I lead Lysa outside by the arm, fully conscious of the stares she draws from both the men and women at the party. The men wish they could have her for themselves and the women watch with jealousy. Even in her mangled costume, Lysa puts them all to shame, and I’m proud as fucking hell to have her on my arm.

“Do you know all these people?”

“Some,” I say, still guiding her through the house until we’ve reached the back patio. “I should probably tell you--this party has a very specific purpose. It’s a mixer for members of the city’s three biggest BDSM clubs: Club Crave, The Red Ticket, and The Glass Box, although everyone just calls The Glass Box ‘The Zoo’.”

She stops in her tracks, looking at me in confusion. “BDSM? Seriously? Everyone here looks so normal though. Well, mega-rich, but they look normal.”

“How is it you think someone should look if they’re into BDSM? Should they have horns, maybe?”

Her face reddens. “N-no,” she stammers. She opens her mouth to speak again and sighs in frustration as the words seem to fail her. “I guess I just thought people would be wearing masks and collars and handcuffs or something.”

“In one of the clubs you would see that, but we actually have events for people like you. If you look closely, you’ll probably spot many women who look just as nervous as you. They’re first-timers, and parties like this are one of the better ways to bring newcomers into our world.”

“Do I really look that nervous?” she asks.

I look to her hands, which are tightly clutching what little is left of her skirt until her knuckles are white. “A little bit,” I admit.

She catches herself and relaxes her hands with a frustrated sigh.

“Come on,” I say. “I know just the thing to help you relax.”

I grudgingly pass a platter of what looks like some amazing fried lobster cakes and bite-sized chocolate desserts as we make our way to the dance floor. The music from the band inside easily carries on the cool night air, and the song they’re playing now is a slow, violin focused song with a piano accompaniment. I bring Lysa in close while we work ourselves toward the center of the mass of dancers.

She keeps her big doe eyes on mine the entire way. I can tell she’s nervous, but I’ll only need a few moments to remedy that.

Once we’ve found our place, I put my hand around the small of her back and pull her in tightly until I can feel the soft pressure of her breasts against my chest. I take her hand in my own and start to guide her in a slow dance, the kind of dance that serves no purpose but to isolate, almost as if the gradual spinning motion is creating a wall of blurred perspective that closes the rest of the world out. I use my grip and my hands to soothe the anxiousness from her, drawing her attention to my fingertips and the way they splay across her back and hold her hand.

“I have to tell you something,” she says quietly.

“Okay,” I say.

It’s a long time before she speaks again. I see the struggle in her features as she obviously grapples with whatever it is she wants to tell me. “I, uh,” she says finally, and something in her body language tells me she changed her mind about revealing whatever she was about to reveal. “I thought about you, too. I guess I haven’t really admitted that yet, but for the last two months I thought about you and what--” she clears her throat, cheeks reddening. When she speaks again her voice is so low I almost can’t hear her. “What we did in the elevator and laundry room. The way we did it. I think it scared me. It scares me that I liked it as much as I did.”

“That was just a taste, my pet,” I say.

“When you call me that…” she says slowly, still swaying with me to the music. “Is that part of all this? The BDSM thing, I mean?”

“Yes, in a sense,” I say. “Most people don’t really understand BDSM. It’s not a cult. It’s not some set of commandments that you must follow or you will be expelled from the club. It’s a spectrum of interests from things as innocent as orgasm denial and ice play to areas much darker. But the fundamental aspect is trust. Once you experience the kind of trust required, everything else will seem shallow and meaningless in comparison.”

“And where are you, on this spectrum you’re talking about?” she asks.

The song shifts to something a little faster pace, and our bodies naturally adjust, feet stepping more quickly as we twirl a little faster, turning the other dancers around us into a meaningless jumble of movement.

“Some would say my needs are more extreme than most. Maybe you’ve heard of dominants and submissives, but that’s not what I am. Not exactly. I’m a Master, and I have spent my life waiting for the right slave.”

She falters in her step, tripping over my foot. I catch her and help her regain her footing. “I don’t--I’m sorry,” she says, trying to pull away from me slightly.

I grip her a little more tightly. “Let me finish,” I say. “I know how this probably sounds.”

“Do you?” she asks a little shakily. “Because I have a baby growing inside me, and you’re talking about masters and slaves? Why should I listen to more?”

I swallow down my frustration because I understand. I really do know how this must sound to her, and if she’ll only hear me out, she’ll understand. “I was going to say part of why I know you are right for me is because I will do anything to have you. Even if it means taking you just as you are. Don’t get me wrong, I think you’re naturally submissive and you’ll be the perfect slave to my Master. All I know, is that I want you. Whatever I have to do to have you, I’ll do.”

“Oh,” she says softly. She doesn’t speak at first. She just holds on to me, swaying with me as we step and glide to the music. “I’m sorry. This is just all so much to take in. Is there maybe a place where we could talk more privately? I feel like my head is swimming a little.”

“Of course,” I say. “Come.”

I lead her inside, through the groups of people and upstairs, where a large rectangular hallway leads to seemingly endless rooms. I’ve never been up to explore them, so I try a few doors at random until we find one that opens.

I flick on the lights and we’re greeted by a full sex dungeon stocked with everything from bondage belts to a St. Andrew’s Cross. “We can look for another room,” I suggest, figuring this won’t exactly be the most comforting place to talk for her.

“No,” she says, “this is fine.”

I want to take her right now, even if I shouldn’t. I know with the right words and the right touch, I could have her on her knees for me in minutes, begging for an orgasm. But I want to do this right. She’s too important to risk everything on my impatient hunger for her, so I’ll try to take it slow. I’ll try. I’ve always had exceptional self-control, but Lysa tests my limits.

“We can talk here, then,” I say, closing the door and motioning for her to sit on the edge of the bed.

She looks at it a little hesitantly. “Do you think this is clean?” she asks before sitting.

I laugh. “I’m positive. Our clubs wouldn’t meet at a house that didn’t have clean rooms prepared and ready for anyone who might want to enjoy themselves a little more privately.”

She runs her fingers along one of the bedposts, not looking at me while she gathers her thoughts. “I want to try it,” she says suddenly, turning to look me in the eye. “I mean, I don’t know about the slave thing, but the other stuff. I’ve thought about the way you made me feel that day… a lot, and I have to admit I liked it. With everything you said at the hospital and tonight... if you’re willing to give all that up for me, then I should at least be willing to meet you in the middle.”

Her words hit me with the force of a sledge hammer. Every syllable reverberates in my mind, sinking in and filling me with an ecstatic energy.

“But,” she says. “No promises. I might not like it, and--”

I can’t hold myself back any longer. She gave me the permission I needed, and I was only holding myself back by the smallest thread of control even before that. I half-tackle her down to the bed, careful of her still flat stomach. I press her wrists into the mattress as I claim her mouth with what has to be the hungriest fucking kiss of my life. My first taste of her lips inflames me, driving me into a nearly uncontrolled frenzy of desire and need. But somehow I pull myself away, because as amazing as it would be to shred her clothes from her body and plunge myself deep into her, this night isn’t about me, not in the slightest. This is about showing my pet how sweet submission can taste--how much freedom there is in giving away her control.

I force a calm I don’t feel over myself, because I know I need to make sure she understands everything before we begin. Watching the way she’s half-propped up on the bed, chest heaving and legs parted just enough so I can see the black of her panties though… It nearly ends my self-discipline and has me pouncing on her and rutting into her like a goddamn animal. Nearly.

I take a deep breath and make myself look at a point just above her head. An old trick, and maybe a trick for weaker men, but it’ll have to do right now. I can’t look at her without my need to fuck her in the most basic, instinctual way nearly driving me to madness.

“Tonight, you will be my submissive and I will be your Dom. There will be rules and expectations you’ll have to learn and abide by, but for now, we’ll start with the most basic and the most important rule of all. You will obey me.” I lean down, making the mistake of looking her in the eye, which sets my already hard cock to throbbing. “If I tell you to suck my finger like you’d suck my cock, you do it. Without question.”

I wait, knowing she won’t pick up on my cue.

My silence makes her suck in a surprised breath when she realizes I actually wanted her to do as I said and I wasn’t just using it as an example. She hesitantly reaches for my hand and pulls it up to her mouth. She takes my thumb past her lips, moving her head up and down while she swirls her hot little tongue around me.

I bite my lip so hard it hurts, but I have to do something to stop myself from letting this go farther. Not yet. Not quite yet.

“I said my finger,” I growl. “Thumbs aren’t fingers.” It’s an asinine argument, and whether I’m right or not isn’t important. The importance is that she learns to obey me and not to argue with me.

“But you didn’t--”

“That’s two depravations,” I say in a low, dangerous voice. “One for not following my commands exactly, and one more for talking back to me.”

“What is a deprivation?” she asks.

“Make it three,” I say. “A third for questioning me.”

“But that’s--” she begins, then closes her mouth and watches me with the most sexily sulky face I’ve ever seen.

I grin, nodding in approval. “See? You’re learning quickly. If you had waited like a good little pet, I would’ve told you that a deprivation is something I’m going to take away from you when I fuck you. If you displease me, I will deprive you of freedoms, controls, senses, and so on. I may also choose to simply punish you. This is why trust is critical, my pet. If you trust me completely--trust that everything and anything I do is meant to bring you pleasure, even if you may not immediately see how, I can bring you to heights of ecstasy like you’ve never known.”

She says nothing--she’s learning quickly--but the way she watches me and hangs onto my every word says enough. She wants what I’m promising. She wants it so bad it probably hurts. And she’s going to get every last thing I said and more.

“Take off your clothes,” I snap. “No, slowly,” I say when she starts hastily trying to get her top off. “And I want you to look me in the eyes while you undress.”

She swallows visibly, bringing her fingers to what remains of the top of her dress after my hack-job and slides her shoulder out. I inhale sharply, eyes drawn to the way the simple movement of her clothes reveals so much more of her supple tits. She watches me with a mixture of uncertainty and arousal, eyes wide and lips parted. Her hands move shakily, stripping her clothes free piece by piece, until she’s left in nothing but a simple pair of black panties and a bra. She unclasps her bra and lets it fall.

Her tits are the perfect size, and I catch myself leaning forward, drawn to them so powerfully I almost ruin the moment by giving into my temptation, but I wait. I know the reward for both of us will be sweeter if I can maintain control, and that’s exactly what I plan to do.

“Come. Stand right here,” I say, pointing to a spot directly in front of me. “Turn your back to me.”

She obeys me beautifully so that she’s standing in front of me and all I can see is the smooth skin of her back, the gentle curve of her hips, and that glorious ass that’s just begging to be punished but still hidden from me by her panties.

“Panties off,” I command.

She hooks her thumbs through the elastic and bends down at the waist, thrusting her bare ass right into me. I sigh with pleasure at the feeling, biting down hard with the difficulty of restraining myself.

“Very good,” I say.

“See this?” I ask, motioning to the St. Andrew’s Cross, which is a padded wooden frame in the shape of a narrow “X”. There are hooks for restraints at the top and bottom of both points of the “X”, as well as restraints on the side where the two beams cross.

“Yes,” she says.

“Sir,” I say. “You will refer to me as Sir when we’re in private. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” she says.

I motion for her to stand in front of the device. She does as I ask without so much as a word of protest.

“No,” I say. “With your back to me.”

She hesitates a split second before turning around and giving me the view I need. My eyes trace the curves from her shoulders, down her back, to the most mouth-watering swell of her hips and that perfect, round ass.

She has no idea what’s coming or how much she’s going to love it.