looking at the men in various states of undress. “This is turning into a damn meat market.”

Michelle nodded. “I just said that. Didn’t I just say that?” He hit Marcus on the shoulder.

“Yeah, you did.” Marcus stepped back slightly, away from the hard thump of Michelle’s reach. Together, the three of them stood in commiseration watching men who were younger, with firmer bodies, and if seeing was believing, with much larger packages.

“How many?” Sandy growled.

“Around forty,” Marcus snapped before moving toward one of the leather bucket chairs. He sat down and crossed his leg over his knee. Head tilted, his fist propped up his cheek as he watched the younger men prepare to wow the Dommes.

His jaw clenched. A whole year of preparation and this was what he encountered. Not to mention all the money for the application fees, the physical, and the photo session. He’d gone all out and had taken the deluxe deal, hoping it would increase his chances of being chosen this time. Although his stomach was tighter than it had been since his college days, he had no six- or eight-pack abs. It seemed as though he’d still come up lacking.

A bald, tall dude strode across the room in a pair of tight boxers that fit like briefs. Marcus thought he was a former football player but wasn’t sure. The man’s olive complexion gleamed beneath the lights. His muscles bunched and flexed with each move as he crossed the floor to sign in for a locker.

“He’ll be gone in the first round,” Michelle murmured as he blatantly watched the guy secure his bag.

“Hi, guys.” Smiling, the guy walked over to them and held out his hand. Michelle grabbed it first, pumped it twice before saying a word.

“My name’s Royce. You?” He looked at Michelle, who still held his hand.

“Michael, but I go by Michelle as well. I cook a lot. Are you hungry?”

Royce laughed and it had a nice, dark quality. “Not right now. Maybe later.” He turned to Sandy and extended his hand.

Sandy took it and pumped once. “I’m Sandy. Nice to meet you, Royce.”

“Same here.” He looked at Marcus and extended his hand.

“Marcus.” Uncrossing his legs, Marcus leaned forward, took the hand and pumped it once. Royce stared at him a little longer and rubbed his index finger across Marcus’ palm. Startled, Marcus pulled his hand free. Royce winked at him and walked off.

“Gay?” Sandy asked in a monotone once Royce was out of hearing range.

“Or bi,” Michelle said.

They looked at Marcus. He didn’t respond, but after meeting Royce, he did feel a little better about his chances that day.

“Gentlemen.” Ada’s voice came across the speaker.

The noise settled as all heads turned toward her. Marcus stood and stuffed both hands in his pockets. Butterflies filled his stomach as he listened to her welcome all the submissives to the auction, and explain the order of events. They would be taken to another room, where the Dommes were waiting, so they could mingle for the last time before the auction.