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  He turned his attention to the last two patient files on his desk. Whoever she was, she was as elusive as absolute confidence in himself.

  Rick turned the Blair file over and picked up the business card sitting between it and the file beneath. 1-800-DOM-help. His brow furrowed. There was nothing on the card but a phone number in clean, raised type. His mouth thinned. He was very careful about keeping his private life separate from his professional one. Nobody he worked with knew he was a sexual submissive. It didn’t exactly mesh with the god complex surgeons were expected to have. He turned the card over.

  Call the number, someone had written in elegant, sweeping script on the back. Definitely a woman’s writing. It made him think of expensive perfume and the feel of silk and soft suede. I’m out here, waiting for you.

  He turned the card over and over. He didn’t recognize the handwriting. Did somebody in the practice know about his…proclivities? Was this a joke? If it was, it was a piss-poor one. His sense of anticipation, the tightening in his groin, vanished, leaving anger in their wake. He threw the card into the trash and got back to work.

  * * * * *

  Later at home, Rick lifted a freezer entrée out of his microwave and set it down beside his computer. Eating with a fork one-handed, barely paying attention to what he was putting in his mouth, he checked out his bookmarked BDSM sites and chat rooms. Like earlier, his anticipation fizzled quickly. It was the same old, same old. He didn’t come across anyone who sparked his interest, anyone he connected with. Mostly it was other lonely subs like him trolling for Dommes. Giving up after an hour, Rick switched off the computer and went to bed.

  As he pulled off his shirt, he felt something in the breast pocket. It was a business card and he blinked when he saw the raised script on it. 1-800-DOM-help.

  “What the hell?” he muttered, frowned and flipped the card into a garbage can with more vehemence than necessary.

  * * * * *

  At two in the morning, Rick was staring up at the darkened ceiling above his bed. His mind kept going back to that damn card and he hated the longing it had stirred in him. He was thirty-five and he’d always thought he’d be married by now, or have a girlfriend at least. With the crazy hours he worked and being a sub, it was hard to hook up with anyone. In the few clubs he’d gone to there were always far more subs than Dommes so competition was fierce. That coupled with the fact he didn’t put himself out there like he should. He had a reputation and a practice to consider. Next to screwing up and hurting someone, being outed for his sexual preferences was his biggest fear.

  Rick got out of bed and walked into the living room.

  From his high-rise condo, the lights of the city looked cold tonight. Traffic on the Parkway snaked in a never-ending line through the big ravine below. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this alone. What was wrong with him? He was a good-looking guy, well mannered, worked out regularly and had a great job.

  Standing naked in the moonlight, looking out over the Toronto skyline, Rick reached for his cordless phone and wasn’t all that freaked to see a card sitting on the table beside it. Maybe he’d been expecting it? Maybe he needed it. Maybe he was still asleep and it was simply time. He punched in the number as he turned back to the big floor-to-ceiling window.

  The number on the other end rang three times and he was about to hang up, disgusted with himself for being so pathetic, so desperate, when he heard a click, then another. Then a woman answered.

  “Hello.”

  Her voice was like a soft hand on his cock. It was blatantly sexual yet somehow professional at the same time. By rote, he stammered out a hello of his own then his voice dried up.

  “What’s your name?”

  Again, that voice sent warm blood straight to his rod.

  “Rick.”

  “Hmm, Rick,” she murmured and he thought he heard paper shuffling in the background. “Tell me, Dr. Rick Finley, what’s written on the back of your card.”

  How the hell does she know my name?

  Feeling as if he was fifteen again and being led around by the balls by someone just because they had ovaries, he read off without giving himself a chance to think it through, “I’m out here, waiting for you.”

  “I’m pleased you called, Rick.”

  Again her sexy-as-hell voice cut right into him but it was the control, the implied power behind it that made his balls ache. Huh. Maybe she had caller ID? Then he got worried. Had he just called a pay-for-sex number?

  He was about to hang up when she asked, “What do you want?”

  Her voice was quieter than before but more compelling because of it. It was deep, sultry and echoed inside his head, giving him titillating mental pictures of a woman in a fitted suit, the skirt riding high on her thighs, her sitting behind a massive wood desk with one leg crossed over the other. A killer high-heeled shoe dangled from the end of her stocking foot.

  Giving himself a mental shake, he tried to remember what she’d said. Then it came to him.

  She spoke again. “I’m the Operator, Rick. We’re not in the business of playing games and the only currency we exchange is trust. I will ask you one more time and one more time only. What do you want?”

  Dropping his forehead on the cold window, Rick spilled his guts to this stranger with the hypnotic voice. He told her about his longing for a lover, a sexually dominant woman, a soul mate. He made life-and-death decisions every day, held people’s lives in his hands, and being sexually dominated brought him balance and freedom from the pressures of his work.

  “Are you a simple masochist?”

  “No,” he insisted. “At least I hope I’m not. I’ve heard about Dominant and submissive relationships. I like being tied up and getting my ass spanked as much as the next guy and I want to explore that, really get into it. I just can’t find the right woman.”

  It took a while for him to talk himself out.

  There was a pause before she spoke again. “Write down an address, Rick.” While he hurried over to his desk, she explained, “It’s a BDSM club. Very private. Very well established and reputable. Tomorrow the club is holding a guest evening, by invitation only. Your name will be on the guest list.”

  Rick hesitated. “Is it safe? There’s discreet and then there’s discreet. In my position, I—”

  “Listen to your heart, Rick.” The whiskey-smooth voice that interrupted him was firm and gentle at the same time. “Your head can make up all kinds of excuses, tell you all kinds of lies but your heart knows the truth. It knows what you ache for, what rules your dreams and keeps you awake at night.” She sighed quietly in his ear and the sound raised gooseflesh down his back. “It is safe, dear Rick. No games. Only trust, and that goes both ways.”

  He wrote out the downtown address she’d given him.

  “Be there at nine p.m.” she said. “Bring your friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Rick,” she snapped and Rick bared his teeth as if she’d just stung him with a single tail. “Your friend,” she repeated and although her voice was again sultry, it also had an edge of command to it.

  Aroused by her tone, Rick agreed, hung up, and decided to wait until the morning to call his buddy Malcolm and tell him they were going to check out a new club.

  Chapter Two

  Brenna Darling walked through the club she’d been a member of since college. Eyes followed her as she moved. She was a tall, stunning woman with long black hair and a short leather dress that commanded attention. Popular with the subs, she didn’t take it for granted when several of them tried to catch her eye, subtly inviting her to consider playing with them tonight. Despite that, she didn’t single anyone out.

  Tonight was an orientation night and, as a long-standing member, Brenna liked to stay in the background, act as a guru of sorts. She enjoyed the opportunity to offer information when appropriate, practical help when required. It was a privilege she cherished.

  Two attractive men were sitting at t
he bar and she took a seat near them. When she crossed her legs, letting her black patent stiletto swing out slowly and rhythmically in front of her, she saw their eyes zero in on her legs. Visitors, they were talking to each other in hushed tones, discussing the various scenes taking place in the main room. They seemed impressed by the variety of equipment and the quality of it. They should be, she thought, considering what the annual dues were.

  When they finally peeled their gaze away from her legs, they turned back to a middle-aged couple making use of one of the bondage tables. The man was stretched out on his back, naked. Padded leather restraints had been fastened around his ankles and elbows, pulling them off the edge of the table. There was enough slack that he was able to lift his knees a little and arch his back, presenting a pretty picture as he held his weight up on his shoulders and buttocks. Even though the hair on his chest was gray, he had nice muscle tone and his stomach wasn’t too round. His fully clothed partner, who Brenna knew was his wife of almost thirty years, wrapped her slender fingers around his balls and pulled until his testicles were a good three inches away from his body before bringing the flat of her hand down on his bulging sac. His back jerked higher off the table. His muscles popped as he pulled at his restraints, bared his teeth and groaned. He also grinned like a bug-eyed fiend as his wife lightly and repeatedly patted his balls.

  By now the man’s cock was getting hard. His partner paused long enough to fasten an acrylic cage over his penis, preventing it from getting any bigger, then wrapped her fingers around his testicles to start all over again.

  Out of the corner of her eye Brenna saw the male sub held both men’s rapt attention. One of them spread his knees wide, as if he was imagining himself in the sub’s position. The other leaned back on his stool, ran his tongue over his lower lip, tensed his abdominals, perhaps in sympathy, every time the Domme gripped her sub’s balls.

  Another man, a visitor Brenna had never seen before, stepped right up to the scening couple and stared, wide-eyed. “Dude,” he groaned. “Damn.”

  She started to slip off her stool to correct the stranger’s obtrusive behavior but another member, one wearing the bright armband that identified him as one of the club’s official Dungeon Masters for the evening, stepped in and put his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “Please don’t interrupt a scene unless you’ve been invited to participate,” he told the man quietly but firmly. He led him to a spot several feet away. “It’s perfectly okay to watch, but do it from a respectful distance or you’ll mess up the atmosphere they’ve created in their heads. I know you don’t mean to but you’ll wind up sucking all the energy out of the scene. Come on. I’ll buy you a drink and we can watch from there.” He led the visitor to the other end of the bar.

  “Do you think she’d be interested in doing that to me?” The speaker was one of the two attractive visitors sitting near Brenna. She glanced their way and saw they were still watching the scening couple, who’d resumed playing.

  “I thought you only went after younger women,” his friend replied.

  “I wouldn’t care how old she is, so long as she’s willing to do that to me. Hell, I’d suck on a woman’s geriatric hose-covered toes if she’d spank my nuts.”

  Brenna couldn’t hold back her chuckle.

  The men turned to her and grinned, realizing they’d been overheard.

  She held out her hand. “My name’s Brenna. Welcome. This is your first visit, right?”

  They both had short brown hair but the one sitting closest to her, his was a little darker. He smiled and took her hand. “Yes. I’m Rick. This is Malcolm.”

  When the second man took her hand and kissed the back of it, she arched her brow in wry approval.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” Rick asked and signaled the bartender. “Two scotch, neat, and the lady will have?” He looked at Brenna and smiled.

  The bartender opened his mouth but she silenced him by holding up a single finger. “They serve nonalcoholic drinks here,” she told the two men, smiling warmly to take any possible sting out of her words. “Pain receptors get muddled by alcohol. Subs can let a scene go too far without realizing they’re getting hurt.”

  “Hmm,” both men murmured at the same time.

  “Sounds sensible,” Rick said and turned back to the bartender. “Three of whatever the lady would like then.”

  Brenna gave the bartender a nod and he filled three glasses with mango and pineapple juice, added a spritz of soda water, ice and set them up on the bar.

  “Thank you,” Brenna said, raising her glass to Rick and Malcolm and turning back so she could look over the playroom.

  Malcolm hissed quietly when the Domme pulled her sub’s balls even farther away from his body. “I just changed my mind. There’s too many things that can do wrong doing something like that.”

  “True but Dorothy and Chris have been together a long time,” Brenna said quietly. She slid over onto the empty stool next to the men. “She knows his limits. See, that’s the hand signal he uses.” Brenna nodded in the couple’s direction. “When he holds up his ring and pinky finger, she needs to back off. Which as you can see she’s doing.”

  Both men nodded in understanding as they watched the Domme loosen her grip and let her sub’s testicles rest closer to his body.

  “They’ve got great communication and they’ve taken the time to educate themselves. For example, he knows to call a halt to a scene if he feels a sharp pain deep in his abdomen during cock-and-ball torture.”

  The men nodded again and watched raptly as Dorothy bent over Chris, kissed his mouth then cradled his balls in one hand while stroking them lovingly with the other.

  “What about that cage she put on his cock?” Rick asked and leaned closer to Brenna. “It looks painful.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? It presents a powerful visual, the way his cock gets all purple and pushes out between the ventilation gaps in the acrylic. In reality, because the pressure is constant all over his organ, it frustrates far more than it hurts. Or so my subs tell me.”

  Both men’s eyes lit up as if she’d said a magic word.

  Just then a new couple caught Brenna’s attention. She hadn’t seen them before. The woman was leading the man by a leash fastened to a collar around his neck. That sort of humiliation technique wasn’t to her taste but to each their own.

  They stopped beside an unused bondage station and the woman bound her partner’s ankles and wrists. Then she hooked him up to the restraints fastened to two floor-to-ceiling poles. She tightened the chains until his arms and legs were nicely spread—then had to untie him when they realized she hadn’t taken his clothes off. Giggling, she finally got him naked, bound and spread-eagled again, produced a multi-tailed flogger from a leather handbag and brought the tresses down over the middle of his back.

  “Excuse me,” Brenna said to the men she was sitting with and walked over to the newly arrived couple. She winced mentally when the woman struck the man’s back again. He did more than wince. He arched up high on his toes, his hips canted far to one side. It looked as if he was trying to use the chains to lift himself up and away from the blow.

  “Hi. Is that one of the new floggers from French & Teddy?” Brenna asked when she was standing beside the woman. “I’ve seen them advertised on their site and was thinking of getting one.”

  The woman blinked then looked up at Brenna. “I got this at a store out in Etobicoke,” she said and offered the flogger to Brenna.

  “Hmm. Nice weight,” she said, holding the handle so the tresses hung down, then let them swish in a slow, hypnotic rotation as she pivoted her wrist to the left then the right. “My name’s Brenna, by the way. Sorry for intruding.”

  “Oh. No problem. We’re new and we hardly know anybody. My name’s Tracy and this is Kevin.”

  “Hi,” Kevin said, craning his head over his shoulder so he could see her. “I’d shake your hand but, um…” Grinning, he let his voice trail off.

  The three of them chu
ckled.

  “Listen,” Brenna said quietly, “I don’t mean to be a safety-Nazi but I’m thinking you haven’t used one of these too often. Am I correct?”

  Tracy’s shoulders slumped forward. “Yes,” she admitted. Likely in her early thirties, Tracy had short, golden hair and a pert little nose. It was hard to judge with the awkwardly high heels she was wearing but she was probably a couple of inches shorter than Brenna’s five-seven. Tracy glanced around the room then whispered, “We’ve played at tying each other up but wanted to get more into it. I just bought that thing today and I’m scared to death of hurting him.”

  Brenna nodded and kept up the slow, rhythmic swish of the flogger. She glanced back at the handsome men at the bar. Malcolm was definitely a looker, and smooth, but Rick’s intelligent, focused blue eyes kept drawing her back to him. They were the kind of men she liked getting to know. But it was an orientation night, she’d come to help newcomers to the lifestyle and, at that moment, Tracy and Kevin needed her attention more than the two men did.

  “You’re a couple, right?” she asked Tracy. “Married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm. Well, coming here’s a good place to start. I’ve been into the lifestyle since college and I’m still learning things from the more experienced members.” She glanced at the back of Kevin’s dark head. “First thing, keep physical contact with your sub.” She lifted Tracy’s hand and held it so that the tips of the woman’s fingers grazed Kevin’s shoulder, then the swell of his lat. A glance at the bar told her she also had Rick and Malcolm’s full attention. “He will be comforted by your touch, reassured,” she murmured and stood behind Tracy, so close that the front of her body grazed the other woman’s back. Tracy’s breath caught. She trembled, once, then made a quiet sound that was almost a purr. “He wants to feel pain, use it to attain sexual arousal, but within a context of safety and trust.”