She didn't look to see if the ceiling darkening feature had been engaged or not for her room. She went to the changing room. It was nearly ten-thirty. If he had obeyed and prepared himself for her as she had told him to, he'd been on his knees for almost an hour and a half.

Shedding her overcoat, she put it in a locker. Tonight she'd worn a dress she'd picked up in the Asian district. The blue satin with a touch of Lycra to cling to her curves had side slits in the form-fitting skirt and a pattern of black dragons with delicate long whiskers and sharp curving talons done in black and silver embroidery thread. A stiff line of ribbon sewn at the base of the bodice lifted and underlined her breasts. Her heels were black satin with braid trim, and she wore sapphires at her ears. No underwear beneath the dress, just a pale blue satin garter belt to hook the sheer hose. The deep vee of the neckline revealed the path of the silver nipple chain across her sternum, strung with sapphire and black beads to weight the pink tips, keeping them stiff and pushing against the snug fit of the bodice.

It was her most sensual dress, and she was uncomfortably aware of how deliberately she'd chosen it from the closet. If he was here, but spurned her attentions, she was going to make damn sure he regretted the choice.

Closing the locker, she took a deep breath. Let it happen.

She took the stairs down to the lower level, comfortable in the high heels, and moved into the carpeted entry hallway, lit with candelabras.

The hallways of the playrooms felt like her private world. Calm settled over her shoulders, and she soaked it in. Painted with an ornate tapestry of images, the vaulted ceilings offered equal visions of pleasure and pain, silhouettes of bodies, the gleaming curves of exposed skin, a ready hand or brushing of lips. Nearly two hundred scenes painted along the arched hallway interlocked into a mural, a masterpiece created exclusively for The Zone by a famous artist patron who chose to remain anonymous.

She went to the door of the room she had reserved, keyed in the access code, then hesitated, hand on the latch. It was cowardly, but she needed another moment before she faced the potential of an empty room, the slap in the face it represented. In that moment, she knew that more than pride was involved. With that thought came the realization that, if he was in the room, she was risking her heart, a far more dangerous sacrifice than her pride.

"Two nights in a row. He must be worth it."

Masters at taking arousal to the cutting edge of pain and then pushing their sub a little bit past that, Tamara and Kiera were twins, Mistresses who chose to work exclusively as a team. A unique commodity, even in the fetish world.

When Tyler had first introduced Violet to T K, he had told her, albeit under his breath, "Most subs don't know whether to beg for more or run screaming after spending ten minutes with them."

Tonight they were dressed in white latex mini-dresses. Tamara's had a high neck and long sleeves, whereas Kiera's had a neckline plunging almost to her waist in an imitation of the Marilyn Monroe classic. Tall, elegant black women with dark hair streaked with deep red highlights, their lips and fingertips were painted in the liquid red they favored, perhaps to remind subs of the blood they were willing to draw in the name of pleasure.

"Are you going to Tyler's this weekend?" Tamara asked, turning a cane through her long, elegant fingers like a baton. In her other hand she held a group of electrode pads.

"Tell us yes, flower girl," Kiera chimed in, "and tell us you're bringing that sweet baby waiting in the stable for you."

"To share," Tamara added, a gleam in her eye.

With Herculean effort, Violet suppressed the urge to pump a victory fist. Her emotions surged through her, making her want to spin like a top.

"Maybe."

Kiera ran a caressing nail with a lethal metal tip down Violet's forearm. "Well, if you do, we hope you'll consider letting us play with him a bit. It would be fun, and you could test how he obeys you when you're in a generous mood."

"Ease up, girls." Marguerite joined them. She had her sub on a leash and he was following her on all fours, naked of course, the leash attached to a collar with metal spikes that turned inward, pricking his skin. When he sat back on his heels at her command, to display himself for the pleasure of the other Mistresses, Violet saw a strap ran from the collar down to a restraint of a similar make at the base of his cock. The spikes pressed into his scrotum, a state that could get much worse if Marguerite chose to yank.

However, Violet knew Marguerite was rarely cruel, though she made her slaves submit to many things, like this, that made them vulnerable to the possibility of much greater pain. She could establish a level of trust with her one-night subs that many Mistresses could not achieve in months with a regular partner. Violet suspected it had to do with the absolute command that poured off of her, like the aura of an all-powerful Goddess. The long blond hair was almost pure white and tied back on her shoulders, the clear blue eyes as direct and penetrating as that of a Saxon deity.

Marguerite, while friendly with all of them, did not encourage camaraderie. She was soft-spoken and helpful, would welcome observers to her sessions with a sub, but there was much about her clearly posted with "do not trespass" signs. She came to The Zone once or twice a week. No more, no less, staying exactly two hours. Picked out a sub, a different one every time, and for those two hours used him in a way that apparently helped her deal with whatever darkness lay within her. Whoever or whatever she was outside The Zone walls, Violet expected it was a very different person than who she was within them.

"It would be fun for you to watch as well." Kiera was still making sly suggestions.

Violet pulled her attention away from the attractive slave on the floor, with his stiff cock in its cruel restraint and his eyes directed toward the floor. Marguerite caressed his hair with tenderness, her expression quiet, tranquil.

In contrast, Violet wasn't sure if "fun" or "tranquil" would describe the way the twins operated. While watching the two of them work was undeniably a visual orgasm, Violet preferred her mastery in the area of emotions, not the realm of pain. She had seen T K take a sub to the limit of both and beyond. It was disturbing, and yet so potent it felt like witnessing a sacred ceremony. Or a session in a Baghdad torture chamber.

She realized suddenly that, if they knew he was in the room, then he had left the ceiling screen open. He had not done anything to protect himself, a message that he was leaving himself open to her desires. She nodded to the others, closed her hand on the doorknob, took another steadying breath. She'd kept him, and herself, waiting long enough.

"Enjoy, flower girl," Tamara's chuckle caressed her spine as Violet turned the latch and stepped into the room.

Mac kept his head lowered as the door opened, but it was difficult, particularly when that lavender and vanilla scent wafted into the room, tightening his cock in the harness instantly, painfully increasing it with every step she made across the wood floor. She was wearing a dress again. He could hear the rustle of the soft fabric, and he saw the shadow cast by the light, but she wasn't close enough to show him what shoes were making that crisp tap against the slick finished wood.

His back and legs ached from maintaining the straight-up kneeling position; her punishment, he was sure, for his behavior last night. He hadn't moved an inch, had left the ceiling clear so anyone she asked could tell her, so she'd see he could take anything she could dish out. His shoulders throbbed from keeping his hands laced behind his head for the entire time.

The whir of gears and a flicker of shadows told him she was closing the screen, making it just the two of them again. He stifled the sense of relief.

"You've done well. I'm pleased. You may lower your hands to the floor, knuckles flat on the wood, please."

Her voice, soft velvet, told him she was indeed pleased with him, and his heart tipped in his chest, ridiculously. She was coming back toward him. Tap. Tap. Pause.

"Keep your head down."

He obeyed, but his muscles trembled with the effort as her small hand reached down, came into the field of his view and grasped his cock in firm, gentle fingers. Through the openings of the harness, her skin touched his, and his cock jerked, responded, leaked a drop of semen onto the delicate pulse point of her wrist.

"My apologies, Mistress," he said.

"For what?" Her hand released him, rose, lifted his chin.

He had seen many beautiful women. After thinking about her for nearly twenty-four hours, waiting for her on his knees over ninety minutes and then, the longest time of all, these few moments she had been in the room, letting him hear her body move but not permitting him sight of it, he expected he had exaggerated the appealing quality of her features and form.

If anything, he decided he had not done her justice.

He supposed there was some standard for beauty that model agencies used, somewhat the same way dog breeders did it. Legs must be this length, proportion of torso to arms must be this, nose this shape, eyes this color. He was sure she might not meet all those standards. But her lips were a deep, wet burgundy, and those violet eyes beneath slim brows and the mass of upswept raven curls held him, affected him so that he knew he would have waited on his knees for her until he lost all feeling in his limbs.

"For dripping on you, Mistress."

She was bending forward, for if she had squatted, he would have been taller than she was. The bodice was snug enough that it did not gape, but the low neckline showed him she was wearing jewelry to stimulate her breasts. He saw the shape of her nipples pressed against the tight fabric and wished he could see how lovely they looked, enclosed in the silver rings which he was sure would match the beaded chain strung between them.

Her face came closer. Just as his lips anticipated the brush of hers, she turned her head away and licked delicately at her wrist, tasting the drop he had left there. He could see the pulse in her neck beating in time with the rapid pulse in her wrist, felt his blood heat further knowing she was aroused.

"You exercise control when I tell you to do so. If you hold back when I haven't commanded you to hold back, it's as much an insult to me as ignoring a direct order. Now, where was I?"

Her touch slid away from his face, caressing it before she curled those clever fingers around the full length of his erect cock again.

"You are nicely equipped. I like that," she purred. "But that big cock of yours may cause you problems in serving me as I wish tonight."

"I won't let it," he said, meeting her gaze, so close to his. Her lips seemed even closer, and he thought he might lose all control and kiss her in a moment, just to suck on those lips and see if they tasted like a perfectly ripe plum, as they appeared to.

"We'll see. But first, I need you to tell me the rule I imposed last night."

Mac tightened his jaw, averted his glance. "Mistress will not need-"

"It is not Mistress's needs the rule serves, but her desire to protect her possession. Don't fuck with me, Mac, or we're back to where we were last night, and I walk out of here."

His attention shot back to her and he cursed himself for the involuntary protest his expression conveyed. Even though he knew she'd seen his moment of alarm, of need, he made himself go deadpan. He didn't want her more than ten feet from him. Hell, he might tackle her bodily to keep her here with him, where he could just have the bliss of smelling her, aroused woman with lavender and vanilla highlights.

"If I'm thirsty, I should let you know."

She considered him, and the silence stretched out between them. It wasn't enough, he knew it wasn't, but damn it, he didn't need it. He wouldn't break. He couldn't.

"For tonight, that will do. But I know you can do better. What surprises me is, I don't think you know that. No one's ever broken you, Mac."

Damn right. He couldn't keep it out of his eyes, so he lowered them, but knew she'd seen them flare.

Instead of getting aggressive with him, as he expected, her gentle touch stroked his hair, caressed the nape of his tense and screaming neck, disarming him.

"You deny yourself the pleasure of surrender. I suppose I'm just going to have to force you to see what you're missing."

After that cryptic remark, she backed from him two steps. She lifted her foot from the floor and placed the point of her heel against the muscle between his shoulder and pectoral, used him as a stool to bend forward and adjust the garter fastening at the top of her stocking.

Mac lifted his hand without permission, but it was an automatic gesture to curl his arm over her leg just above her knee to steady her so she didn't fall. She appeared to have perfect balance, but it certainly gave him the excuse to feel the texture of the sheer hose and the hint of smooth skin beneath. The heel dug into his flesh as she shifted her weight forward, but the discomfort only heightened his body's response in that odd way that certain levels of pain could do.

A small frown line puckered her brow, made him want to kiss it. "This pair of hose has a tendency to roll, but I do like the color of them," she murmured, then flashed him a small smile. She straightened, lifting her foot clear of him, not dragging it down his skin. The motion gave him a quick glimpse into the shadows beneath the skirt, a fleeting image of the pale petals of her pussy just beyond the silk of the stocking and the garter. She wasn't wearing any underwear, and the brief exposure brought the scent of her arousal to him. He wanted to seize that leg, bring it back to his shoulder, bring both of them to his shoulders. He'd scoot her forward with both hands gripping her soft cheeks and hold her waist to make her ride his face, work his mouth up between her thighs until he reached the heaven he had just seen.

He knew he could, knew he was ten times stronger than the little pixie, but he also knew what happened in these rooms wasn't about physical strength, not always.

She did not tell him to lower his gaze again, so he had the full pleasure of watching her walk across the room, the shift of an ass he now knew was buck naked beneath that skirt. It had to be a stretch material, because otherwise she had to be sewn into that dress. But it was classy, the dragon pattern across the blue, the soft flutter of ribbons as she moved. She knew how to tease a man to insanity and yet keep him back at the same time. Like a goddess. A tiny fairy goddess.

She brought a wooden chair over to face him, the kind a stable hand might tip back against the wall to draw on a length of straw and catch a nap, but this one was not old and scratched. Like all the accoutrements of this room, it was a finished, expensive dark wood, a valuable antique.

"Not your usual barn chair," he observed.

"Because this isn't a barn," she said. "It's a suite for thoroughbreds to be petted and pampered by their Mistresses or Masters. Or disciplined as needed."

She set the chair less than two feet from where she had him kneeling, tethered by his cock.

"Let's take care of those hands now." Violet moved around him, touched another control, and he heard the eyebolt in the ceiling engage, lowering itself on a wire. He didn't look up, he knew better than that. This was the challenge, every time. He had learned not to show the fear, but it was there, nipping at his vitals. He'd gotten to the point he could be anyone's sub, allow any woman he chose to play Mistress to him. To him, but not over him. The similarity of the thought to what she had expressed to him last night struck him, raised his trepidation.

"Lift your wrists above your head," she said. "And put your hands through the cuffs."

Mac obeyed, his heart thundering in his chest. She pressed another control. The cuffs tightened, with a hydraulic control like the powering of a blood pressure cuff. She stepped forward, her knees brushing his back, and tested the fit. She'd got it right on the first try. He couldn't get loose, but the blood still circulated, pumping with a vengeance.

"I'm going to take you up, now," she said. "You tell me if you get thirsty, Mac."

"It won't happen, Mistress."

"I'll remind you of that when either your arms are dislocated or your cock gets ripped off."

"You won't let that happen, Mistress. You have plans for the latter, at least."

"Yes. Yes, I do." Her tone was slightly amused, in a way that made him somewhat ashamed of the desperate attempt at charm, though he didn't know where the shame came from.

"Spread your knees for me, Mackenzie. I need them about three feet apart."

He moved his legs apart, feeling the cock harness strap that ran between his legs lift and divide his balls. A moment later he felt the straps of the ankle restraints bolted onto a slide rack on the floor tighten on his flesh. She added a second set of restraints to his calves just above the knees and tied them to rings in the floor parallel to the outside of his legs, leaving just a touch of slack. He didn't have long to wait to find out why.

The gears whirred, and the cable above him began to retract, taking his arms up higher and drawing his upper body into a straight, stretched line. He'd obeyed her orders and made sure he was back far enough from the ring in the floor that there was little slack in the tether between his cock and the harness, so when she anchored his legs to the floor and began to raise him up, the line between cock and floor became even tighter. His knees left the floor a half inch, pressing against the knee restraints, and he grunted despite himself.

The switch locked him into position, and she came around and ran her hand over his scrotum and bound cock, testing the tension of the line between the harness and the floor. It was taut enough to cause him apprehension, but not painful. With his ankles spread and shackled to the floor behind him, his body suspended in the air by the ceiling cable, his calves bound and his cock tethered to the strap pulled taut to the eyebolt in the floor, he was counterweighted on all sides. Gravity would not twist or pull him in any direction that could injure him. However, the position itself was excruciating and left him vulnerable. There was a knot of tension low in his gut that he had not experienced since his first time being trussed by a Mistress. He was also hard as steel and getting harder, his desperate lust and the emotions she was somehow driving in him giving him one of the most enormous hard-ons he'd ever had. In odd contrast, she was methodical, tender in the way she touched him, her fingers brushing his naked body lightly as she passed him, fondling his shoulder, his throat. He tried to nip her fingers as she passed, but she just smiled at him and went back to her chair.

She sat down like a lady at tea, crossing one ankle over the other, folding her hands in her lap. She took a long moment studying him, erect and suffering.

"I know making you sit there and do nothing while I look at you may not do much for you," she observed. "Men aren't very psychological when it comes to stimulation. Suggest the erotic to a woman in a voice rough with passion, or on the written page, and she'll become wet. But a man needs visuals." She uncrossed her ankles, and inched up her skirt with a finger following the line of her thigh, tracing the garter. She put the middle finger of her other hand to her mouth, wetting it. He followed that finger as if it were the last crust of bread for a starving man. Her knees spread wider, displaying those soft pink cunt lips again. With barely a hesitation, she slid the wet finger deep inside herself, up to the last knuckle, and he heard the sucking sound of her eager pussy, soaked already, taking her in and craving more. Craving something he would kill to give to her.

She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, her gaze still on him. "Now what are you thinking, Mac?"

He stared at that finger, wet his lips as it came out and went back in. "How much I want to fuck you."

"How crude, Mackenzie. Where's that polish? Your control? The charm you wield so easily?" Two of her other fingers got involved, started rubbing her clit. Her hips lifted, accommodating her, starting to move in sinuous circles, building with her reaction.

"I think I might just keep doing this until I come. Would you like that?"

"No, Mistress."

"No?" She arched a brow. "You don't want me to feel pleasure?"

"I want to give it to you, Mistress." He bit back a groan as her finger came out, glistening with her juices. He could smell her strongly now, in his nose, in all his senses, coursing through him like the effects of an illegal street drug. Mac struggled to summon a rational thought. "I can give you far more pleasure, Mistress. With any part of me you desire."

He'd rip someone limb from limb just to win the right to put his smallest finger inside her, feel that heat and silk clamp down on him. He gasped as the harness buckle bit into his cock, ruthlessly pinching the engorged flesh between the stiff strap and the metal.

"Mackenzie-" Her sharp eyes went from his face to his cock. "Ask."

"Let me make you come, Mistress."

Her pretty jaw flexed. "Stubborn son of a bitch. Ask."

He shook his head. His Mistress stood, withdrawing her hand from herself and straightening her skirt with a quick shimmy of her hips. She raised her fingers high, brought them to his eager mouth. He latched onto them without hesitation, drawing them in, sucking her taste off them and making sure he made it enjoyable for her too. Taking care to slide his tongue smoothly along the line of her knuckles, the tender web of skin connecting her fingers, rather than slobbering over them like a Saint Bernard, the way he wanted to do.

"Ask," she said in precise, angry tones. "And I will let you make me come with your tongue, let you bury your face in my pussy and eat your fill."

As bribes went, it was the best he'd ever been offered, but there was more at stake than that, a wall he didn't dare go over. The pain was lessening the size of his erection. Not much with her scent so close, her taste in his mouth, but enough to give him some focus.

"Please, Mistress, let me bring you pleasure." He met her look, aware that his own was defiant, challenging, but there didn't seem to be anything else he could do. The fear was pumping too hard behind it. It was the last defense he had.

Violet moved across the room from him, to the wall. She chose a braided crop and threaded it through her fingers, her back to him. She put it down, chose a cat with metal tips. She shook it out, testing its weight on her arm, nodded to herself.