VelvetWhip by VJ Summers and Sierra Summers Page B

flesh against the cold
steel of the rings.
    Her pussy already ached and she’d done nothing more than
look at him from the other side of the club.
    Janie the bartender shoved an icy bottle of water in front
of her. “You look like you could use this,” she said.
    “Is it that obvious? I thought I was hiding the fact that
I’m ready to pee my pants.”
    The other woman laughed. “No, you don’t appear nervous, but
you forget I’ve seen how you look at him when you think no one is watching.”
    Ginger picked at the label on her bottle of water. “Damn,
and I thought I was being so smooth.”
    “Sorry, sweetie, but you look like a lost puppy whenever
he’s in the vicinity.”
    Her face burned. Did everyone at the club know she was crazy
for Master Stephen? Could they tell she spent many nights thinking about what
it would feel like to belong to him?
    “I wish I had something stronger to drink,” she mumbled more
to herself than to Janie.
    “You know the rules, Gin. No alcohol during the
demonstrations,” the bartender admonished. “Brady would have a fit if any of
his employees drank during these sessions.”
    “I know. I prefer to be stone-cold sober anyway. I just
can’t believe how nervous I am.”
    “You’ll do wonderfully. You’re always amazing in your
scenes.”
    “Well, I’ve never been so damn attracted to a man before.
It’s putting me off my game a bit.” She took a steadying breath, willing
herself to chill out. This was a performance, mostly for the benefit of the
club-goers who flocked to Velvet Ice on Wednesday nights for a sexy, kinky
show. Paddling, flogging and whipping—spiced with a healthy dose of
exhibitionism—just happened to be her kinks, and she couldn’t think of anyone
better to indulge them with than Master Stephen.
    Ginger adjusted the tie of her silk robe. The deep-ruby hue
matched the streaks she’d dyed into her long hair and the open-toed red
stilettos she’d opted for because she’d heard that Master Stephen loved for his
women to wear high heels. She’d left her hair loose and it fell softly down her
back in large loose curls. She wore the minimal amount of makeup. She tended to
break out whenever she wore full-on face paint. A little mascara, liner and lip
gloss was about as heavy as she got.
    She stood. “Wish me luck,” she said, and slowly walked over
to join the man who would be her Master for the next hour.
    * * * * *
    Stephen and Ginger had never done a scene together, let
alone a performance, but the club had a standard intro that all the performers
followed. So, when Wicked cued up his music, Stephen met Ginger in the center
of the stage and offered his hand.
    When her scarlet-tipped fingers brushed over his palm, he
felt it like an electric shock. From the way her breath caught, he thought she
might have felt it too.
    She moved gracefully, like a dancer, as he led her to the
whipping post set up at center stage. Giving in to an impulse, he twirled her
around a couple of times, letting the audience enjoy the flare of her robe as
it played peekaboo with creamy skin. He was rewarded by an appreciative murmur
from the direction of the dance floor, and Ginger’s low, delighted laughter.
    They reached the post and he turned her to face him, keeping
them in profile to the audience.
    “You’re here willingly, yes?”
    “Absolutely, Master Stephen.”
    He reminded himself that these were just the formalities,
but that didn’t stop the little thrill he got hearing her call him Master.
    “What are your safe words?”
    “Blossom to slow down, Master, and tree to stop.”
    Stephen nodded briskly, approving her choices. It was
important—no, crucial —that they had safe words firmly in place,
particularly in a whipping scene. They all knew—the audience, club management
and, most importantly, Ginger—that he’d back off the instant the word blossom
left her lips. And if she said tree, she’d be untied before the syllable had
faded to silence.
    “What