The Whip Master Read online

  This Be the Lyon's Den

  Any who shall cross her path

  Wilt meet a painful end

  Dorian took a deep breath and braved the room, stepping into the kingdom belonging to Mme. Brigitte Lyon, the French born Chef de Cuisine whom Dorian had snatched from the grips of a diamond-rated restaurant in Paris. He dodged out of the path of a Saucier garnishing a spoon as she raced to another work station to scold the apprentices, and then lifted his arms to avoid a collision with the soup stock boy. The sound of chatter, chopping and dicing, and an occasional word of questionable origin reached his ears. This was a kingdom of paradoxes. Sweet and sour, bitter and salty, hot and cold combined together to create a symphony of tastes and culinary fantasies. The dispositions of the workers were much like the dishes they invented. Unique, flavorful and unforgettable. This was also a kingdom where he was not permitted to claim the position of Lord.

  "Dorian! Get out of the way before you get hurt, you fool boy!" the booming voice of the kitchen matriarch ordered.

  "I'm trying to make my way to you," he called back, narrowly missing the tip of a fork as it sailed by in the hand of an aggravated Sous chef. "Where are you hiding? Stand on a chair!"

  "Jokes about my height are going to stop being funny very soon," the stout older woman scolded.

  "Ease up, you know I adore you," Dorian said with a pleasant smile. "How are preparations coming along? Do you need anything?"

  "Find me a member ofstaff who can taste the difference between a bottle ofDomaine Romanée-Conti and a can of Bud light, and I'll be satisfied."

  "You hand-picked every one of them, remember?"

  "I must have been intoxicated," came the grunting response.

  "I told you to stay out of the cooking sherry, didn't I?" Dorian teased. "I'm going to see the prince. Is his tray ready?"

  "It is being prepared right now. I'll have the attendant take it straight up to him."

  "No, I'll do it myself. Don't look so shocked. I am not above personally serving my guests. He was my first client, remember?"

  "Very well. But you had best resist temptation and not touch a thing. I know how you are, Dorian Graye. This food is for him and him alone."

  "I'm deeply injured at the knowledge that you think I'd steal from his plate."

  "No, you aren't. But to be sure, I had an extra portion made for you."

  Dorian grinned like a little boy as she snapped her fingers and a plate was brought to him containing the Nigerian prince's favorite snack—Kobe beef sliders with blue cheese. Dorian groaned in delight as he savored the appetizer.

  "Marry me, Mrs. Lyon," he sighed, eyes closed as the orchestrated blend of flavors woke his palate.

  "I tell you that I'm already married every time you propose," the woman said with a chuckle. "Besides, it would never work between us."

  "Why not?" Dorian asked, pulling his hand back as she smacked it for reaching for the pile of sliders set upon the silver tray.

  "You're too health conscious. I need a man who looks like he enjoys my cooking and isn't afraid to have some extra meat on his bones. Off with you, now."

  "Thank you," he laughed, kissing her plump cheek and taking the tray in hand. "I'll be by later to propose again."

  "You truly are a masochist, aren't you? I will always say no, no matter how much you beg." She shook her head, the smile on her face depicting pleasure at the thought. "Please send Prince Jamal my deepest regards."

  ***

  "Dorian! Please, enter and find yourself a soft pillow to rest your head. I brought many with me." Jamal Amukamara gestured good-naturedly as his old friend entered the spacious suite. "Please tell me that the tray you hold contains a mound of beautiful jewels!"

  "Better," Dorian placed the dish on a table before the man and lifted the silver dome. "It is filled with Mrs. Lyon's Kobe sliders. She sends her regards, Your Highness."

  "Ah! Are you certain I cannot purchase that delightful treasure from your harem, old friend?"

  "That delightful treasure comes equipped with a very sharp cleaver and an equally sharp tongue, remember?"

  "Yes, yes. Do you hear them whimpering like excited puppies?" Jamal tilted his head in the direction of his herd of slaves. "Go on, my pets. Greet your old Master."

  With happy squeals, the four women raced to their prior handler and covered him with loving kisses and tight hugs. Dorian happily returned each affectionate embrace.

  "How beautiful you all are! Let me see if I can remember the names your prince gave you," he said, running his index finger under each chin. "Promise, Peace, Precious, and Passion, right? Where is Pleasure?" He looked around the room with a frown. She had been Graye Manor's first official maid, and Jamal's very first purchase.

  "The bathroom, Master Graye," one of the girls said and giggled, hugging him again. "She will be out shortly. She spends her life in there lately."

  "Is she ill?"

  "No, Master Graye," a tired voice responded from behind him. "Just a little under the weather."

  Dorian turned to greet his former pupil. "Under the weather? And what do you have there? Did you steal a watermelon from the kitchens and are trying to hide it under your dress?"

  "It feels like it, sir," Pleasure sighed, leaning against his hard chest with familiar ease. "His Highness decided to grant me the gift of ballooninosity."

  "He certainly did," Dorian smiled, placing his warm hands over the span of her swollen tummy. "You are absolutely stunning. When are you due?"

  "At the end of the summer. I was concerned about travel, but the physician said she was safe," Jamal said proudly.

  "Have you told One yet?"

  "No, sir. I was hoping you would share the news with her. You know how she loves baby bumps," Pleasure said affectionately. "I just don't wish to cause her pain."

  "There isn't much opportunity for her to get her hands on growing tummies nowadays, unless they are pregnant horses, so I have no doubt she will be all over you. As for hurting her, she will be nothing but excited. Ours is not a life that has room for children, and she accepted that years ago."

  "I know, but I still want to be respectful of her feelings. I also wanted to ask if she would consider being my midwife. My physician said that he foresees no problems despite my age."

  "I'm sure she would be honored. Would you want to have the baby here or back home? We can provide a very comfortable environment for all of you."

  "Really, Master Graye? You would allow me to give birth here? My Prince! May I have it here? Please?" Pleasure grabbed her owner's hand. "I would feel much more comfortable away from the press and the politics of State. Please?'

  Jamal kissed the back of her hand and then touched her swollen belly. "Anything you desire. We will make it an extended vacation and place your sisters back in training. Would you like that, my pets?"

  "Yes, Master!" the excited squeal rose from the group.

  "Would that be possible, Dorian? It might be a rather long visit."

  "This is your home as much as mine, old friend. She would have to arrive here while it is still safe for travel, and then factor in her recovery time. Maybe six weeks or more?"

  "Ladies! Calm down." Jamal barked. He rolled his eyes. "Maybe I'll just leave them all here so I can take a vacation from their endless prattle. Pleasure? Tell him the second part of your story."

  Pleasure blushed before her first Master and lifted her hand. "He placed a collar on my finger."

  "What? The bachelor prince got married?" Dorian feigned shock. "Your Highness, have the hormones and joy of pregnancy affected you as well?"

  Jamal bit into a slider and closed his eyes. "Mmm, these delectable morsels are the definition of joy, not a moody female who demands fried onions and pickled artichoke hearts for breakfast." He offered a slider to Dorian. "Sometimes even I must adjust and adapt my old beliefs when faced with losing a treasure. Her latest contract was expiring and I wanted to make sure she could not refuse a renewal."

  Dorian's thoughts b
riefly returned to Fifty. Perhaps he should reconsider his own policy when it came to her. "My most sincere congratulations to you both. I am so happy for all of you. Jamal? Will these ladies be permitted to join the display tomorrow evening?"

  "I insist on it!" The prince's straight white smile glimmered against his dark, smooth skin. "Have you a fire-throwing booth? Or a carving station? Passion has been hungering for real pain of late. She actually accused me of leniency!"

  "I am certain that Elias will have one available," Dorian promised. "And don't feel bad. I recall her saying the same of me last time I blooded her with a whip."

  "A lady wants what a lady wants, Master Graye," Passion said with a grin.

  "This is true. Ladies? Your Highness? I must bid you farewell and return to the preparations. Will you all be joining us this evening for dinner?"

  "We would not miss it for the world!" the prince promised.

  "My table, then. Please let me know if you need anything to make you more comfortable. How about a foot massage?" Dorian said, his hands gently cradling Pleasure's tummy.

  "That sounds wonderful," Jamal announced. "I could always use a good foot rub."

  "I was actually talking to your pregnant wife. You know, the one with the swollen ankles." Dorian laughed. "I'll send the masseuses up for everyone. Except for Passion."

  "I don't get a massage, Master Graye?" She looked disappointed.

  He kissed her forehead. "No. You get the acupuncturist. I'll have him bring piercing needles." Her happy squeal made him wince. "Tonight, then. Seven sharp."

  Chapter Two

  "How are the preparations coming?" One asked, as Dorian entered their private quarters, which he referred to as the 'playroom'.

  He was pleased that she had prepared the room the way he preferred. It was cast in low lighting, except for the single spotlight over the custom-made bench, scented by candles of oak and sandalwood, and his favorite, and very powerful, classical pieces were playing.

  "Everything is on schedule. I have some good new to share with you. Jamal married Pleasure. They are also expecting, and she wants you to be her midwife. Would you want to do it?"

  "Really? That's wonderful! Of course I will help. When is she due?"

  "At the end of summer. I offered the use of the Manor and they accepted. We can put the other girls through refreshers during their stay."

  "You told her to come before she's due, right? She needs to travel safely. And she will need recovery time."

  "I already thought of that. They are going to return in about a month and stay as long as needed."

  "Good! We must do something special in celebration for them."

  "I agree. Right now, though, I want to do something special for you. Strip."

  He mused that, even after fifteen years of marriage, One still blushed with the modesty of a teenager when he delivered that order. He stared at her flawless, creamy skin—a perfect canvas for him to paint, admire and enjoy. She had just turned thirty-seven, but time had only enhanced her classic beauty. She was tall and curvaceous, with voluptuous hips, bottom and breasts that made his heart pound and his cock twitch each passing day.

  "I hate when you stare at me like this," she said, trembling under his acute gaze. "It reminds me of a tiger about to devour an innocent little bunny."

  "You are neither innocent nor a rabbit, my love. You are a goddess. One that I eagerly love to study before I devour. I also know that your trembling is not due to fear, but to excitement. Come to the bench."

  One's shaking increased as he bound her to the cushioned piece of equipment, charged by her vulnerability as she entrusted him with her helplessness. It had been nearly nineteen years since she had accepted his offer of domination and began to train as his first submissive. She released her complete trust into his hands, consenting to whatever he desired with the knowledge that he would abide by the limits that would ensure her safety, growth and happiness. He pushed some of those limits at times, to test her desire and willingness to submit, but never to the point of breaking or changing her to be anything other than who she was. Trust was everything to him, and One knew he would never violate it—not even for his own pleasure.

  She trembled again when he reached out to stroke her flesh, the calluses of his fingers and palms reminding her that his hand was whip-hardened. One inhaled sharply, relaxing under his touch, yet also excited by the same.

  She reminded him of an instrument as he tuned her nerves under his fingertips, until they were tight and ready to sing. One hot palm rested firmly on the small of her back, keeping her connected with him, as he reached for the short, sixteen-plait black and red signal whip. It unfurled to the floor like a living snake, writhing and twisting until it was free of the coil that had kept it confined.

  He shook it gently and brought it to his nose to inhale the delicious warmth of quality leather. The whip had been a wedding gift from his wife. One had approached the master leather crafter, whom Dorian used to design and craft all his leather work, and requested that he teach her how to plait and knot a whip to her husband's unique specifications. She'd picked the hides, dyed and cut them, weighted the base, and learned the intricacies of a Turkish knot and tensioned plaiting of the weave. It had taken her nearly four months before her teacher gave the stamp of approval.

  He ran his hand along the length of the tail, the supple braid sliding through his hands with familiar ease. He did not reveal his intent, other than that this time would be a reward.

  Those words, to One, could mean only one thing: pain. The glorious pain that would bring her to the cusp of pleasure and take her over the edge to soar on featherless wings. She quivered again, but this time he sensed fear. Pain was a welcome friend to her and would never spark trepidation. No, her fear was born of the knowledge that he could stop the pain in a sadistic moment and leave her dangling on a precipice of unsatisfied release.

  He felt his cock rise as the tip of the whip explored the raised arch of her spine, and down between the snowy cheeks of her beautiful, round ass. It kissed and teased the backs of her thighs and then rose up along the right side of her abdomen, over the outer edge of a generous breast and then slowly, so slowly, over her face. He watched her back rise and fall while she inhaled the scent of the leather, intoxicated by the primal perfume. It took so little to please her, he mused.

  He draped the whip's tail across her shoulders, relishing the shivers that accompanied the goose bumped flesh. He was a conductor of the flesh, ordering her body to respond to the lazy trail of hide that inched up the right side of her spine and then back down on the left. He sketched an ever-changing design across her shoulder blades and in a diagonal to the opposite hip. Always in control, he swished across her buttocks and then between her thighs. Her glistening slit gave away her true need but he refrained from making that need his own. In time, his action promised. In time.

  The scent of her arousal penetrated his senses, and he inhaled the earthy warm perfume as though it were priceless, well-aged ambergris. Her scent, and her taste, was his ambrosia. He inhaled deeply, his eyes closed as he concentrated on the heady memory of her aroma. The whip's journey continued, its body lifted higher and higher, until only the very tip teased her unmarred skin. She released a moan—a signal that she was ready at last.

  Dorian stepped back and, with a flick of the wrist, kissed the cheek of her left buttock with a crack of the whip. One yelped, more in surprise than in pain, and he watched in fascination as a smell, red welt surfaced in the center of the plump mound. She shivered in response to the touch of his finger as he pressed down upon that single spot, her moans a plea to continue.

  The whip sailed to the other side, this time to draw a stripe. Dorian was an artist, his brush was made of leather, and he brought shades of red to a canvas like few others could. He waited patiently for the tension to disappear from his wife's body, and nipped her again. This time she did not react; she simply received. He did not have to speak his praise aloud—she knew he was plea
sed when she accepted his offerings without resistance.

  The whip came to life, taking on a personality of its own. It snapped, slid, lashed and coiled over its resilient target, leaving a plethora of shapes and shades amidst the white setting. It had one goal—to bring its subject to a place of transcendence. To rise beyond the limits of the body and into another plain of existence was One's passion and her greatest pleasure, and no one could help her there better than Dorian and his whip.

  The leather snake covered her body in time to the music, its impact matching the cries of a brass horn, the heavy thud of a kettle drum, the hypnotizing rhythm of the growing percussion. Each musical beat was brought to life, always adjacent to the previous blow with deep breaths of silence between. He watched her body shift as she moved to the place of bliss, the utopian alter-reality of subspace where nothing else existed except the ultimate pleasure that only pain could provide.

  He swung the whip in larger arcs, down the entirety of her back to her thighs, leaving behind clean, precise, and perfectly matching stripes on both sides. These were his mark—so perfectly aimed that they appeared unreal at first glance. He knew what she desired most, and she had earned her pleasure. The stripes were enough to penetrate the delicate flesh, just enough to bring forth tiny trickles of blood. She would have liked more, but Dorian always refused. Even in his sadism, he practiced responsibility.

  As much as she would have loved him to turn those stripes into true blood, he held back and measured each stroke to permit no more than a tiny amount of beading as a reminder that he was in control. He chose how much, or how little, he would leave behind as proof that he was master of not only his precious slave, but also his actions. One's breathing was deep, quiet and peaceful, and her body had melted into the bench. She had reached her special corridor. Dorian gently released the bindings, covered her body with a silk sheet, and stepped back to wait for her to return to him.

  Several minutes later, she stirred. He was by her side in an instant, lifting her off the bench and carrying her to the curved couch by the fountain. He cradled her in his strong arms, kissing her temple as she resumed her natural place on earth. Her body shook as the waves of adrenaline resided, quaking with the remnants of the endorphin response. Lifting a glass of orange juice to her lips, Dorian urged her to drink… "Slowly," he cooed, "sip it slowly."