Cherise Sinclair - Breaking Free

Masters Of The Shadowlands 3, 2009

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To my readers,

This book is fiction, not reality and, as in most romantic fiction, the romance is compressed into a very, very short time period.

You, my darlings, live in the real world and I want you to take a little more time than the heroines you read about. Good Doms don't grow on trees and there's some strange people out there. So while you're looking for that special Dom, please, be careful.

When you find him, realize he can't read your mind. Yes, frightening as it might be, you're going to have to open up and talk to him. And you listen to him, in return. Share your hopes and fears, what you want from him, what scares you spitless. Okay, he may try to push your boundaries a little-he's a Dom, after all-but you have your safeword. You will have a safeword, am I clear? Use protection. Have a back-up person. Communicate.

Remember: safe , sane and consensual .

Know that I'm hoping you find that special, loving person who will understand your needs and hold you close. Let me know how you're doing. I worry, you know.

Meantime, come and hang out with the Masters of the Shadowlands.

– Cherise

cherisesinclair@sbcglobal.net

Music, beer, tie up a willing woman, maybe use a flogger lightly…should be a no-stress evening. Nolan King leaned an elbow on the bar and took a hefty pull of Corona to wash the sawdust from his throat. With his paperwork finally caught up, he’d been able to go on-site and swing a hammer with his crew. Now his back and biceps had the muted ache of a good workout.

The edgy music of Nine Inch Nails from the dance floor mingled with the hum of conversation from the scattered sitting areas around the huge club room. Above the background noise came the sounds of BDSM play: the crack of a whip, a hand slapping flesh, screams and stern commands from one scene area. Just another Saturday night at the Shadowlands.

On the bar stool next to him, Mistress Anne, a tall, slender brunette in glossy red latex mini, sleeveless top, and black vinyl boots, handed her kneeling slave a bottle of water. She glanced at Nolan and patted his arm. “You’re looking a bit tired, honey.”

“Long day.” Good day . The office building neared completion, right on schedule. A wail rose from a roped-off area, and Nolan turned to look. The sub being flogged on the St. Andrew’s cross had finally been permitted to climax. Her sobs of relief continued for a good minute, and Nolan chuckled. “Raoul hasn’t lost his touch.”

“He’s not bad at all.” Anne stroked her slave’s red hair. “We’re up next, Joey. Finish your water. I intend to use you long and hard.” Joey gazed up at her in adoration before lifting the bottle to his mouth and chugging the water.

“Aren’t you monitoring tonight, Nolan?” Anne nodded at his black muscle shirt and leather jeans that lacked the gold trim designating a dungeon monitor.

“No. Z had enough people. I figure I’ll grab a sub and put one of the upstairs rooms to use.” Nolan glanced at the women sitting on the nearby couches. All were unattached submissives hoping to be noticed. Each had her own needs and desires. Finding one whose needs matched what he wanted to give was the trick and took not only good assessment skills but a willingness to communicate with the sub, before, during, and after a scene. Oddly enough, he’d come to enjoy the pre-scene negotiations: the mixture of attraction, flirting, and discovering the sub’s wishes even while trying to uncover her hidden needs. Like constructing a house, a scene needed to be built from the ground up, starting with a solid foundation of trust. He snorted at the imagery. Next he’d be writing poetry.

“Really, Nolan, you should find someone a little more permanent. It’s worth it.” Anne smiled. When she leaned Joey’s head against her bare thigh, the young man’s nostrils widened as he obviously caught a whiff of his mistress’s arousal.

“Been there, done that.” Nolan returned to studying the subs. That little curvy blonde had potential. He liked soft under his hands. “I had a fulltime slave last year. Uncollared her before I did that consulting job in Iraq.” He gave Anne a rueful smile. “Damned if it wasn’t a relief. I don’t like being a master full time.”

Anne shrugged. “Some people don’t. But a different sub every week gets tiring.”

“Maybe.” He glanced at the cross. “Raoul’s cleaned up. You’d better grab the cross before someone else does. The place is busy tonight.”

“This is true.” Anne rose to her feet. She ran her fingers through her slave’s hair and tipped his face up to take his lips in a demanding kiss.

When she stepped back, Joey rose to his feet and looked down at her, his lean muscles displayed by the leather harness.

She cupped his balls in her hand, curled her fingers around the jutting erection. “Let’s see if you can last as long as Raoul’s sub.” Her fingers tightened enough to make the slave’s muscles jump. “You won’t disappoint me now, will you, Joey?”

“No, Mistress. Never.”

Anne walked away, the slave following a step behind.

“That’s one mean mistress.” Cullen wiped a few drops off his gleaming bar top. “Glad my pride-and-joys aren’t under her care.”

Nolan snorted. “As if you’d put your balls anywhere near a Domme.”

“Not in this lifetime.” The huge bartender shook his head and grinned. “By the way, Z was looking for you. He’s over by the chain station.”

“Thanks.” Nolan picked up his beer and rounded the bar to the left, heading toward a roped-off area midway down the wall. A few club members were watching the scene-a slender, redheaded sub, probably around thirty, with her arms chained over her head.

Seated on a couch nearby, the owner of the club looked up as Nolan approached. From the grim expression on his face, Master Z was in a mood dark enough to match his black clothing. He nodded at the adjacent leather couch.

Nolan sat and propped his boots up on the coffee table. “Problems?”

“A few.” Z motioned to the chain station. “See what you think.”

Nolan leaned back, sipping his beer. The redhead’s arms had been shackled to the hanging chains but obviously not tight enough to jeopardize her sense of control. No spreader bar to keep her legs apart. Although obviously without underwear, she still had a corset and miniskirt on. The scene sucked already.

In his mid-twenties, the Dom didn’t project much confidence. Even worse, he kept consulting a paper. What was with that? How-to instructions on topping? “What’s he looking at?”

“Elizabeth has a few hard limits,” Z said in a dry voice.