My week. My fucking rules.
I watched her on the CCTV, laughing and chatting with Topaz. Thick as thieves, those two little bitches. How much fun I could have with the pair of them trussed up in one of our playrooms. The things I’d make them do. I palmed my cock at the thought.
Topaz, my green-haired little pixie. Too young for me, and far too sweet. Still, her cute little mouth fixed over Faye’s pussy would be a hard temptation to resist.
I was officially losing my mind, and my grip on the cold, hard rules of professionalism along with it.
My cock was in my hand when the phone rang. I cursed under my breath, shoving it away before picking up the handset.
“Club Explicit, good afternoon.”
The voice at the end of the line killed my hard-on in a heartbeat. The smooth Italian drawl.
“Faye Devere. I must speak with her.”
Not even a please, the fucking prick.
“No. Faye is not available,” I said.
“When will she become available?” he asked. His tone was agitated, mirroring mine.
“How about never. Faye doesn’t wish to take your call.”
“I think that is Faye’s decision.”
“And she’s made it,” I said. “While we’re on topic, Vince, we need to talk. About your choice of cover image.”
The prick laughed. “I have nothing to say to you. My magpie looks beautiful, like an angel.”
“I suggest you rethink your marketing strategy. I’ve been in touch with our lawyers. They’re itching to take on the case.”
“Our lawyers? There is nothing illegal about the image,” he said. “My magpie doesn’t belong with you, she belongs here. With me. She will fly home, you will see.” That fucking laughter again, smug piece of shit. “This is not over.”
“Faye will not be flying fucking anywhere. Not to fucking Italy, and definitely not to you.”
“We shall see about that, won’t we?”
“Yes, we fucking shall,” I said. “Don’t call this number again. Faye will never be available.”
I hung up before the twat could say another word, and then I barred his number. Prick.
Your fucking move, Vincent cunting Blackthorne. Bring it on.
***
Chapter Eight
Faye
Andy didn’t fuck me. Not that day, nor the next, nor the one after. He utilised his regular modus operandi of lording it around the place, and I played my part, abiding by the rules of the all-powerful coin toss. His week. His way. His reign wouldn’t last forever, and when the tables turned they’d be toppling flat on their backs.
I’d always been sexually submissive, even before I knew what it meant. My fantasies revolved almost entirely around the beautiful place beyond pain, where I sacrifice control to someone who knows how to wield it. I’d been playing in the BDSM scene since the day I discovered it, and played both dominant and submissive happily enough under the right circumstances, yet the domme in me had always been a minor facet; an intellectual bystander to my more natural submissive traits. Even in Venice, I rarely felt it. Rarely felt the power-lust that dominants yearn for.
But Andy was different. I veered between the desire to kneel at his feet and beg for punishment, and the desire to slap the holy living shit out of him. I replayed our playroom power struggle on loop through my bar duties, the urge to mark his perfect skin becoming my all-consuming aphrodisiac. I wanted to hurt the man. Wanted to control the man. Wanted to hear him beg me to stop, beg me for more, beg me for anything just so long as that fucking man was on his fucking knees before me.
I craved the sight of his body battered raw at my sadistic hands, the beauty of his skin as it hardened into welts, and ridges, darkening into glorious rich bruises. I wanted to bind him, humiliate him, force him to do things that would make even the mighty Masque call for a time out.
Above all things, I wanted to break him, but someone like Andy Morgan wouldn’t break easily. I doubted a man like Andy even knew how to submit himself entirely to the will of another. Still, I could dream.
Friday night was a killer. A crazy long night on bar in new heels and an overenthusiastic corset. A night where Andy didn’t show his face at all, and I managed to miss out on a Masque spectacular, changing over cruddy barrels whilst he flogged his pretty green-eyed fiancée until she cried. My grumpy night grew grumpier still when I got the news that our wet room had become a little clogged. I was to be the one to rectify the situation, apparently. Of course I would be; Andy’s orders.
Fucking coin toss.
I tackled the job when the club was wrapping up for the night, teetering on my heels as I attempted to flush fuck knows what down the main drain. Water wouldn’t cut it, so I held my breath against the stench and yanked up the drain cover. The problem was easy to identify, a used rubber wedged in the pipe, along with a grimy matted slimy collection of hair. Even through gloves my skin crawled. The rubber plopped out like a squishy pink slug, and there was shit on it. Actual fucking shit. Jesus Christ.