It’s been a long time coming but at long last after some editing the complete Nightmares are also dreams is now available. This is a continuation of events that began in Ballroom, and ultimately, Valentine’s Day.

As always for my Pel and Sara stories, these are very NSFW. Depending on your work, of course.

Nightmares are also dreams: A Pel and Sara story

Prologue

The gold embossed Swiss inspired mini grandfather clock ticks its slow way through the morning. A double insulated steel mug chills to the side fizzing with the just poured in Diet Coke. A wide shouldered, slightly overweight, just over six foot tall man sits. Back hunched over looking at the computer screen.

That’s me. Pel of Darkling Spire Security. It’s ok. I’m sure you’ve never heard of us. We provide discrete services to discerning clients. Discerning mostly meaning willing to pay at least in the low six figures. Don’t let the mahogany desk or wood paneling fool you. This isn’t the office of a country lawyer or a conservative think tank. What we mostly do here is protect people from being killed or very rarely protect someone by killing someone. Though the latter service is not one we generally advertise.

I’ve been doing this for twenty years. An eternity in this kind of business. Especially for a small firm. I am both the most dangerous and least dangerous person I employ. I can put boots on the ground in any country with a name and a few without in 36 hours. Every person here is a heart breaker and life taker. Even my secretary, Janice, has a body count.
I’d put my secretarial pool and the mail room boys and girls against most branches of the armed services worldwide. Where numbers were equal, that is.

I handle the contracts and the glad handing. The political situation and the personnel. And a few special projects.

One such project is sitting on my screen. The remains of a dozen or so men and women. Tortured and murdered over the last 5 years. Not in some battlefield shit hole, but in my city. Among people who should have been treasured and protected.

There’s even a little video. It’s a cross between the Saw films, Hostel, and some fucked up eastern European sex trafficking thing.

Why am I even looking at this kind of thing? Don’t I have analysts for this? Sure I do. And they are combing over this, looking for information. But there are a few rules for this kind of life.

One, Never give an order you know will not be followed.
Followed closely by Two, Never ask your people to do something you are unwilling to do.

As to why am I looking? Other than rule two, my girlfriend Tara almost fell prey to this very thing. The only reason she is alive now is their methodology. It seems that they break their prey. Making them crave what they are doing. Then they release them. Until the person comes crawling back begging to be taken back into their care. It’s a power trip and a way to torment the people they enthrall.

In that brief window, I found Tara. And failed to find even the hint of this in my preliminary background checks. Beautiful, inexperienced, and adventurous, she fell for her Masters Fetlife profile hook, line, and sinker. That’s right, she is a submissive. From what I can gather she was a Pet. Animalistic and fox in her fursona. And he seduced her and damn near broke her.

Beware of people calling themselves Master, at least without contactable references. It’s never a good sign.

I glance over to the picture of Tara cuddled up with my wife Sara. I close my eyes. The horror of these pictures. Against the thought of either of my girls in that situation… Yeah, a little exciting. But only if we talked about it and only with consent. And only Sara. Tara is far too fragile for that kind of game.

And that’s the other shoe, I fucked up pretty badly recently. Sending Tara into a full blown PTSD flashback. Sara is helping as best she can but we’re not equipped for this. And a therapist that knows the lifestyle as a positive thing and sees polyamory in a good light who are equipped to handle PTSD and other traumas, not as plentiful as you might think.

But this, finding the ring of people doing this and shutting it down, hard? This I can do.

Chapter 1: Sara

The office is warmly lit by recessed lights along the wainscoting. A mosaic of wood tiling depicting a woodland scene, the knots placed around to seem like eyes of a predator looking down, adorns the ceiling. It’s the one concession I made to Pel’s ascetic. The rest is ultra modern chic. Curved lines and bright colors. Chrome fixtures and elaborate chairs. All made to be a bit jarring to the senses. For when a client wants to complain about how their portfolio is doing and I really don’t want to talk for long. This room will make you uneasy. Not uncomfortable, the chairs and lighting is comfortable but everything else just feels subtly off. Pel calls it the paranoia room. Everyone who leaves it has a almost panicked relief when they exit. He says his security team likes to place bets on who looks the most scared. There’s not much sympathy for multimillionaire’s and their stock options.

I’m working at my 6 monitor Bloomberg Station, tracking the trend line on palladium. I hear the doggy door swing open and close. Our little fox turns about her bed three times and lays down, curled up with her little Mr. Fox we got her that she can carry in her mouth.

Our Tara is almost always a Fox at home now. She prefers it and we are indulgent. Plus Pel is wracked with guilt over her break with reality. I and her therapist have both told him that it was inevitable and that it’s lucky we had her when it happened. But all he hears is his failure as her friend, lover and Sir. Pel is amazingly serious about all of this. You should hear him talk about correct and incorrect actions and how honor must be integral to the BDSM experience. For a non-Pro, he does go on.

I have been through some terrible things. Things no one should experience, even nearly dying from one incident. Even so, what happened to Tara gives me the shivers. That monster tortured and killed friends of hers in front of her. He broke her down and built her back to what he wanted. And then set her loose, expecting her to come crawling back in some kind of sick dominance game. I know Pel killed him. But whatever he did, it wasn’t enough. And now there’s some kind of ring of these people who have been doing this for years. I can’t even. A frisson of fear runs up my spine. I could have fell prey to one of them. Easily, could have went out with one. We think we’re safe and we just aren’t. Maybe Pel takes our security a bit far, with tail cars and a security station in the house but seeing this…is anything really enough?

Chapter 2: Interlude

The harsh heat pounds down. The light reflects against the sun baked earth and shimmering waves obscure the lines between unreal and reality. The shush of metal sliding into earth and the patter of dirt wars with pants and grunts. The medium build man wearing an undershirt stained with sweat and splotches that looks like crusted blood pauses in his exertion. He looks out across the desert. Here and there can be seen the other holes dug in the earth. The man takes a long drink of water and soon the harsh sounds of metal and dirt again fills the morning air.

The desert wind almost snatches the muttered words of the man, “Fucking Michael, I can’t believe he just up and left without a word.”

No one is there to hear but the coyotes and the crows feasting on treasures pulled from the loose earth.

Chapter 3: Pel

The day ticks away. Scanning documents, looking for connections, waiting for the phone to ring. I was never happy with the waiting. It’s always easier when you aren’t personally invested in the outcome. I know that if I allow it, this will eat away at me. Poison me. I can’t allow myself to descend into the rush of taking. Making no mistake, monstrous as it is, the feeling of self righteous fury made manifest and acted upon, safeguarding my people and my girls, is addictive.

That rush as you pound after your prey, making the target, and standing over this person. The sound of the gun, the silence as their body bleeds out. The light fading. The flight to safety. All floated on a endorphin and adrenalin high.

It’s not until after that you start crashing. Sometimes you are in first stage adrenal failure. Your body gives so much for those moments. And the memories…the chase comes in fragments, the planning sticks with you. But it’s those last minutes that haunt. You run through the catalog of the targets misdeeds, hoping to talk yourself into calm. Hoping that what you did was justified. Sometimes it is. Sometimes, you just can’t convince yourself. And those are the sleepless nights. Holding your girls. Trying to keep yourself from flying apart.

This time there is none of that ambiguity. But their faces will still haunt me. Still look back, glassy eyed, pleading for one more second of life. And I will smile, grim and frightening. Dark fire dancing.

Maybe that makes me a monster.
So be it.

The reality is, this ring is hidden. They’ve existed in a city where I have been hunting. Existed and thrived. They’ve raped, broken, and sold people. We have no evidence that their depravity extends to women alone. There could be men or others.

The hell of it is, nothing they’ve done is outside of what some consider play. Edge play to be sure, but still play. And, if I’m being honest, the monster in me saw the videos and was excited. Aroused even. Ideas I’d normally take home and propose to my Sara as a good time.

Of course, if it was just play, I wouldn’t be doing this. But they take without consent, they push past the red line and past safe words and break their toys. They Enslave them for real. And something dark in me smiles at the thought. And perhaps this is part of why I loathe them. My life is made up of trying to control the darker desires. Channel them into acceptable ways, if just barely. And these people are breaking these women. Girls, just discovering who they are, and taking away their choices. Without consent.

And that alone condemns them to death. But as I said, they have operated under my nose for years. Maybe I just didn’t want to see. Maybe I was too consumed by my small group of curated friends. Maybe I don’t seem like enough of a misogynistic bastard to fit in with their crowd.

I contemplate all of this as Jen drives me home. Outside the cool black leather the harsh desert air shimmers the asphalt. I go home to my girls. No progress made. Not really. We are still trying to find a way in.

And I’m feeling frustrated in more than one way. After these days, I won’t say we haven’t played but it’s all been so relatively tender. Paddles and clips as far as we go. I know Sara is feeling it too. Tomorrow, I will have Jen escort Tara shopping. Tomorrow, Sara and I will unleash. It’s been too long. I ache for her screaming. For her tears. I need to see her fear and lust.

Make no mistake, I love Tara. I love the tenderness and the gentleness of having a pet. Taking care of her is a pleasure and a joy. But, I also love my wife. And we are compatible beyond the bedroom and beyond the rules. But…she needs play time, too. And her play is pain. And as much humiliation and depravity as I can muster.

I have so many ideas. We’ll see how many we make it through before our Tara returns.

Chapter 4: Pel

Waking before the dawn can make the nights feel shorter. But those quiet hours before sunrise always feel like a gift. Getting up and making coffee. Watching Tara snuggle into the warm spot I just vacated. Watching Sara pull Tara to her. These unconscious movements echoed in sleepy waking smiles and soft kisses.

Sara moves her hands under the cover, the arch of Tara’s back showing the results of her touch. I watch their kisses and caresses for a minute. Drinking in their lust and love for each other. It leaps my heart to see my girls happy and safe.

I softly walk to the nightstand and place a insulated mug of coffee for Sara and a twin of that mug with hot cocoa for Tara onto the night stand. I know Sara hears me but her mouth is otherwise occupied with Tara’s. I walk to the shower and close the door softly. The heat of the water slams into me. Sluicing away that gritty tightness of my skin. Feeling the heat soothe away the pains of a hard life gone soft.

I take my time. Lathering with lemon peppermint soap, the smell evoking sun and winter chill. When the heat is almost dizzying, I turn off the water. The steam curls in the eddies of the air conditioner.

Jen texts, All is ready.

So, the project Girls day out is a go. Jen will pick up Tara in 2 hours and they will go shopping. Stereotypes aside, Tara likes spending time with Jen and anytime she can be out in the world and feel safe is to be encouraged. Plus, I need some time with my wife. I never appreciated the freedom we had until it was curtailed.

I have described to Sara the utterly depraved acts of love I was going to visit upon her body today. She is completely psyched up for pain and torture.

So, of course, we’ll be going in a different direction.

I hear through the hot mist, the warbling tea kettle cry of Tara as she screams her orgasms through the bedroom. I smile dark and bright. My girls.

It should be a good day.

Chapter 5: Tara

The heat void left by Pel getting up rouses me from my barely remembered dream of laying next to a fire. I snuggle into his spot. Still warm from him and close to Sara. I feel the soft muscle of Sara’s arm pull me to her, sliding me across silk to nestle close enough to feel her warm breathing tickle my still closed eyelids. I feel her feather touch. Soft fingers spread like a fan, drawing circles around my breast. My eyes open, awake now, and find the deep green of shaded forest staring into mine. I’ve seen this look before, her eyes flashing so deeply with desire they are practically black.

I lean in and devour her soft lips with mine, head tilted to the left. Pressure building to take more of her into my mouth. Tongue sliding over tongue, soft and fierce, fighting for more and more until I feel her hand squeezing and pulling my tit. I break awake, gasping for air. Gobbling breath. Her hand pulses like a heartbeat. I find myself on my back gasping, not sure how I changed positions.

Her nails graze against me sending shivers down spine and her mouth closes over my throat. Lightly biting down, claiming me as hers, her kill. I shudder needing more but she moves so slowly. Lips press their need against my chest and I gasp in surprise when her teeth close over my nipple right as her hand flicks my clit.

I fade out, almost to float, but her fingers plunging inside me shakes me loose. I panic, starting to struggle against her and my eyes fly open.

From the doorway, Pel is watching us. He’s holding two mugs in his hands, not drinking from either. He seems content to watch us forever.

I relax shocked back to reality. My girlfriend and my Sir. I’m safe and that thought gets blasted out of my head. Sara is biting and nibbling and her hand pulses inside me fingers splayed and caressing inside finding spots I never knew were there.

I fall into sensation, eyes closed against any distraction. Each time I feel teeth I whimper as a thumb drags slowly against my clit.

My lungs expand and contract, rough breathe spilling into the air, my body starts shuddering, and then soft waves of gold hammer through and out of me, again and again riding the edge of orgasm.

It’s too much and I can’t think. Lost in the float…

Some minutes later I hear water turning off, when did that happen? Sara is drinking from a cup and offers one to me.

I take the proffered gift and find it contains drinking chocolate. Pel made this…there is cayenne in it. Sara prefers to mix it with cream.

It is delicious but not what I want. I put the mug down on the nightstand with a metallic click.

I burrow beneath the covers and find the prize I’m looking for. The soft blonde sweetness of Sara. It smells of musk and vanilla with a hint of Pel from last night. I play the game Pel taught me. I lick a long slow A against the pussy lips of my…wife.

I’ll say yes. The last time they asked, I wasn’t ready. But yes, they are mine. I won’t give them up. But… Later. Now I need more and the soft moans of Sara whisper our rightness.

Chapter 6: Pel

I emerge from the steam of the bathroom and see Tara moving under the covers. It seems that my girls are happy and who doesn’t like that. But Tara has a appointment to keep, so much as I would like to let this continue, I’ll likely need to cut it short. However, I can give them a few minutes.

I walk around the bed, past the side table, and into the walk in closet. The gunmetal tie, the black jacket and black pants are quickly selected and placed on the dressing rack. Now for what Tara will wear…a harder choice. I want her to look fierce yet sexy, to really show her how far I think she has come. I stand looking over the choices. I’m unsure of how best to demonstrate her progress. Then it hits me, something that is in counterpoint to what Jen and the other guards will wear. I find the pale peach jacket with matching peach pinstriped pants. Both cut to fit and with plenty of pocket space. She needs the room to be able to store her blade AND have her hands free should she need to use it. For the shirt, a plain white silk, and a peach pocket square….and suspenders with little pictures of mice and bowls of milk. For shoes…I think the dyed to match suede low heeled boots. Peach is such a hard color to match but it’s Tara’s favorite. But if one piece is peach, generally all have to be.

I can hear the moans drifting in from the bedroom. It sounds like Sara is minutes away from orgasm. And that just won’t do.

I pop out of the closet and say, “Tara, dear, it’s time for your shower…Jen will be by in an hour to take you shopping and you must be ready.”

I hear a muffled response and walk to see what is happening. “Sara, release Tara… Please.”

Sara let’s go of the double handful of Tara’s locks and cranes her own head back to look at me. I can read the frustration on her face telling me that I stopped this just in time. Hell, astronauts on the ISS can probably read that expression. I just beam a smile at my very frustrated wife and waggle my fingers at her.

Tara slides off the bed and walks into the bathroom. She knows better than to step into the middle of this.

“Pel, what the fuck,” Sara asks, exasperation and frustration dripping off her tongue.

I let my face go cold and look her in eyes that have deepened to the color of a sea in storm. Her eyes telling me just how pissed she is.

I watch as the color bleeds out from storm to pale sky. She sees my normally active face go cold and still.

I walk to the bed and grab her arm, pulling her out of the illusion of safety and let her drop onto the hardwood. Stalking around her shocked body, I lean down and say, “Listen, little whore. You are mine to do with as I please. You don’t get a orgasm until I say you do.”

Sara shivers then goes still, sensing the direction Pel is taking her. Her soft reply of, “Yes, Sir,” is all but lost under the sound of the belt snapping sharp against her exposed buttocks.

It begins.

Chapter 7: Tara

It’s a thin fiction that I can’t hear the snap of the belt through the bathroom door but I know Pel needs that. He is trying to keep me safe and I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m better now. I was lost in subspace and had a bad flashback. I wish he’d stop acting like I’m about to break.

The hot water pounds against my shoulders, easing tensions I didn’t know I was carrying. Soaping up and sluicing off quickly, still I stand in the heat and spray. The air grows thick and hard to breathe. And almost, it feels easier to keep going and allow the wet and heat to drown me in the air. It’s not that I want to die or that I’m not happy. It’s that sometimes the pain of remembering is so heavy. I know that I need to get out and get going. But I just can’t.

The sounds in the shower change. The pressure in the room lightens and the air cools. I hear from the doorway, “Tara? Are you ok?”
Pel’s sweet voice fills me with shame and rage and just for a split second resentment.
I turn off the water jets, feeling a sullen bleakness settle down, and step out.

He’s waiting with a big towel. Arms stretched wide to envelope me. And shame overwrites the bleakness. Seeing him, trying to take care of me. I step into his arms and he rubs me down with the towel. Hands soft and firm. Businesslike and still I feel them linger over me. Never where you’d think. On my calves, down my side, along my spine. All dry.

The wet warmth vanishes and I stumble briefly, I’d leaned too far into him. But just as quick, warm robes encircle me. His arms pull me close. I feel his heart beat, that steady thump, for me. For me.

My body leaned back against his. His mouth against my ear. He whispers, “It’s time to get ready my Tara dove. Your clothes are laid out in the guest bedroom. Please get dressed in there.”

The guest bedroom? Why there?
Am I being punished…
Despair drifts back in, unbidden, as if through an open window

“Sara is taking up the whole bed, I’m afraid and we can’t have your dress getting dirty.”

I feel like I just slumped in relief…
Maybe he’s not completely wrong. It’s hard to admit. That I’m not just ok. It’s hard but I know…He does whatever he can to make me safe which is sometimes exhausting for me. But he’s not wrong either. I’m a grown ass woman and it’s hard to be taken care of like I’m not.

“Tara,” he asks quietly.

I shake out of a reverie that I guess dragged on and say, “Ok,” as brightly as I can. I brush past Pel and see Sara is splayed out on the bed. Wrists and ankles bound to the four corners. The bed top has been replaced by a white shiny leather one. A blindfold and ball-gag covers her eyes and mouth. I briefly feel something like lust and jealousy all rolled together. But I go to the guest room and find the outfit picked out for me.

Its peach! From the lace underwear and bra all the way to the two knives I’ll conceal on me, peach.
Where did he get blades that are peach colored?

Chapter 8: Pel and Sara

I slap the belt down. The clap of leather to flesh and the soft reverberation through the room of Sara biting back a scream, wipes away the solace of sex in the morning.

I lay the belt on the side table where Sara can see it. The tiny pinprick barbs glisten with blood. Fresh juice for beginning.

I walk over to the play linen closet and pick out the white leather bed cover.

“Sara,” I say, “Get up and replace the sheets with the leather cover. For every drop of blood on our sheets, you will get a punishment.”

Sara looks like she wants to argue. Probably because there is already blood from earlier. But that just illustrates the point of this demonstration. She wants to be subjugated but wants it all her way too. She knows that’s not going to work.

Still, she says, “Yes, Sir.” And starts changing the sheets.

I pull out the blindfold, leg and wrist shackles from the play drawer. And stand back to watch the drama as she tries not to get blood on the sheets and fails.
This is hard for me. To sit back and watch her nude and carrying out orders. She flashes me each time she bends, entirety unintentional. And each time I fight to stop myself from pushing her down and taking her.

The feel of her splayed beneath me. Fighting for breathe, taking her, seeing her fight, then gasping for air.

But, not yet. For now, she is spread out, putting the last corner in place.

When I’m sure it’s solid, I grab her ankle and pull her scrambling to the foot of the bed.

“Shackle each leg. Then hook the shackle to its post.”

The first goes on easy but the second is harder and she strains to get her leg to the post hook.

After straining and stretching, throwing her leg to the post, and spread painfully wide, she looks up at me.
Triumphant.

Face blank, I bring my hand up and give her a little golf clap.

“Congratulations, little Slut. You can spread your legs.”

Her face indignant, I lean over and slap her cheek.
“I’m going to make you wish you never said yes to me, you little whore.”

I grab her wrist and drag her so that she’s pulled taught to the edge of the bed. Then shackle her wrist and chain each to their posts.

She’s spread eagle and spots of blood dot the leather. Her green eyes look up at me, filled with need.
I pull out the peeled ginger root I’d been concealing.

Her eyes go wide and she whimpers, “Please, no…”
I feel myself tighten at her fear and lean over her, “What will you do for me if I don’t”

“Anything, anything, ” she pleads.

“Anything…,”I ask.

“Yes, yes, please… please… anything.”

“Well…,” I say, “If it’s anything, then what I want is your pain.”

She bites her lip and nods, clearly thinking she’s getting some other kind of pain.
But no.

I lean down and feel the sloppy wet of her pussy. I push the ginger root in. It’s shape pressing against her lips. The bulb root end is pierced with a brace so that I can’t slip inside all the way.

“There. All good. Happy that you could please me?” I ask.

The sharp gasps of “Yes, sir.” As the burning begins.

“Good, my little Slut. Now, you don’t need to see what’s happening anymore, tied up like you are.”

I strap the blindfold on. Consigning her to sound and pain. For now.

I need to check on Tara.

Chapter 9: Jen

The subject is nervous. She looks skittish out on her own. Having seen the material collected from her abuser, it’s obvious where that comes from. According to the psych profile, agoraphobia is not uncommon as her trauma continues to resurface.

She shouldn’t be nervous. Not logically. Presidents and dictators are less well protected than she is. The mall is seeded with plain clothes mercs, all with backgrounds of former police or MP’s. We have a lead car, a trail car and 3 different sets of cars running counter trailing techniques. If they are tailing the vehicles, it’ll be the last mistake they make.

When we exit and traverse to the mall entrance will be the first real opportunity to kill her. A sniper could do it, if they are good enough. Or if they are willing to go loud. Not a lot we can do against an RPG or a LAW. But barring that we have counter snipers positioned around the primary entrance as well as the backup.

She thinks of me like a big sister. Pel’s familiarity with me in front of her puts her at ease. That should eliminate any desire for her to buck my orders or try to slip away. I do so hate it when the primary tries to get clever. As if we care what mistress you have or what bribe you are handing out this week. Gods, I hate amateurs. But, in country, they pay the bills. Wish they would just read the damn contracts though. The penalty we hit them with for disobedience of their protective detail would make Midas blink.

In any case, Tara is as safe as we can make her. And Pel…sometimes the boss is so cold. He put it out on certain unsavory corners of the deep web that the witness would be out today. Hoping to catch some bottom feeders in his net. I’m glad he didn’t ask me to pull that duty, too. Splitting your attention is a good way to get the primary killed.

Nah, that job goes to Jacob and his KNR cowboys. Sometimes they rescue and sometimes they do the tracking back when it goes wrong.

“Lavender,” announces the mic. Breaking my train of thought. Looks like we are moving to the secondary. They already swept someone up at the primary.

Pel. Cold beautiful bastard.

Chapter 10: Interlude

“Team A, you are a go. Decoy b is in the net,” squawks the walkie.

The men in the van and other vehicles look like unassuming middle aged nobodies. They blend in to most crowds in the western world like water slipping into a lake. Who notices a few more white guys?

They wear a variety of sweaters and cardigans, khakis and coats. Armed with silenced pistols and stun guns, they get out of their nondescript sedans. So disparate that they are almost identical. Someone watching would describe them moving in sync. Professionals.

By different routes, they filter into the mall. Their quarry will believe that the squad has been neutralized. They still believe that this group is run by a lone group of weirdos. And, to be fair, the breakers are monsters to a man. It’s an unfortunate but a necessary part of the network.

“They are heading to the second level. Eyes up, it looks like they have outrunners.”

The men act as if they are browsing. Asking clerks for sizing options. For color options. Arriving to the designated area before the target.

If their security is pointed outward, it should afford our ambush a few vital seconds of surprise.

The underboss should never have been seen by the girl. But, he was the only available agent in place when it all started going south. This is a fuck up and normally we would have cut him away but This group… This Darkling Spire has raided a couple of our lower lever houses. If we let them, they will burn down all we have built.

“Check-in.”

“1, 2, 5, 7, 4, 8,….”

“Does anyone have eyes on 3 or 6?”

The static from the line goes silent.

“I see 3 sitting in the food court…”, the sound of suppressed gunfire cuts the walkie off.

Fuck. “Abort, Abort, abort.”

The sound of the lock on the van breaking spins me around. The splash of peach leaves me speechless as the voice of the target says, “Pel said I was going shopping. He always gets me the nicest things.”

Chapter 11: Pel

I stand. Dressed in black broadcloth dress shirt, black cotton pants and black suspenders with a red silk pocket square.

Sara lays nude. Spread eagle, splayed in presentation with her arms and legs cuffed to the four corners. There is just enough slack that she can squirm. Just enough give that there is the hint that perhaps she could get free.

Reaching over, I grasp her chin and turn her head so that I can look her directly into her sea in storm eyes. Her body is tense but compliant waiting for what comes.

In full lecture mode, I begin, “So. Today I have many things planned for us. But before we begin, my Morrigan, let us establish now that your safe words are Red for stop. And this time it will mean full stop. No more of anything for the entire day. Yellow for slow or that a breather or break is neccesary. And Green for please more.

We have at some point done all of the things we will do today and all have been prior negotiated. There are none on your soft limits that we will be pushing today.

But, as we both know, that encompasses a broad range of potential activities.

If you are gagged or otherwise can’t speak then you will raise your hand if able or shake your head and I will remove the gag and wait for you to be able to speak to indicate red or yellow.

Given that you will be tied up for some or most of the day, hand gestures may not be available so this slow down and wait method will insure safety.

I have a full field kit that my teams use ready should you require it and I have a medical team on standby. While that may seem overkill, I will not risk losing you to shock. And given that I know you rarely call red, I do not want to risk falling into a Sadist headspace and risk you.

Nod your head to indicate compliance with this rule set.”

Her eyes sparking darkness and fire my Morrigan, my darkest night, nods her head.

“Excellent, then let us begin. For our first implement I have a electrified Wartburg pinwheel. Just a buzz to wake the nerves. An aperitif before the appetizer.”

Chapter 12: Interlude

The soft drip of water sounds distant and hollow. The room I’m in looks to be some kind of warehouse space. I can see a drain on the floor and…what looks like hair spotted with scalp. I can feel my heart pounding like some crazed dubstep song. I know what this is. I can hear the part of me that isn’t floating in this pleasant haze of what I can only imagine to be really good shit gibbering and wailing in some small corner of my mind.

This is a kill room. Maybe a torture room or enhanced interrogation techniques, as I’ve heard the more cold blooded mercenaries we work with. I think they are going to kill me. And I know that I should care but I seem to only be able to work myself up to mildly bemused.

Oh look it’s the peach dress lady and she has some kind of cattle prod. Hullo peach dress lady!

She shoves it into my bare stomach and the prongs are cold. So amateur, everyone knows you keep them warm.

My veins pulse fire and every muscle in me contracts including my poor heart and for a brief eternity all I can do is scream. And in those seconds, I can see clearly across the room. The whole capture team has been rolled up.

The drugs recede a bit when the bitch in peach is done and she walks over to one of the blank faced sociopaths we use as muscle. Oooh right in the testicles….better them than me.

They still haven’t asked any questions. The keening in my mind gets higher and I can hear the whimpers escape. They aren’t going to ask anything…they are just going to torture us until we die.

There has to be something I can give them. Some link that will get me free. But I don’t know anything, I don’t know, I don’t know…

“Wait, please,” I scream. I swear I screamed. My throat feels raw from screaming. They had to have heard. They must. I thrash against the bonds in the chair I’m in and catch a glimpse of the redhead…that bitch the opposition uses for a chief. She’s rolling some kind of cart to the one team member I know. He’s a guy I grab beers with after the job, maybe we go back to his place and fuck.
He’s slumped down and doesn’t seem to be breathing…the sound of pleading comes louder now. I wish it would shut up. I’m trying to hear what’s happening.

They used paddles and revived him. I feel cold right to the center of me. How many times have we died? How many times?

*** *** ***

Tara is looking ill, Jen thinks. It’s time to get her out of here. She wanted to see justice done but I don’t think she can handle this. I’m sending her back to Pel with a note that she may need emotional support. In any case, it’s been several hours. He has to be almost done by now.

Chapter 13: Sara

The cold of the room settles over my body. Coating skin in quivers and goosebumps. The silence marred only by the scuff of shoes against hardwood.

The restraints hold me, light and loose. Seemingly free but growing taut in movement, I wonder what this configuration would be needed for. The feel of the silk felt soft and smooth before, welcoming. But now it’s one more sensation in a catalog. Deprived of sight and restrained from active touch, each new morsel of information is held and savored.

I feel a cold prickle, uncomfortable and almost sharp, work it’s way up my leg. The thought that’s it is a bug drifts into my mind and I jerk. The sensation is gone. For a moment I’m relieved, but the soft silence returns. And the prickle begins again against my right hip this time.

I hold myself still. Not daring to breath, and still it wends its slow way up my side and across my breast. Pressing pickles across the top and painfully pressing into my breastbone. Slowly it moves to my bellybutton and I begin to thrash a bit, panicked it will move into me. And it moves down away from there and before I can sigh in relief it presses against my outer labia.

The panic swells in me, almost uncontrollable. I scream into my gag and the sensation goes away.
My heart beats faster and I almost panic.

A warm hand slips into mine and I feel liquid. Pel’s here. The shift from panic to relief whipsaws me around. I feel warm and tingly. And languid.

I feel the soft cotton of his clothes and then his weight settle atop me. Pressing into the soft and yet unyielding grip of the futon style bed.

Swaddled in silk and Pel, the gag comes loose and is quickly replaced by his lips. Pressing light and opening my mouth with a tongue insisting on the taste of me. Dancing and fighting, we plunder each other. Letting it all focus away into this.

And then, I’m cold again. The removal of his heat hits like a slap against my body entire. The gag is back in place and I almost think that I dreamed him. And the room returns to silence.

Minutes pass….
If it weren’t for the sound of creaking leather, I would think that I was alone. Pel hasn’t talked for almost 10 minutes but I can hear him by the toy chest or in the closets. I know that this is all a ploy to keep me guessing as to what what he’s doing, what comes next…

I smell incense burning. Apples and sandalwood drift through the room. The scent enticing and distracting. Pulling me into memories of the last time I smelled this. Years ago on our honeymoon, after an intense session of flogging. Laying with my head on his lap, smelling his unsaited arousal. Knowing that we only rested before something new.

I breath it in then feel a hot burn connect and pool then go cold and pull my skin taught.

Again, it spills across my skin, the burn and surprise pushing me, tumbling into float. It burns its way across my taut flesh until cooling into runnels.

The pain comes. The heat right on the edge of burning. Then cooling and hardening. Some, distant part of me says, wax. “He’s using wax,” but that logic is soft words said from horizons away.

I anticipate the next pour and when it comes I shudder as the pain tips me further. Closer and closer to orgasm. The wax running, still warm against the softness of my damp cunt. I whimper around the gag, as much of a beg I can muster. My thoughts shattered across the feelings of the flame made physical.
So close to tipping over the edge…

The sharp, harsh snap screams me awake. The electric sharpness and the small lightning pounds through nerve endings. No longer floating, I scream against the gag as electricity pours through me, for eternity…for moments.

He loosens my gag. The wet plop comes free, teeth no longer clenched, but the memory of the actinic fire coursing through my nerves…fades into shame…

His words, soft against my ear, almost bring tears. The extent of my failure made known and complete.

The soft growl breathes out, “Did I give you permission to cum, slut?”

The word slut rocks through me, so tame. But it rocks me back. Like I’ve been smacked with a baseball bat. Pel never calls me things other than his Morrigan or his Darkest Night.

I listen closely, hoping to hear more words, as the gag is replaced with a fresh cloth. Then I’m biting into the fabric hard again. The electricity snapping into my skin, right on the verge of damage…

“Who is this?” the fear gibbers in my brain, is it Pel…it was his voice…wasn’t it?

The quiet sets in. Long seconds with only my heartbeat and the rush of blood through my ears to accompany the waiting…the anticipation…but first I tap out a yellow on the wall. Yellow for distress, yellow for, not stop but help.

The gag is unknotted and the soft warm cotton falls away.

Pel…Something in me whimpers with relief, its Pel.
Pel whispers, “Whatever could be wrong, my darkest night?”

Tension eases and the fear of moments…minutes?…before subsides.

“Bathroom please,” I whisper.

With a disappointed sigh Pel unlocks my restraints and stands me up. He does this economically with a minimum amount of touch and briefly I have this flash of what did I do wrong before I’m being marched to the bathroom. The blindfold stays on as he guides me to the toilet and sets me down.

The door closes and I’m alone but I dare not take off the blindfold. Instead I go pee and reach out by memory to get clean. Nothing has been moved thankfully and I am able to wash up without difficulty.

With the water running, I hear voices in the bedroom and I go still. Who is Pel talking to…I strain to hear but the muffled sounds through the door and the rushing water make that too indistinct.

When I shut off the water and knock on the door ready to go back, the voices have stopped. Maybe I was hearing things.

Again the hands that lead me to the bed and place the restraints back on are businesslike and without hesitation. Like I’m just meat. And that more than anything spikes my fear. Pel is constitutionally incapable of not kissing me when he touches me. At least on the palm of my hand or on my neck, but never like this. Like I don’t matter…

Chapter 14: Pel

When I proposed this day of play to Sara, I posed it as stretching of pleasure and boundaries. We have taken our play to extremes before so I knew that this proposal would be one she was interested in.

But, when I said it would be an exploration of sensuality, I could see the disappointment hiding in her smile. Sensual play has always been my foreplay and her aftercare. So to her it wasn’t the high she was looking for.

In times past we’d gone fairly deeply down the roads of pain. Whips with leather covered ball bearings is a favorite of hers. Blade play, including cutting is more my comfort level. Even taking it so far as to create a scar through scarification on the canvas of her milky skin.

I’ve gone fairly close to the edge of life and death with her. Even going so far that we would keep a medical team in the wings in case we needed them to pull her back from over that edge.

We’ve employed some psychological components but nothing in the fear area. Nothing that delved deeply into those zones. So today, I wanted to try that.

I started by taking away her physical liberty. Something comfortable that I’ve done before. Then escalated to removing her sight and her speech with blindfolds and gags. Again, something we’ve done, though with less frequency.

Then I isolated her. No talking, no certainty of presence. Sounds of movement, of leather on hardwood. But allowing the time to stretch out. Until, at last the tension was broken by sensation. But not welcome sensation. Using a Wartenberg pinwheel with carefully removed spokes, I took her down the road of bugs crawling on her. It is an unpleasantness we’ve talked about that I know unnerves her. And once I had her truly frightened, I reminded her of my presence but in the darkness of the room and the harshness of my voice pitch low and the brevity of the exposure to sight, I knew that her mind would start to manufacture and question.

Then electricity play, hard and harsh. Pain like she’s never known, throwing her out of comfort and into panic. (Administered by a friend of ours, one we’ve played with before. I don’t feel comfortable with my ability in this area yet, so I am observing.)

When he called her a slut, I knew it hit home. She flinched as if struck and thrashed. And the scent of her fear filled the room.

This is the edge we will ride in this scene. Abject fear, coupled with pain and pleasure and the unknown.

We’ve been together for a long while. You have to try new things to keep it fresh.

Later…

Our friend leads Sara out of the bathroom. His movements are mechanical. Just one more piece in machinery. A cog spinning and giving the result desired.

A fundamental difference in experience and approach. I tend more to the psychological. Into the knowing and intuitive leaps that drive experience forward. The shift from warm and loving to harsh. To complete control. And back to sweet kisses. Back to silly gestures and a kiss to the palm.

Watching him cuff Sara back down and settle her without a caress or lingering touch. Something I’ve never been capable of. Control can be taken too far. Can stifle the spontaneous action that makes one’s heart sing.

He packs up his gear and heads out with a nod. Silence and sensory deprivation are the order of the day.

I hear a murmured conversation at the door and go to look…

Tara is back and she’s covered in grime and blood.
I rush over and take her in my arms.

I ask, “What happened?”
She replies, her voice strong with the soft edge of fatigue, “We found them. Jen is torturing them…

I was torturing them…I thought I needed to. To make me feel safe. To make it better.”

She pulls back, searching my eyes for the loathing she thinks she deserves.

I say, “It never feels the way you think it will. Mostly, when they are dead…All you will feel is safe.”

Smiling lopsidedly, I say, “You had a long day. Do you want to rest?”

She nods.

“Do you want to stay with me or do you want Mr Fox?”

Softly, she whispers, “Both.”

I smile and say, “Well, I am playing with Sara right now but if you can sit very quietly you can watch. Do you think you can sit quietly?”

“If I have Mr Fox, I can,” she smiles.

“Okay. Go cleanup. Then get Mr Fox and come sit in your chair. Remember. Be very quiet,” I command.

Tara walks away, shedding her heels and padding softly into the guest bathroom.

I suppose it’s a good thing we got through the electricity element already. I shudder to think what would have happened if she walked in. As it is, I’ll need to switch a bit and go more sensual. Maybe build up to the harsher things.

Well, whichever. Sara is still getting caned today. That is the midway point and she squirms so much when I do it.

I wonder if Tara will want to try.

Chapter 15: Interlude

The warehouse stinks of copper and shit and wet metal. The last few surviving members of the kidnapping team are living out their final moments. Their ragged gasps are the only sound. Their throats have long since given out, though their screams seem to have soaked into the walls. This silence, these last few minutes, are all the peace left to them.

Jen plays the spray over the concrete. The blood and offal swirl into the open drain. The chiaroscuro of reds and blacks under the lights, where dark deeds are done. Cleanup is always important.

The soft shhh of the spray lulls the mind and Jen slips into a meditative state. Her body aches with the days exertions and she mulls over the names and places they got from the men. Each one representing another link in the long chain leading to the group that’s so raised Pel’s ire. The images, Jen thinks, are too close to his own desires. Caged in a iron will, he can’t let others do what his impulses lead him to. 

The sound of frantic beeping raises her from her reverie. The EEG cutting off, leaving silence and the small sounds of movement and breathe, as one of her team turns off the warning and drags the body over to the disposal area.

Jen sighs as her lieutenant brings over the sign-off for this op. She signs her name and turns it over to her subordinate.

“Standard arrangement. Crematorium then an interior burn of the site. Then get everyone home. Tomorrow we start tracking this down,” Jen orders, waving vaguely. 

Janus nods and heads off to supervise the loading of the bodies.

The sound of Bolero rings out and Jen reaches into her jeans, fishing out the cell. The call ID says Misty.

“Hey, hon,” Jen answers. She walks to the side door to the secured parking lot and steps into the early afternoon light. The heat of the sun and the warmth of the air bring her out of operational mode. Affection suffuses her voice, “No, I’ll be home on time tonight. Do you want me to pick up anything on my way home?… No, that sounds delicious. I’ll see you soon.”

Work life balance is so important. 

Chapter 16: Sara

I hear that tiny sound of giggle that only comes from Tara’s throat when she’s both happy and nervous. It sounds like hesitant bells. Like fear wrapped in brightness. I wish I could get up and go to our wounded bird, our limping fox girl.

I hear her light steps move into the bedroom. I hear Pel’s heart cave as he sees us together. That palpable tension of fear and frission. Of a Masters next steps, dissipates.

The sounds of whispers sounds like offers phrased as instruction. What comes next a mystery, but as much as the fear of the unknown grips my heart. The fear of what might be, I think I’m safe. I flashback to another night that I was given and…but no. This is not that.

The soft fur caresses my calf. Trailing comfort and warmth up my body.

The sound of a murmur that is just audible reaches me.

“And this, Mr. Fox is the leg of our Sara. It is soft but firm. She can wrap it around and also leap up with them. After her shower, her legs taste like cinnamon….it’s probably her soap, but I like to think it’s just her.”

The soft fur cups my ass, squeezing and pulling apart cheeks. Exposing the one spot of warm on the back of my body to the coolness of the room.

“Do you see this Mr. Fox? This is Sara’s butt. Pel likes to put things in it to make Sara squeal but she doesn’t have a tail….. YES. I have a tail, I am a good fox girl. My master tells me so.”

The fur works its way up my back, trailing the lines of the scars and scar work. Whip lines and the raven. The marks of this life and Pel’s claims.

Hair trails across my face, and I soft breathes warm against my lips.

Whispered, “And this, Mr. Fox, is my Sara. She’s sometimes my mistress but mostly my lover and friend. She’s mine, Mr. Fox. And you can’t have her.
But now you’ll always long for the touch of her body. Aren’t I nice!”

It’s impossible to laugh tied face down like this but oh, how I want to. It escapes like a a hiccup and is swallowed by the devouring lips of Tara. Making her claim. Our little fox girl. She’s growing up.

Chapter 17: Pel

I watched from the archway. Sunlight through the gauze day curtains soaking into hardwood and emitting the soft glow of reflection. Tara, all tall and wearing her scars inside her, drew her nude body down onto the silk sheets. Her eyes lost for a moment while she ran her hand against the silk. Lost in sensuality or memory for a moment. She reaches for Mr. Fox. A two foot long anthropomorphic fox dressed in overalls, soft faux fur covering plush. Huggable and squishable.

Tara teases Mr. Fox along Sara’s body. And I’m lost in the sensuality of it. Yet this is in direct contradiction of my order. And still I find myself unwilling to break the tableau. Unwilling to reassert my will. The thought of Tara, blood spattered and shell shocked from earlier, pauses in my mind.

Does she try to find control in the act of sensuality? In knowing she has nothing to fear from Sara? Especially in the coiled serpent of the hind brain which sees prey tied down and helpless. However, false the image is. Quick release cuffs and desire are all that hold Sara to the bed.

Did she make the conscious decision to act counter to order or is this impulse? In a way, it is irrelevant. At some future point, I will need to punish her for it. Not for what she does but that she failed to ask permission to do it. I’ll keep it in the back of my mind but I won’t be using it today.

She acted in accordance with her rage earlier and she finds herself empty now. And wants to fill that hole with love and comfort. I know that feeling. And I want to encourage her to indulge in this appropriate space.

Despite what is often portrayed, being a Master is not about the scene. Scenes are negotiated ahead of time.

Being a Master is seeing what occurs and acting in accordance with the spirit of the rules you’ve laid out. It’s holding your submissives in your heart and always acting from a place of love.

This infraction by Tara will result in something small like a extension of a time out when she does something else which is a infraction. Something which hurts the dynamic or is an obvious bid for punishment.

Had Sara done the same thing, I would know that the punishment she would incur would have been a part of why she did it. And I would indulge her in something brutal and creative. Because, for her, this is the dynamic we’ve agreed upon.

Some may argue that I am too much in my head on these things. Or complain that I don’t adhere to a single rule set. But really, it’s all about taking care of my loves in the ways that they desire and need.

Chapter 18: Interlude

Actionable intel has a short shelf life.

The raid group is set up in the surrounding area outside one of the Circles primary collection points. It’s a long haul truck stop. It’s both the first stop on the road to hell and a step deeper into misery.

That the snatch team has been missing for a few hours now and it can be expected that the news of this has begun to filter out through the network, makes this a potentially dangerous situation.

The forward team scurries from truck to truck checking each against our manifest. No truck will be leaving unsearched but these specific ones have been identified as either belonging to a circle member or to one of their customers.

The radio squawks twice indicating all teams are go.

The men and women in black tactical gear stream to their predetermined positions. The sound of cloth against cloth nearly eclipsed by the soft wind.

The entry team tosses a flashbang in through the door and wait 3 seconds to enter. The flash of light serves as the signal for the team’s to lock down the trucks and the primary team enters the truck stop. Presumably some of these people are innocent but the operations order calls for the remediation of any hostile actions to be dealt with harshly.

The soft sounds of hushed gunfire and muzzle flash indicates some have chosen to fight.

The trucks are taken without incident. Two victims recovered and two hostiles silenced.

The persons in the stop are taken into custody and their identities are confirmed. We match driver to truck then search each truck with each driver. We find four are being used for trafficking and take the drivers and helpers into custody.

The victims we take to the protected zone and ship for treatment and rehabilitation.

We search the other trucks and find evidence that two were there for Trans-shipments. Those drivers are taken in as well. The rest are let go after the teams exfil.

All told 3 hostiles dead, 100 victims recovered, and the next link in the chain uncovered. The management of the truck shop has been identified and we will be visiting them soon. For the rest we have their ledgers and computers.

—End report

Chapter 19: Pel

Some heavens are found when we give in to our desires.

I’ve tried to make this day about control and the measured step by step of needs building until the pressure itself became an agony. It would have been a masterwork. But watching my Tara play with my Sara…the gentle torture of pleasures inflicted.

The soft kisses and gentle caress of fingertips. The sounds of bodies moving against each other and soft silk. The smell of sweat. Musk saturating the cool afternoon. Faint but detectable, for one whose smelled this heady mixture before.

I sit saddle style against the chair I brought for Tara. Arms resting on the chair back. Soft smile tugging mouth upward.

I don’t know if I’m the one who is changing or we are all growing together. I wonder if my current line of work, taking me away from cold planning and corporate maneuvering, and back into the field…if somehow with my blood lust sated, I want only gentle things.

I look up from my minds wander to see Sara looking at me, her blindfold discarded in the tumult. I see her. And know that pleasure is never enough for her. And seeing her see me, my fire wakes from dormancy. She kindles my flame as she ever has. And in our shared fire, my mind tracks to the sound of ragged gasping.

While others might take the sight of two beautiful women making love to be enough for desire…I know something so simple and without that black edge of control and pain, will never be enough. Not for me. Not for Sara.

And while Tara is made of gentler things, still, her joy on my leash…she has a place with us. Her fox to our wolves.

“Tara,” I say, “get up please. It is time for me to play.”

Tara’s lips linger over her wife’s. Their breath mingling for the barest moments. Pushing away slowly she stands. Sauntering over like the fox that ate the hen.

I can’t help but smile when I see her confidence restored. And I seeing my approval, Tara lights up in response. She grabs Mr. Fox and sits. Rather primly for one clad only in a stuffed fox.

“Well,” I ask, “what are we to do about this breach of protocol?” I cast a glance at Tara and, as her smile fades, I shake my head. No. Not meant for you.

“Sara dear. You seem to have forgotten that today was to be a slow day of agony. And instead partook of pleasure. Now, she is a sweet succulent peach, to be sure, but that does not excuse the breach of protocol. Whatever am I to do with you?

I suppose, technically, I should punish you in some way. I had planned on hot stones, just a scoach under the temperature at which flesh burns as our next step. Not enough to do harm but enough to think that harm would be done. It’s a shame really.”

The disappointment and fear in Sara’s trembling flesh makes me smile. If only with my eyes.

I wonder if she knows what punishment I had waiting in the wings….

I go to our closet. The walk-in cedar lined walls reflecting the subdued lighting and almost making the wedding dress shine as if in a spotlight.

“Come, dear Sara. Release your bonds and stand, do. I have a present for you.”

I grab the dress by the hangar and sweep around into the bedroom proper. Sara has released the wrist restraints and is bent over working on the ankle ones.

I move to stand in front of her. Knowing that in doing so, the hem is likely to be visible from her position. But she takes her time, almost defiantly, and releases the second cuff before looking up.
Seeing the dress, she looks puzzled. In response, I pull out my cell phone and call for our detail.

“Honey, it’s been more than ten years since we were married. I think it’s time your family knows. So we are going to take wedding photos. And send them off to your parents. I’m sure they will be ecstatic knowing that their precious jewel is so well loved.”

As I speak, I see the puzzlement fade and be replaced by outright horror. Her parents are a particular kind of monster. And I know she has never confronted them with the truth of her life and lifestyle. Nor will she be doing so now. But I’m not going to let that drop until we have our photos in hand. Let her fret a bit. We’ll talk about it in aftercare.

“And here, my dear. Don’t forget to bring our darling pet along. She’s going to be so beautiful collared and playing, nude at our feet. Aren’t you dear Tara?”

Tara smiles at us shyly and nods eagerly.

Now Sara will have to try and pretend that this is all a happy and good thing. It’ll eat her up.

My little pain slut…did you think that you would get what you wanted so easily?

Tara is padding around, fox ears on her head and fox tail sprouting from her butt plug. She is snuffling and sticking her nose into things and generally having a good time. Her small smile says that she loves the game and wants to play.

Sara is staring in unconscious horror at the elaborate off-white dress. One of those flouncy meringue wedding dresses that shops try to sell to the happy and unsuspecting. She looks at me as if I’d lost my mind. I smile back angelically. Fallen angels count, right?

“You can’t be serious,” she states. Her voice empty with shock. Ah, horrible dress therapy, why did I never think of this before?

“Do you not like it? I had it special ordered just for you. I have it on good authority that your father’s second wife wore the exact same dress.”

“His SECOND wife?! You mean the tramp he left my mother for,” her voice rising in incredulity and anger.

“It could have been his third. To be honest, I’ve lost count. I’m sure it’s in a file somewhere. Would you like me to check,” I reply calmly.

Letting out a low groan, Sara turns to me and whines, “Why are you doing this?”

I look at her for a beat. Letting the silence stretch. Then reply, “Your parents deserve to know that you are happy and married. Just like you wanted. If you are wondering why that photo will include Tara nude and being a little fox…then ask yourself this: would you ask her and me to hide who we are? Is that who you want to be be?”

She looks at me and sees the disappointment lurking, waiting for her answer.

I know that she loves us and accepts us. But to expose these kinds of things to her parents is a completely different proposition.

She knows this is a punishment. She knows that I will not harm her. But still, she’s human. And exposure of secrets is one of the hardest things we do. Especially to people whose image of us is in contrast to the truth.

She turns away, eyes cast down. Almost inaudible, I hear her say, “Ok.”

Then she whips back around to me glaring fiercely and proclaims “But I won’t be doing this in that monstrosity. I have my own clothes and I will pick something I deem appropriate.”

I smile, wryly, and say, “Well, it is your day. You have 30 minutes to find a dress and get into it. The makeup artist will be done with us by then.”

I watch the triumph fade to panic then into something like horror. What am planning flies across her face?! Then she’s off like a shot into her closet.

I turn away and go to the hall closet where my tux is kept.

Moments later I hear a shriek and a cry of “Don’t lick that!” coming from Sara’s direction. Then out pranced Tara looking impish and smug.

Sara emerges from her closet carrying a black garment bag. She is trying to look dignified while Tara dances around her. Tara slipping in and licking a shoulder or arm before being swatted away. It’s clear that Tara is loving her game of Lick the Sara but it’s time to get this show on the road.

“Tara, it’s time to get into your outfit.”

I watch the surprise and relief flood into Sara. I can almost hear her thinking that at least with clothes on she might explain her lifestyle to her parents.

“The body artist is waiting for you in your room. They will be painting you up to look just like a fox.”

Sara’s eyes whip to mine, shock and the smallest bit of a smile washes over her face, and she says, “You…hmmf.” She flounces into the bathroom to get changed.

It’s funny. I’ve seen her cow Fortune 500 CEO’s. I’ve seen her lose a large fortune of someone else’s money and gain it back in the same day. I’ve seen her shoot a full magazine and hit her target every time. She is amazing and every time I think I’ve seen it all, there is a surprise. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her flounce before.

The alarm on my phone starts beeping. It is time for her makeup.
I knock on the door to the bathroom.

“Do you need help with anything,” I ask through the door.

“I’ve got it. Five more minutes,” she replies back.

“The alarm says now. How will you be paying for these 5 minutes?”

“How about a night of PDA(public display of affection) at the next office party,” she replies all too readily.

“That’s fine. As long as it’s your office.”
At my office we could fuck on the centerpiece and my people would just take bets on who cums first. Or take it as cue to start an orgy. When your life is regularly on the line, you generally are a bit libertine. Or, perhaps, it’s just in my recruiting methods. Maybe a bit of both.

There is a few minutes of silence and the door opens. She is wearing a black bustier with red panels. Her skirt is floor length, slit to reveal her upper thigh which is partially obscured by the holster of her very functional 10mm Glock. She looks fierce and fiery. The look only slightly marred by her bed head hair.

“You can stop ogling me. And help me lace up the bustier. I couldn’t reach the laces.”

I snap out of my surprise and lace up the back. Pulling them a little tighter than she might prefer just to remind her that she should have asked and not commanded.

As soon as I finish she strides forward, casting her voice back, “Of course my office party. Yours would just start an orgy and it takes forever to get the food out of…everything.”

I see now that I’ve managed to push Sara into business mode. Shifting her personality a few degrees to command rather than submissive. Though, truthfully, she’s not the type to be submissive in all things. But generally on scene days she is able to let go enough to be in the moment.

I suppose the fear of being outed to her parents and oh so conservative family is enough to make her put on a different personality to combat that fear.

I gather a few ‘props’ for the photo shoot from our toy chest, depositing them into individual dark bags that are padded so that you cannot tell what is contained within. These will be used as punishments or inducements during the shoot.

I take them out to the living room which has been taken over by the team which normally handles disguises and document creation for the ‘Spire. They also were on set working for a big movie production, as cover, for another gig. They have Sara in a chair and are working on making the nest of her hair into something photo worthy. Once that is done they will do her makeup and we’ll almost be ready.

It is interesting that she chose the outfit she did. But perhaps she didn’t want to stray too far from the feminine. She is well aware that I would have accepted her in a suit and that would mean less makeup, generally. And less hair manipulation.

In any case, I can see the change in her demeanor if nothing else. It’s as if her makeup and hair is armor. And perhaps it is. I’ll be called upon to say perfection or beautiful but as long as she is confident and being herself she will always be pretty. And her beauty is all about her spirit and intelligence. The truth is, I will pass judgment on aesthetics alone and leave my too biased emotions out of it.

Plus, well…anyone is lovely sporting willingness and a ballgag.

We’ll have to wait and see about the willingness. But the collar, the chain, and even the ball gag. Those are not negotiable.

Chapter 20: Interlude

I look around at the small group of men. Disheveled, dirt and other offal staining our clothes and faces. I’ve never met them, but apparently they are with the Circle, which led them to my door earlier this afternoon. Apparently, I’m on some list somewhere as a safe house. Nevermind that I just do the accounts.

I’m watching them watch me as I code in, just as protocol was drilled into me.

I hang up and wait for the callback on the secure phone. I smile and ask, “Can I get you gentlemen anything? Juice or an apple?”

They just stare at me like I’m not even here.
Ugh, save me from the knuckle draggers.
The phone rings and I punch in the last code. So paranoid but most of these criminal types are. Except the cartel guys. They are mostly cheap swagger in bodies mommy didn’t hug enough.
But, the jobs the job.

I hand over the phone to their de facto leader and exit the room. It doesn’t pay to overhear these conversations…well, it doesn’t pay to be Seen to overhear. But I can hear quite well through the bugs planted around the office.

“Sir, they took the transhipment point down. A half dozen of us only made it out because they were paying more attention to the product rather than looking for hidey holes,” Mr tough guy says.

I can hear some response but nothing specific.

Mr Tough guy’s starts yelling, “No sir. NO! These guys were military, it wasn’t cops. They didn’t ask for surrender, they just started killing us. NO! This Was the only option. The last two safe houses had ambush teams waiting. We barely made it out alive. We lost half the survivors just making it here.”

I look over to the ambush team waiting at the other entrance and raise my glass of chilled peach juice to them. It’s so nice to work with professionals. People who know that it’s just business and are willing to accept the realities. Plus, who turns down half a million dollars for 10 minutes work?

“Yes, Sir. Yeah, all good. We’ll be at hanger 12 in 2 hours.”

As soon as he hangs up, the ambush team busts down my mahogany doors and swarms my ex-employers.

The CKD(Chief Knuckle Dragger) looks at me like I shot his puppy. I just smile and shrug. And he smiles back.

What’s that ringing? I look at my new employer and they are holding a silenced pistol on me, why?!

“No one who ever profits from this. Orders are orders.”

I seem to be sitting down. How did I get here?
My juice has spilled….that’s gonna stain…
I don’t remember adding strawberries to the mix….

Chapter 21: Sara

I cannot believe that man! My step mother’s dress! Like I would wear that frumpy conservative lump. And to imply that I had less than 30 minutes for hair and makeup…no absolutely not?! Just because he’s the Master doesn’t mean he gets to dictate how I look. We did not negotiate this and I am not going to let him get away with this…this…punishment. I encouraged our pet to play and she is super happy now and he punishes me! No, absolutely not. If he tries anything else, I’m calling red and stopping this trainwreck.

Pictures for my parents. They know that I’m married. They don’t know the specifics of our relationship and they don’t need to know! Their arch-conservatives rich bitches and they could start throwing their weight around. Pel thinks he can play in their world but he can’t. It’s all clandestine words of warning and bribes disguised as political contributions.

Pel’s idea of subtle coercion is blackmail and a gun. He’d get eaten alive in their world. Petty warlords and tin pot dictators have nothing on the political bureaucrats my parents buy.

Well this is going faster than I thought…

“Where do you ladies normally work,” Sara asked the makeup and hair artists.

“We work on Broadway, dear. Your beau flew us out just for you and had us sitting on standby all day at some private hotel,” the makeup artist replied.

“Flew us on a private jet, very posh, and we never went through security so fast, I don’t know how he managed that,” the hair artisan said.

That son.of.a.bitch. He was planning this the whole fucking time. Flew them across country on a whim! Bullshit. He was going to do this the entire day. He was just waiting for me to disobey or infract in any way and if I didn’t he would have set up a no win scenario.

That sneaky, conniving, beautiful bastard of a man.
I look over to see him sitting in his tux, reading on his phone and drinking a glass of pineapple juice. Not a care in the world.

He looks up like he can tell I’m looking and that slow possessive smile creeps across his face, darkens his eyes and the hunger their makes me shudder.

My Pel.

Chapter 22: Pel

I catch Sara looking as she realizes I’ve set her up. Her shock and wounded false innocence wakes a smile in me. One of those slow smiles that grow until you’re grinning. That slowly spreads until you are looking up from the deep well of self, shining out from your eyes and your pores. As if, suddenly, you are more yourself now. As if you are more fully awake than you have ever been.

I watch her shudder. She knows. Knows that I’ve constructed this just for her. Knows that she is deep in my web of machinations. I wait for her to call yellow or red. I know I’ve pushed her. She thinks that she has dealt with her parents but I know how they treat her. Like she has failed because she married me. Like she failed because she didn’t marry into some blue blooded, cold, social climbing family. Because she works and sullies her hands by brokering deals.

I know she is afraid of them. Afraid they will reach out their political might and squash me. What she doesn’t know is that I’ve worked with all of their friends. Small, personal contracts mainly but the bottom line is that they like me better than they like her family. And I have more than enough information to cut off any back channel deal they can try to cook up.

I can get along just fine with them because I don’t give a fuck what they think. But when she is around them, she reverts back to that scared teenager who is so different from them but can’t show it. She refuses to let me handle it. But a punishment and a scene can push her boundaries. Which let’s me handle this my way. I know she thinks that we are doing some kink shoot. And we will, we most definitely will. But first we are going to take some real wedding style pictures. Something we can send out for Solstice cards. Because, if they hurt her more than I can allow, I’ll have to do something I’d rather not. And this may spur a conversation that allows us all to circumvent that.

Here comes Tara. Fully body painted as a fox. She looks lithe and perfect. She walks over and presents herself for inspection. They’ve airbrushed the appearance of fur. It even shifts and moves with her movements. I snap her collar and lead on. Watching her beam at me. I glance over at Sara. I can see the war of pride and fear in her and know that she is trapped now.

Chapter 23: Tara

This body paint is something else. I could not believe that was me in the mirror and yet it felt like I was seeing myself as the truest me I’ve ever been. Being a fox makes sense to me. Like all the world has been slightly out of sync until I saw the truest expression of my self in the mirror and now the last tumbler has clicked into place and all I need do is walk through the now unlocked door.

I exit my room and notice Pel is doing that oh so attentive inattentive nonchalance thing he does when he is self-satisfied with some ploy of his. My eyes flick over to Sara. Her look says it all. If eyes could light fires, I’m sure Pel’s tux would be in flames.

I follow my last instructions and present myself to Pel. I know he loves me but I always feel the slightest moment of fear before he speaks. I can’t seem to find a way to get the thought that he’ll harm me out of my head. It’s not even some fear that the other shoe will drop. It’s just that the look of possession and lust and ownership in his eyes look just like Michael’s eyes. He’d be hurt if I told him that. It’s not how he sees himself. Not as a predator but as a protector, but those eyes are the same. Until he kisses my forehead and whispers in my ear, “How’s my sweet fox girl doing?”

I don’t know how he does it. Maybe the tone of voice? But just a whispered question and I’m blushing and my skins normally so pale that I blush all over. But he’s waiting for me to say something, and with a little hiccup, I say, “I’m a very happy fox, today.”

He takes my hand and turns us towards Sara.

With a smile, Pel says, “Well, my dears, ready to take some pictures.”

I’m struck silent. Sara’s eyes hold the same predatory gleam that Pel’s has. The same desire and possessive need pours from her.

I startle when Pel leans over to me and whispers, “You know, foxes are predators too.”

Chapter 24: Pel

Watching my girls play is the best part of my day. I spend time thinking about them. Wondering why I keep working. Why I keep taking ops. Why I keep doing this thing I do?

And then I remember. I remember the faces. The smiles. The jokes. The sorrow filled faces looking back at me, knowing that there isn’t anything left to do but die. My people.

I can lie to myself and pass them off as employees. As people who made choices. But at the end of the day, I’m the one responsible. I took the contract. I sent them into harms way. And I’m the reason they died.

People will say it’s the person who planted the bomb, pulled the trigger, or plunged the blade. And they’re right. They’re right. But it’s not a zero sum equation. And my choices, my intel, my signature on some piece of paper sent them careening into the path of the bullet and nothing I do makes up for that.

But what I can do is take care of their families. Take care of their legacies. And make better decisions in the future. But I can’t do that without money. And I can’t do that without resources. And really, this is the only life I know. So I take my joys where I can.

Take my girls and give them the chance at safety and joy and love. All while I know, my men and women are executing orders and placing themselves one step closer to that final sleep.

Sometimes the responsibility hits you out of nowhere. The crushing weight, briefly unbearable
Until something lifts you up.

Tara’s impish smile and Sara’s brazen grin. And the nods of the guards. Who know what happens when I go too quiet and my gaze slips distant. And remind me, life doesn’t stop. Best get to it.

Chapter 25: The Photographer

I pull onto a private road that goes back into one of those McMansion neighborhoods. All clean lines and faux luxury finishes. Lush parks only seen by toddlers and nannies and midrange luxury vehicles when little Ethan and Tad play soccer.

The house is at the end of a long street ending in a cul-de-sac and only has one neighbor. The lot to the right appears to be some kind of guard house. Figures that this neighborhood would have its own private security.

To the left the house is a standard two story with windows streaming in light. Hell, even the door has windows. It’s the ultimate show piece. Look at my glass house and all the fabulous toys.

The house to the right has the same arrangement but all the windows are silvered and reflective.
And there is something off that I can’t put my finger on. These are supposed to be wedding photos…so where are all the cars?

Anyway, the jobs the job. I park on the street and get out my camera bags. Time to schlep like a sherpa. I really need an assistant. But assistants cost money…maybe an intern…

There isn’t a doorbell so I put down my bag, gently, and reach for the door knocker when a voice from a hidden intercom says, “Look up, into the camera.”

Startled, I look around until I see the camera perched in the upper right.

The feminine voice demands, “State your name and business.”

“Jonathan Franks. No relation,” I say with a smile. “Wedding Photographer.”

“Hold out your arms, perpendicular to your legs,” the voice states.

Rolling my eyes, I set down my other bag and hold out my arms. What are they going to do laserscan me?! This is such bullshit. I’m adding an asshole surcharge to the bill.

I jump when hands start running along my arms and back.
“What the fuck?!,” I demand.

“Sir, just hold still and this will be over soon.” That same feminine voice from behind me this time.

Mentally adding 5% to the surcharge, I hold still. Every nook and cranny is poked and prodded.

These rich bitches. Security as status symbol. Like it wouldn’t be in the camera cases if I was smuggling a weapon.

“Ok sir. Walk with me to the security building and we will get you processed and x-ray your gear.”

Fuck this. I’m hitting them with my 50% crazy bastards surcharge. Even with that, I know this is gonna be a shit gig.

Chapter 26: Pel

The photographer walked in rumpled and a bit worse for wear.

“He must have given the guards a hard time,” I murmured to Sara.

“Just as long as he’s professional, this should be fine,” replied Sara.

I watch his eyes wander the decor. Lingering over the more functional and esoteric pieces of furniture. Eyes finally centering on Sara, Tara, and I.

His breath hitches a bit when he realizes Tara is wearing only body painy but he then ignores us and sets up his gear.

This whole process is like getting a tattoo. Cool in concept, awesome when it’s finished but mostly dull with some moments of excruciating pain thrown in just to keep it interesting.

He moves us around like marionettes. Positioning us to catch the light of the fading sun. Moving Tara so that she’s between us or at our feet. Calm and efficient.

And finally he packs up and promises to have the pictures ready soon for us to look at and pick through.

Sara looks exhausted and Tara seems like she’s ready to get out of the body paint.

“Sara, if you would be so kind as to call the guard station and tell them to start phase 3, we can go and rest for a bit.”

“Tara, get your cute butt to the shower. I’ll be in shortly to wash you.”

Tara minces her way past, each step a study in sleepy seduction. She looks back over her shoulder and smiles that knowing smile. The soft flash, there and gone as she disappears around the corner.

Sara looks at me and asks, “What’s phase 3?”

“Just a private meal and some alone time. I thought we’d cater in. I presumed we’d be too tired to cook much of anything.”

Sara smiles up, eyes flashing through half lidded eyes, “But what if I’m hungry now?”

I smile, “Well, presumably, you will find something to eat that is to your liking.”

Her hands reach to my waist and the sounds of metal against leather unclasping hiss through the room.

Chapter 27: Tara

I’ve been waiting in the bathroom for a long time. The shower pounds against the tiles in staccato bursts. The air is heavy with steam and the floor length mirror is completely obscured. This room has become its own pocket world. The world outside falls away and I am alone. I haven’t felt like this in a long time. Alone, quiet, and safe.

My mind plays back the parade of boyfriends who hurt me. Who raped me in the guise of being a good slave. Who hurt me over and over again until they left. And I went looking for a new master.

I can feel myself shaking and shivering. Sometimes, when I remember, I feel as lost and alone as when I was with them. And sometimes I feel like that’s what I want. That pain and the total loss of control. To know that the man standing over you could rip into your flesh and you would beg and scream and he would smile.

Sometimes I wish Pel would destroy me. Would leave me a bloody sobbing mess. He refuses. Says I’m not ready. Says he won’t be lumped in with my abusers. It’s only in the quiet that I can admit that I’m waiting for him to turn. To prove that this is all just one long setup, that he only builds me up to later break me.

When Sara is around or Pel is in the room, I can never see that happening. But I’ve admitted it to our therapist, in a one on one session. She says it’s normal. Normal to expect the behavior of people who have hurt us in the past, to be the same behavior that we’ll always get. But that doing so, when all evidence to the contrary is presented, is self destructive. And it’s gotten better.

I think that as awful as the morning was. As monstrous as killing and torturing one of the Circles breakers was…it was the right thing. It has separated the past from the present. Put a period to the life I lived before and showed me who I am. Strong. Capable.

I turn to the sudden cold rush of air and see Pel standing there. Nude but never naked. Sara is peaking out from behind him, mouth open, showing the reason he was delayed. The white foam of saliva and seed disappears as she swallows it all.

My eyes wander to Pels cock. The shaft erect and pulsing.

Sara’s dark voice purrs out, “I’ve saved some for you my love.”

I look between Sara and Pel. Sara, mischievous and indulgent. Pel, calm and waiting, but a dark eagerness sitting just inside his eys.

I sink to my knees, the soft bath mat cushioning. I slide my mouth down the hard length of him, tongue pushing against his pulse. My eyes cast upward, asking for permission. Pel nods.

I pull my mouth away. Hesitant. I ask, “Sir, will you please fuck my mouth.”

Pel looks a bit surprised. It’s the first time I’ve asked for brutal treatment. He pauses long enough that I’m sure I’ll be denied.

Then, his cock is pushing its way back into my mouth. Slamming against the back of my throat and I hear the tiger growl of “Yes. Mine.”

Chapter 28: Pel

Her eyes tunnel into mine. A look of concentration and adoration pouring out coupled with a growing desperation. The soft flesh over iron meeting the eager pressure of softly parted lip. Shaft pushing into the warm and wet of an increasingly slobbery mouth. Her tongue pressed and exploring the pulsing quiver. The panic creeping in as each second passes with less air than she needs.

I pull her off my cock and allow the ragged gasps. Drool pooling on breasts and body paint runneled, ruined. Once I’m sure she can breathe, I gather a fistful of silken hair and force my way back into her mouth. Pushing myself and her until I feel the resistance at the back of her throat. She’s sucking hard and tongue is beating frantic like a hummingbird against me.

Something about using her mouth like a cock sleeve and her eagerness and obvious need for this rough treatment, makes me jump and quiver. Until, at last, holding her, cum shoots out, coating her tongue and mouth in the fruits of our desires. I pull her off and she collapses. I watch as she swallow and gasps for air.

“Sara,” I say, “clean me up.”

Sara sinks down beside our messy gasping fox and begins slowly lapping at my cock and balls. Sucking and licking every inch until all of the slobber and cum are gone.
Leaving me glistening and erect.

Sara waits patiently and Tara composes herself. Arraigning her posture to match Sara’s contemplative waiting.

Eyes forward, kneeling, buttocks resting and folded against thighs.

I reach out for Tara’s hand. She hesitates for the barest second and reaches up. Roughly grasping her hand I pull her to her feet and bend her back over the sink. Pressing my erectness into the soft flesh of her pelvis. I grasp her throat in my hand, pressing lightly against arteries, lightly cutting off oxygen.

I lean down and whisper against her ear, in a fierce growl, half mad from need and pride, “Mine.”
Ready for our shower.

I pull myself away feeling the rushing of the warm air to fill the gap between us. Still holding Tara’s hand, I guide her to the still steaming shower. A brief thought of the water bill and the chain to water conservation flashes through my mind. Considering the water table cistern proposal the Spire has considered building. All thought of such flees as the heavy spray pounds and splashes against Tara’s upturned breast.

She exults in the tumult and I slide closed the shower door. Her humming hushed by the glass.

I stand on the outside, looking through the glass as if watching a movie, then pivot on my heel and look over the beautiful pale skin of my Sara. The streaked red blonde hair giving testament to the ministrations of our love who frolics alone in the shower.

I hold out my hand and Sara rises to her feet. The soft creak of joints held in pose too long and the flush of embarrassment of this proof of age.

I pull her to me. Her nude body small against me. Her presence towers in the my mind but here, against me, I look down and see the top of her head.
I lean down and kiss her forehead.

“Come, my love, I have a treat for you.”

We walk into the bedroom. Her hand clasped in mine. I stop us by her dressing mirror and pull her collar off the hook and hold it out to her.

Sara takes it from me and, holding my eyes, cinches it around her neck. That soft thrill as she affirms my ownership of her thrums through me. Taking a ragged breath, heavy with desire, I reach over to her lead. I attach it and ball the leather around my fist. Then tug and half drag my slave-wife to the living room. The Saint Andrews cross is set up but what draws the eye is the row of leather clad heavily muscled young men.

Addressing Sara, “I give you the choice of instrument. Either these young men or the cross.”

She looks at me. The war of desire for the certainty of the cross vs the unknown of the men fights in her. I can read her thoughts of the discussion we had concerning multiple partners and the fear as she again realizes that I remember every discussion we have. And that any of it, given the framework of our agreement, would constitute an informed discussion.

With a shiver she replies, “Sir, please pick for me.”

“Sir, Please pick for me.” She says.

And I, who was so carried away by the fantasy of watching these men, pause. These men not of her choosing. She looks at me calm veneer covering fright and I know that this fantasy is too far.

That if we were to make it happen something in us might break and while we would weather the storm, we would always be altered.

I’ve been watching the desecration of the videos that we have gathered from the Circle. Identifying peripheral members if our community, but at the same time…
Those images were seeping into me. And I allowed them to progress this far. It awakened in me a fantasy to watch my wife be taken by these men. Not as a cuckold but at my direction, at my behest.

And I see her now, in her submission, filled with fear and excitement. And I know she would dive into this scene but….it is my equal responsibility to call red when things have gone too far. And that is what I’ve done. Perhaps if we had selected and courted these men this would be different. Perhaps if we were at a sex club and not our home that would change the temper. But here and now, I can’t. At the core, I must safeguard those that are mine. Even if the person I must make them safe from is myself.

I point to two of the well muscled men and dismiss them with a wave of my hand. The third is the one that I wanted for myself. The one who smiles at me shyly from behind brown bangs and soft lips.

I stride across the living room, sliding my hand across his hip. Pulling him too me, the hard length of him pressing into my thigh. I press my lips to his. Seeking entrance with my tongue into him. The first penetration of his body. The first yielding of him to my will.

I break off our kiss by turn my head, his breathe heavy and warm against my cheek. I look at my Sara, her eyes alight with lust, and say, “I just thought of a third option.”

Chapter 29: Sara

“I just thought of a third option,” Pel says, his eyes
swimming in darkness.

I see in Pel a deep hurt. Like a stab wound so sharp you don’t realize its killing you until its too late.

I’m his. His slave. His. And yet, always he stops. Always, just short of his full desires. And I know that I will always want to go deeper than he is comfortable with. He’ll pass it off as protection. As if this scenario isn’t something we have worked out and so is off the table. I suspect he’s been watching the footage they took off the Circle. And that there is a dark part of him that desires what they did. And really, everything they do is within scope. It’s the human trafficking, nonconsent, and the permanent breaking of the people that is at issue. Not the activities, not really. But he sees them as monsters. And since he desires what they do, he seems himself as monstrous. And he is anything but that.

My only limit I have for him is that he is comfortable with what we do. So, I’ll let this slide for tonight. But…I would have taken those three men. Would have put on a show and begged and pleaded. Would have thrown myself completely into it. It’s something I fantasize about. Something I know Pel thinks about. Something we both wanted. But here we are. Back in safety with only one other partner and one which is mostly for Pel. It’s incredibly frustrating and completely Pel. For every four steps deeper we go, there is always this moment where he walks us three steps back. He’s so deep in his own head that he fakes himself out. That deep thinking also leads to some epic sessions and surprises. Like the raven scar he created for our anniversary. Like vetting Tara and surprising me with her inclusion at work.

After this, we’ll need to have a talk. Not about what he can do, but about how disappointed I was that he chose just one. Plant the idea that it will be acceptable for more. And reinforce the idea that he can’t break me. That I’m already his. Body, mind, and soul. And we’ll dance forward again, and we’ll get closer to the edge that I know he wants.

I hip sway over to Pel and reach out. At the last minute, I grab our new friend and push Pel away. I growl, “Me first.” Then shove my hand down the mans pants and grab his cock.

I know I need to push Pel to get what I need tonight. All so that when I am hurting with the delicious ache of his righteous wrath, and he is beginning to feel guilty, I can act contritely. And he will know that he did right. And maybe that he could have pushed much further.

Chapter 30: Interlude

The room looks like any other office meeting room. Faux wood table, large monitor on the wall for presentation or telepresence, an untouched carafe of water in the center.

Perfectly normal except for the men who sit around the table. They discuss the business human trafficking without remorse or emotion. Its just units acquired. Where they are trained, quality of product, profits from sales and new markets.

It is the economics of evil. Discussed as calmly as any quarterly earnings meeting is.

A chiseled jaw classically good looking man looks up and interrupts the well-worn flow of figures and growth.

“If I may interject?” He asks.

A salt and pepper faded copy of the man looks up and states, “The chair acknowledges the Head of Procurement.”

The young looking man pulls out a sheet of paper from the stack next to him. A prop really as he’s memorized what he needs to say.

“The central hub of procurement for the southwest sector has gone dark. We heard an initial report that there was trouble but the window for the follow on report is late. We sent a team to investigate and have heard from a few of the procurers through that channel that there was a possible takeover initiated. They think that we will have to negotiate with a new consortium shortly.”

The board members look nonplussed until the Head of Finance grins and says, “Maybe this is a opportunity to argue more favorable terms. This outfit sounds professional, which is a good thing. The southwest team was always so vulgar.”

The rest of the board smiles and shakes their heads. Business as usual then.

There is a sharp knock on the conference room door and a scared dough faced young man enters, “Sirs, there is a package here. It is in a cold box and marked perishable.”

The businessmen get up and file out, ready to take a look at this gift. Maybe it’s lobster. Or caviar, the Russian consortium has been trying to make nice….

The box is a 5 ft cubed metal box with a handprint reader on the side.

The young man nervously says to the elder gentleman, “Sir, it says that your handprint will open it.”

The man looks around, clearly suspecting one of them of currying favor. Smiling he places his hand on the panel. There is a brief moment then the lid lifts with a soft hiss of escaping air and chill.

The lid is mounted on an arm and it slides easily to the side leaving the interior of frost and 1 ft^3 wooden boxes which fills the interior. 80 boxes in total with the remainder of the space taken up by frost and electronics. On top sits a bulging stuffed manilla envelope. The procurement head grabs the envelope and opens it. One of the other men takes the included pry bar and swearing about the cold, opens one of the boxes.

The young man says “Listen to this. It says that this is a order of evacuation. That we are to cease and desist all activity within the southwest area and that we have 48 hours to wrap up all non trafficking related business before other sanctions will be mete out.” The young man is smiling at the audacity and looks up, wondering what has the board so silent.

The men are clustered around the crate and are peering inside.

The procurement head looks over and sees what’s inside….it’s heads. The chopped off stumps of the consortium…some of them show signs of torture.

The elder statesmen of the group looks up. The shock bleeds to cold rage. He says, “Gentlemen, it would seem we are at war.”

Chapter 41: Pel

Bruised, bloodied, and satiated, we settled into our soft but firm bed. For the first time, I’d allowed myself to be goaded by my wife into losing control. To experience the almost fugue state of the total abandonment of control and just did whatever I desired without construct, form, or limits.

I can remember it all but it’s at a remove. Except for brief instances where I felt myself tipping into monstrosity. Knife poised to cut off her nipple as I rode her. The fear in her eyes flooding me with desire and making me painfully hard. I know I stopped after pressing the dull side of the blade in, as if to beginning sawing. I can see the relief flood her body and I remember slapping her tit so hard it left a red hand shaped print against her bone white skin.

I remember the feel of holding onto the dangling ceiling spreader bar while Seth impaled me on his throbbing cock. Filling me up with the war of pain and pleasure. Legs hugging him to push deeper into me. Kissing his mouth like I was searching for a way to feel more. Biting his lip and tasting blood and that flash of regret that I had sent the others away. Wanting more inside me. Seeing Sara approach wearing a small strapon. Her reading that burning desire to lose myself. The thrusting pulse of a slick and thrumming dildo, joining Seth. The feeling of hot wet splashing inside me. The vibration too much for him to endure. The brief moment of respite before some monstrous cock, easily triple what I’d just taken started thrusting in. Turning, I see one of the men I’d dismissed, Jake, and the triumphant smirk of Sara. Jake opened me up. His cock slamming into me while he held me up from behind.
My last coherent memory is Seth sucking my cock slowly into his mouth. Like my dick was water and he was savoring every touch of it.

I remember whipping Sara with her favorite single tail. Each lash showing an angry red line across her ghostly skin. Pulling her off the Saint Andrews cross and giving her to Seth and Jake. I watched her body racked in pain be whipsawed into pleasure at the hands of those men. Her eyes staring into me, mouth open. Deep into subspace. They took her. She lay sideways on the padded bar. Front and back, thrusting her between them. I recall pushing my cock into her open mouth. The feel of her mouth sealing around me and the slow sucking as she pulled one last hard cum from my aching over used cock. Tensing each time she spasmed in orgasm. One hand holding her head in place and the other cupping her bruised breast. Pushing and kneading on the bruises.

I know we took a shower but can’t remember it. I pull Sara’s battered body closer to me. These recollections making me hard. But I’m too tired to do anything. Nevertheless, I push into the pleasant familiar warm of her pussy. Just leaving myself inside of her. With Tara pressing herself against me. Tits pushing into my back. Awkwardly, I reach back and cup her mons in my hand. She murmurs in a half asleep haze, “Thank you, Master.”

Some tension in me breaks at her words, and I drop deep into sleep. The most content person on the face of the Earth.