Checklist J, K, L

Thanks to the announcement of the game, Las Palmas was as full as she’d ever seen it.
Not that she could see all that well, but the glimpses she did get verified what she could hear—plenty of people to go with all
those voices.
When she’d been topping, she’d known the face and name of every sub, but that had been several years ago at this point.
People changed, as did the population of the club, but she knew a handful of other members well enough to know their names
and say hello.
How many of those acquaintances were watching her now? Were they shocked to see her so delicately bound and being led by
a leash?
She and Grif were walking slowly—necessary given her limited vision and bare feet. The outdoor spaces of the club were one of
the reasons Las Palmas didn’t have a “stiletto or bare feet” rule for submissives, which was relatively common in other clubs.
Each step caused the chains to click and jangle together in a delicate symphony. And with every breath, the chain he’d wrapped
around her pulled just tight enough against her clit to make her aware of it, but not tight enough to be painful—which she would
have welcomed—or loose enough to be ignored.
They finally settled down in the courtyard of the Sub Rosa Court, so named for the wild desert roses that climbed the support
posts and created a canopy overhead, woven in and out of the pergola-like beams that provided partial covering to the courtyard.
Though they had very little scent, she caught glimpses of the small, pale flowers and from that knew where they were.
Grif’s hands at her waist guided her to turn. When he pushed down, indicating she should sit, she instinctively reached for his
shoulders to steady herself. She reached up and the chains attached to her cuffs pulled taught, jerking on the other chains
wrapped around her body.
She yelped and wobbled, the ball gag dropping from her mouth. For a terrible moment, she thought she would fall over. Her legs
were free, but if she fell she wasn’t sure she’d be able to catch herself with her hobbled arms.
Grif was there, one arm coming around her back, pulling her against his chest. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he murmured.
“I forgot.” She let her temple rest against his jaw.
“About the wrist chains?”

“Yes.”
“Did you hurt yourself?”
“No. Well, not in a bad way, Master.” Both the plug and nipple cages had jerked when she reached out. Her right nipple was
throbbing just enough to make her hate the stupid cages anew.
His lips fluttered against her cheek. “I wish I had the words to tell you how hearing that makes me feel.”
“When I call you Master?”
“Yes.”
There was a reason she hadn’t done it before. A reason that no longer seemed important.
“Ready to sit, Minx?”
“Yes, Master.”
Grif eased her away from his body, once more holding her hips. She grabbed his forearms and blindly lowered herself. It was a
good thing he was holding her, because she sank down further than she’d anticipated. Her butt came to rest on a low stool, not a
chair.
“Spread your legs and slide your feet back. I want your ankles on either side of the footstool.”
It took a moment—and his help—before she was in position. Her knees were spread, legs folded up almost as if she were
crouching—knees and ankles bent, her toes on the flagstone of the terrace.
Grif’s hands slid under all that chain, his wide palm stroking her stomach. She had a brief moment of self-consciousness. Sitting
like this was going to give her a little stomach pooch. She probably looked unattractive, and she should always do her best to be
visually pleasing.
Davina frowned, the thought jarring, twin spikes of self-loathing and anxiety piercing her serenity.
She shook it off. This was Grif. He’d seen her, touched her, every way there was. He knew her body as well as she did, in some
ways maybe even better. He knew that no one could sit like this and not have a roll or two somewhere.
So why was she all of a sudden worried and self-conscious?

Chains shifted, and she felt tugs at her throat and nipples.
“I’m switching things up a little. Now that you’re sitting, I want to add to the bondage.” His hand followed the line of her leg down
to her right foot. He tapped her instep. “Up.”
Shifting her weight she managed to raise her knee enough to lift her right foot off the ground.
Grif looped chain around her big toe, fastening it back on itself.
“Toe tie?” she asked softly.
“Connected to the nipple cages.”
He repeated the process on the other side.
Minus the sensation of having something around each big toe, she didn’t feel any new or additional tension. As long as she didn’t
move, she’d be fine.
It was only then that she realized her seated position meant he had limited access to her pussy and ass. When they’d started
this scene, and she’d seen the chair, one of her first thoughts had been hoping she wouldn’t be sitting on it.
“Let’s take this off for a while.” Grif removed the blindfold portions of the headpiece, while leaving the chain circlet around her
head.
She blinked a few times, trying to clear her vision, then glanced around. This was considered the quietest of the courtyards, with
only a small “stage” area, and plenty of intimate seating arrangements tucked amid winding paths and lovely desert landscaping.
She sat on a cube-shaped footstool covered with natural canvas, facing an expensive outdoor armchair of dark wood, with
cushions made of the same material as the footstool.
She looked down at herself, taking in the way the chain glinted in the illumination from artistically placed landscape lighting and
the remnants of dusk that filtered through the roses.
Though this bondage was physically less restrictive than a rope harness or dress, it was emotionally heavier. Perhaps it was
because unlike rope, this required more of her—she had to stay still and calm without the binding pressure of silky nylon hugging
her tight. Anyone who’d ever used a weighted blanket knew why that was important.

Or perhaps it was the almost archaic nature of the chain that gave it such emotional weight. She’d jokingly compared herself to
the women on the covers of 1970’s sci-fi novels, but the comparison was apt. She looked more like a fantasy slave girl or
concubine, either about to be sold to the highest bidder or put on display by her master.
You’re worried about how you look. You’re calling him Master. This is bad.
Those intrusive thoughts were like tendrils of India ink spreading across the calm, white canvas of her serenity.
Davina shifted uneasily, listening to the chain clink as she did.
Then Grif was there, a hand on her head, fingers trailing across her cheek to her lips, and the voice went quiet, the cool, calm
white of her serenity falling over her mental landscape once more.
He scooted between her knees and the edge of the chair and took a seat, perched forward so that his knees were between hers,
forcing her legs open wider.
Davina bit the side of her tongue, the little flare of pain helping her control the surge of arousal his simple movement had caused.
Grif braced his elbows on his knees. That brought his head and shoulders forward, until he was close enough that if she tipped
her head up and stretched, she could kiss him. She wanted to kiss him. If this had been last weekend, she would have simply
done it.
“I like this.” His voice was low and so sexy as he reached out and touched first her collar, then the circlet around her head. “You
look like...”
“A slave woman on the cover of an old fantasy novel?”
He grinned. “Yea, a bit like that. But this is sort of like a crown, so maybe more of a captured princess. Does that make me the
barbarian conqueror?”
“Princess...” She was hardly the first submissive to ever be called princess, but it was the first time Grif had ever called her that.
“If I’m the barbarian, then I’ll feel a little bit better about what I’m about to do.” Grif pushed to his feet.
Davina had to lean back or risk having the hard bulge of his cock smack her in the face. The movement pulled on her nipples,
and the chain on her pussy pulled tight. She couldn’t see his face, even if she tipped her head all the way back, so she didn’t try.

Instead she watched his hands, those wonderful fingers that had touched her so many times, as he carefully lowered the zipper
of his jeans.
When his fly was undone, Grif carefully reached one hand into the fabric, grasping his cock as he awkwardly shoved at his pants
with his free hand.
“May I help, Master?”
“If you can reach. Don’t hurt yourself.”
Davina managed to reach out far enough to curl her fingers into the pockets. While he held his cock, she inched his pants down
his thighs.
When she saw his cock, she all but licked her lips. He was as hard as she’d ever seen him, and wet with precome. If he’d been
wearing light colored slacks—anything with thinner fabric—there would have been a wet spot.
She’d seen the hard bulge of his cock early in the scene, had enjoyed knowing how affected he was. This was something
different—a sort of visceral pleasure far deeper than mere enjoyment. The result of knowing she could elicit that sort of
involuntary response from her Master.
His next command was short, simple, and powerful.
“Open.”
Davina opened her mouth and Grif guided the head of his cock between her lips. It was hardly the first time she’d given him
head, but, like everything else, it felt different. He started to press in, filling her mouth, forcing her tongue back, her mouth to
open.
Grif’s hand slid into her hair, still held back from her face in her braid. The other hand was around his cock as he pressed in
deeper still. He took that hand away only when he was deep enough in her mouth that his index finger touched her lower lip.
He tasted salty and hot, the angle making it so the head of his dick rubbed along the roof of her mouth, then down to the back of
her throat. She gagged slightly, due in part to the slightly odd angle. Grif was tall enough that normally when she was sucking his
cock she had to kneel on a cushion. Seated on the footstool her head was lower than it would have been if she’d taken up her
customary cock-sucking position. Combined with his harder-than-normal dick, it meant she was straining to fit him into her
mouth, struggling to make sure her upper teeth didn’t scrape the top of his dick.

“Lick the underside,” he growled.
Davina obeyed, her tongue moving before her brain had time to fully process the command. It was a good thing too, because if
she’d thought about it too hard, she might have been embarrassed that she hadn’t already been doing that.
After all, she wasn’t the kind of sub who needed to be ordered to do every little thing.
She traced the delicate vein and narrow ridge along the bottom of his cock with the tip of her tongue. He held still to let her do it.
“I’m going to fuck your face,” he growled. “I’m going to use you, fuck you.” The words were hard and wonderful.
She couldn’t really nod, and certainly couldn’t say anything. Instead she licked his cock.
That was all she managed before he started to thrust.
He cupped the sides of her head, palms covering her ears, muffling the sounds of the busy club. She closed her eyes rather than
try to focus on his lower abdomen.
He pulled her head forward, onto his cock. She gagged, but he didn’t stop, not until her nose was against his body, the scent of
him—male musk and need—in her nose. She swallowed around the head of his cock, an effort that made her gag, but she was
rewarded with a short curse from above.
She was blind, deaf, and mute. All she had was her sense of smell, touch, and taste.
Grif drew her off his cock, moving her head while his hips stayed still. She inhaled through her nose when she could, taking two
quick deep breaths before he invaded her mouth and throat once again.
She felt drool pool just inside her lower lip, then slide down her chin. She swallowed around him, her throat protesting the size of
the invader, even as her mind reveled in the way he was using her.
Another slow withdrawal and penetration. Again he thrust in deep, holding her head in place so she had no choice but to accept
him. To feel him.
She inhaled noisily when he drew back. When she exhaled, it came out as a little moan.
“Damn it, minx,” he growled.

The next thrust wasn’t so slow and controlled. He surged into her, cock jabbing the back of her throat before quickly retreating.
Now they were moving fast, her head bobbing on his cock, the chains draped around her body clinking rhythmically as he found
a pace that pleased him. The chain he’d placed between her pussy lips was pulling tight and relaxing with each thrust.
With a little start Davina realized she was close to coming—the direct stimulation of the chain on her clit was going to be enough
to push her over the edge.
The next time he withdrew, she mumbled, “May I come?” around his cock.
Whether he heard and understood her, or simply guessed, he responded to her question.
With a short, harsh, “No.”
It was as if he’d encased her pussy in ice while exposing the rest of her to hot desert sun. She was at once both wildly aroused
by his denial—despite the fact that orgasm denial wasn’t normally part of their practice—and hyper obedient, in that the next time
he thrust in the chain pressed against her clit, but she no longer felt so close to orgasm.
He said no, and your body stopped your orgasm. This isn’t good. This isn’t who you are now. Who you worked to be.
That nagging voice was only partially muted when he fucked into her mouth once more.
Grif picked up the pace, and instead of an easy, if quick, rhythm, the face fucking now felt buffeted and off-pace. She was a buoy
on rough seas. A sub meant to be used, and being used...thoughtlessly.
Above her, Grif grunted. That was the only warning she got before he jammed his cock into her, so hard that it stabbed the back
of her throat making her gag once more. She pressed back against his hands, and was desperately relieved when he let her
withdraw far enough so that as he started to come it hit her tongue.
He held her there, fingers rhythmically massaging her scalp as his cock pulsed and twitched. Some of his come leaked out of her
mouth, joining the drool that coated her chin.
Grif let out a long final moan, then slowly drew his cock from her mouth. She opened her eyes. He was still hard, but no longer
so erect that his cock was practically touching his stomach.
Grif placed a finger under her chin, forcing her mouth closed. “Swallow.”
She obeyed.

His jeans were still around his knees, and he shucked them before sitting. She looked at his face, searching his expression for...
something.
He looked back at her, stern and serious, his cheeks flushed. There was no sign of pleasure or relaxed satisfaction. Instead
there was wonderful arrogance in the set of his shoulders—it was the posture and expression of a Master.
Her Master.
Davina lowered her gaze, dropping it to his crotch and his softening cock. She saw his arm move, his hand coming into her line
of sight. He reached between her spread legs. “Lean back,” he commanded.
She obeyed, bracing her hands on the sides of the stool, just behind her hips. The posture put pressure on all the chains—her
nipples were pulled from all sides, the even tension making sure the bars didn’t stretch or rip her skin, but also accentuating how
much she wanted her nipples touched and played with. She loved nipple play. It was one of the reasons she’d gotten her nipples
pierced, and yet the fact they were pierced had been used to instead isolate and hide them.
Grif spread her labia, cool night air hitting wet flesh. The chain was tight now, pulled up along the right side of her clit, the links
feeling huge though she knew they were anything but.
He touched her clit with a casual flick that made her jump. Then he pressed his thumb over her clit and started to rotate it in a
circle, massaging it against her pelvic bone.
“You’re going to come for me,” he commanded.
“Yes, Master.”
“Come. Now.”
Like Pavlov’s submissive, she obeyed. His thumb at her clit provided the physical stimulus she needed, while his command gave
the mental stimulation. It wasn’t just the words, but the tone of his voice, the weight of the power exchange encased within those
two syllables, that made her teeth clench, her muscles tight. It wasn’t a slow, relaxed orgasm, the kind that took a woman by
surprise. She came because she’d been given a command, and she would obey. She focused on the feeling of his thumb on her
clit, of the collar at her throat, and she came.
Davina hissed between clenched teeth, her calf muscles quaking, toes flattening and splaying as she pressed her feet down
hard. Grif kept going, kept rotating her clit through the peak of her orgasm, until it was almost painful.

The tension broke and Davina slumped, panting. That was quickly followed by a whimper as he kept touching her now raw-
feeling clit. She tried to shift back, away from his hand.
“Stay still,” he barked. “I’m not done playing with you.”
Damn it. Just like that she was ready again, the discomfort-pain of his thumb on her highly-sensitized flesh becoming the
pleasure-pain of BDSM.
“Master, Master, may I—” she couldn’t finish, she had to bite down to stop the orgasm.
“Not just yet,” he said dismissively, as if her terrible predicament was nothing to him.
She whimpered, thigh muscles twitching in response to the sharp stimulation of her clit. Her ass was clenching rhythmically
around the invasive plug, making her all too aware of the fullness there. The collar was tight as she took labored breaths. Her
skin felt too hot, or the night air too cold, and within the confines of the cages her nipples were rock hard.
“Now, you may come.”
“I...I can’t,” she stammered. She was like a rubber band drawn back so far that she would break rather than relax.
“You can. You will.” His voice got softer. “Look at me, Minx.”
She blinked her eyes open, taking a moment to focus on his face. If he would just change up how he was touching her maybe
she could come again. She should tell him that, should help him understand what she needed.
But he was her Master. She had to trust him to know what she needed. What she deserved.
His eyes were so very blue.
“You’re going to come for me, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Master.”
“It’s hard, isn’t it? Your clit is probably sensitive.”
“It is, Master.”
“But you’re going to come for me anyway.”

Davina swallowed, then whispered, “Yes, Master.”
“Look at me. Keep eye contact. Well done, Minx.” His thumb kept going, relentless. “Come. Now.”
Davina’s world shattered with the force of her orgasm. She screamed between clenched teeth, her shoulders drawn up around
her ears, trapezius muscles tight and hard. Her thighs clenched as she instinctively tried to close her legs, only to have them
forcibly held open by the stool.
The pleasure was pain, that pain more pleasure. It was an endless loop, a wild, deep sea of physical and mental stimulation.
Her scream of pleasure became a sob of relief, that sob also a plea for him to grant her mercy, to let her rest. She wanted to
grab his hand and force it away from her pussy, but she gripped the stool hard, knowing it wasn’t her place to stop her Master
from using her.
“Well done, Minx.”
His thumb shifted, tapping the mound at the top of her pussy gently. He raised his hand to her mouth, pressing his wet thumb
between her lips, so now she tasted both of them.
Still riding the tail end of the orgasm, Davina sucked him clean.
“I’ll get us some water. Keep your legs spread,” he commanded.
Davina closed her eyes, having no trouble obeying that command, since he’d made sure to position her in such a way that she
had no choice but to keep her pussy exposed.
She watched him walk away. She should have been able to hear him walking, the faint murmur of voices from the people around
them, some of whom were looking at her, but she was breathing so hard all she could hear was the sound of her own breaths.
Breathe. Just breathe, and wait for your Master.
Little by little she started to come down from the orgasm.
And as she did, sanity returned.
Get out. You need to get out of this situation. Now.

Now the voice wasn’t a whisper, but a desperate scream. This time when she sucked in air it wasn’t from arousal, but from shock
at what she’d just done. At how she’d been behaving.
She’d called him master. She’d been acting like a sub, not the submissive partner.
Without the muting effect of her serenity, she was horrified and embarrassed. This wasn’t who she was as a BDSM player. Some
new-to-her bondage and she’d lost who she’d worked so hard to become.
Grif returned and held a glass of water to her mouth. “Sip,” he commanded.
Davina all but snarled and jerked back. She managed to knock his hand as she did and water spilled down her chest.
“Careful,” he warned.
“No,” she snapped. Davina raised her hands, but didn’t get far. She was still in bondage.
Gritting her teeth against the pain to come, she jerked both arms up. The chain pulled taut around her body, her nipples—the
anchor point—screaming in pain for a moment before the chain snapped.
Grif reached for her but she knocked his hands away. She grabbed the chains leading from her nipples to big toes and jerked up,
breaking those too.
“Minx, what are you doing? Are you okay?” Grif’s brow was furrowed.
Davina surged to her feet, standing awkwardly with her legs spread, one foot on either side of the stool. She stepped back,
ignoring how the chains pressed and rubbed. She raised her chin.
Grif looked baffled and a little miffed. He turned and set down the glass of water on the arm of the chair, then reached for her, his
expression morphing to baffled concern. “What’s happening, Davina? You’ve got to talk to me.”
Why did she feel like crying?
Davina took a deep breath. “Mandala.” For the first time ever, she used her safe word.
Grif’s lips parted. His shocked expression was the last thing she saw before she turned and fled.