Love Is The Bond argi-6

  Love Is The Bond

  ( A Rowan Gant investigation - 6 )

  M R Sellars

  Love Is The Bond

  M. R. Sellars

  When the wind comes from the South,

  Love will kiss thee on the mouth.

  Couplet #11

  The Wiccan Rede, Lady Gwen Thompson,

  Friday, December 3

  7:23 P.M.

  Room 7, Satin Tide Motel

  Myrtle Beach, South Carolina

  PROLOGUE:

  She could feel the tickle rising in her belly. It had been there ever since they walked into the room together. It was faint and fleeting, in the background but always there. Now it was getting stronger.

  Steady.

  Even.

  And, it was crawling upward in an ever-increasing ripple of internal pleasure. At this particular moment, the level was comfortable. More than comfortable, really, it was desirable and almost hypnotically rhythmic.

  She knew from experience that as the rhythm of the tickle increased so would the pleasure-and with it the hypnotic trance. And, with that trance would come yet another step in her journey toward an ultimate goal; of course, that was what this was all about, her objective.

  Her needs.

  Her wants.

  She took in a deep breath and closed her eyes, focusing on that which she desired. As she allowed the breath to slowly escape between pursed, red-glossed lips, she could feel the surge beginning. What was at this moment in time merely titillating would very soon push beyond that fragile envelope, exploding forth with untamed fury.

  But, not until she was ready…

  Absolutely not until she was ready…

  It simply wouldn’t be allowed to happen until she deemed it time. This may only be a game to him, but for her the game was a ritual-and so much more. And, after all, she was the one in control.

  She opened her eyes slowly, feeling the rush as her pulse quickened and her breaths became shallow pants.

  “Kneel,” she commanded, her voice alluringly hoarse but authoritative nonetheless.

  The man was facing away from her just as she had instructed him to do. In response, he uttered a simple, “Yes, Mistress,” thus finally breaking the silence she had imposed on him fully fifteen minutes before. He set about complying with the order, struggling to keep his balance as he began lowering himself.

  He was completely nude with only a few minor exceptions. His hands were tightly bound behind his back; a beige athletic bandage stretched securely in a figure eight about his wrists. A nylon dog collar encircled his neck, and attached to the chromed D-ring was a matched training lead. The tough strip of webbing made a straight line down the center of his back where it eventually looped beneath his restrained arms and trailed off at an upward angle through the space between the two of them, finally ending where it was held in a loose grip by his Mistress’ leather-gloved hand.

  His right knee hit the floor with a hard thud, and he rocked forward as he fought for the equilibrium necessary to keep from slamming face first into the motel room’s thin carpet. Even so, Mistress didn’t yield her grip on the leash; instead, much more than simply allowing it to pull taught, she tugged hard on the end, levering his arms backward and straining the collar against his throat with delicious agony.

  He gurgled for a moment as he choked then thudded his other knee against the floor as well, still reveling in the pain that brought him such pleasure. He felt his own tickle between his thighs and knew without looking that he had begun to stiffen. Whether the euphoria came from the lack of oxygen to his brain, the curious bent of being tortured by a beautiful woman, or both, he couldn’t say. All he knew was that his entire body was beginning to tingle, and he relished its off-kilter pleasure.

  A rush of blood was beginning to roar in his ears, and bright spots of color flickered before him as the room began shifting out of focus. His nerve endings were tingling with what he perceived as pure ecstasy, but he knew also that there was a danger zone quickly approaching. Reluctantly, he began to shift his weight back to relieve the strain on the collar that was choking him into his personal bliss. The resistance he met was wholly unexpected.

  His pathetic gagging was fueling the tickle in her belly, pushing it up to her solar plexus and out through her extremities, setting each individual cell in her body alight with a smoldering pleasure. Her breaths became shallower and quicker still as she listened to him, twisting the end of the leash in her hand to pull it even tighter. She could tell by the way he was beginning to shift that he was reaching his threshold, but she was not yet ready for it to end. The tickle was still growing, and it had now become a not-so-singular tingle. It needed to be nurtured, and she knew just exactly what would feed its hunger.

  As he began to lean back, she maintained tension on the leash and quickly lifted her foot, placing the sole of her stiletto-heeled pump against his spine. She pushed him back forward, and though she was shorter and far lighter than he, she was in full command of the physical laws of leverage.

  His gagging and gurgling continued unabated, and she began to almost tremble as the tingle skipped up the scale several notches to become a more than pleasurable full-body itch. She looked up toward the ceiling then closed her eyes yet again, stretching her milky-skinned form toward something unseen. She took in a sudden, deep breath out of autonomic reflex and let it go with an almost imperceptible moan. Opening her eyes she let her gaze fall back down to her slave then clenched her teeth as she slitted her cold stare. With a heaving sigh she released her grip on the leash and gave him a shove with the foot she held planted against his back. He fell forward into a heap, sputtering and gasping as he struck the floor. She watched him slowly roll over, his naked chest rising and falling as he sucked hungrily at the charged air in the room. Her gaze continued to roam his form, falling momentarily between his legs. It was obvious that he had been on the verge of release, and he was still throbbing as he lay there.

  “Good,” she thought to herself. “He’s ready, and so are we. Almost…”

  She moved forward, slowly stepping over his prone body but not without dragging the toe of her shoe hard across his heaving chest, taking a moment to relish the sudden yelp the scrape elicited from her slave. She then continued on with a high-heeled swagger that bordered on obscene then strode over to the bureau and stood with her back to him.

  An airline bottle of a popular brand of rum was all she had on hand; she hadn’t had time to purchase any of the really good stuff. This session had come about far too quickly. The man on the floor behind her wasn’t even the real reason she was here. He was serendipity incarnate, spur of the moment and a fully unexpected bonus. Even more-dare she even think the cliche pun-almost literally “right out of the blue.” But, still, he was one she couldn’t pass up; they needed to be fed-all of them, including her. And, at least she did have rum, so she was certain that Papa would understand. He always did.

  She looked down and opened the aluminum attache that adorned the scuffed top of the bureau. Latching the lid upright, she proceeded to arrange the contents within, just as she had done countless times before. But even with her practiced ease, there was still an absolute reverence in the solemn task.

  The sweet itch was all but ravaging her now, morphing into a luscious burn that couldn’t be quenched, and she knew it was only going to quicken. She reached to the surface of the bureau and retrieved the man’s pilot’s wings. She had taken them from his uniform earlier while he was dutifully prostrate before her, face down in the carpet and begging pathetically for her sadistic attentions. She laid the prize amidst the other items in the attache-money clips, rings, watches, and even some things that defied description; those were the most frightening. S
ome of them actually looked vaguely organic; some appeared as though at one time they should have repulsed the casual observer, even if they did not do so now.

  She carefully thumbed through a small stack of photographs, propping them around the items so that she could inspect the images at her leisure. They were simply more mementos of her conquests, but looking at them made the itch swell yet again.

  She felt her hand slipping between her thighs as if by its own volition, and she knew it was time. Consciously stopping the hand before it could go any farther, she allowed herself an anticipatory sigh.

  She reached up to the bureau and picked up the miniature bottle of rum. With a flourish she twisted the cap from it then pressed the opening against her lips and tilted her head back. She quickly swished the caramel-colored liquor around in her mouth, letting its alcohol-burn tingle for a brief moment, and then carefully spit it into a shot glass. She gently placed the glass jigger directly in the center of the assorted items. With a soft touch she fingered a partially smoked cigar, which still possessed a band proclaiming Cohiba and that was underscored by the word Habana -true Cuban contraband. She rolled it back to rest against the measure of rum and then allowed herself a fleeting, girlish smile.

  As she looked up, she listened intently to the room. She could hear her slave’s breathing from his position on the floor behind her. He was finally settling into an even rhythm as he continued to come down from the rapid sexual high she’d inflicted. She looked straight into the mirror and flipped a shock of her waist-length auburn hair back over her shoulder then carefully turned her head side to side, checking her makeup. With the tip of her finger, she made a practiced swipe against the corner of her lower lip, blending a spot she felt needed attention. Then, she inspected it again before letting out a satisfied sigh.

  “So,” she purred as she turned and began slowly sauntering forward until she stood over the man. “You weren’t lying, were you? Asphyxiation really is your kink, isn’t it, worm?”

  “Yes,” he muttered as he tried to give her a nod.

  “Yessss?” she questioned with a raised eyebrow, allowing the word to hiss between her teeth.

  “Yes, Mistress,” he replied.

  “Yes, Mistresssss…?”

  “Yes, Mistress Miranda.”

  “You like being choked by women, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Mistress Miranda.”

  “Especially beautiful women.”

  “Yes, Mistress Miranda.”

  “Tell me I’m beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful, Mistress Miranda.”

  “Yes, I am… Aren’t I.” She uttered the words as a statement of fact.

  She squatted next to him with fluid grace, displaying exquisite balance on the teetering heels, and ran her gloved fingertip along his chest, down his abdomen, stopping just before the upper reaches of his pubic hair.

  “Then…” she began, pausing as she eyed him seductively. “Since you like it so much, maybe you would want me to do it again?”

  “Oh, yes, Mistress,” he answered, an excited catch in his throat.

  “Then… Beg me to love you,” she ordered quietly.

  “Mistress?”

  “Beg me to love you,” she demanded again.

  “Please, Mistress,” he murmured. “Love me.”

  “Excellent,” she trilled softly as she smiled. “We do love you.”

  “We, Mistress?”

  She didn’t answer. In fact, she didn’t say another word. She simply scooped the end of the leash into her hand and stood. Taking a stance that would ensure her steadiness, she then lifted one foot and placed the sole of her shoe against his throat as she began bearing down. She watched his face as he fought for air, yet in the midst of it all, he curled the corners of his mouth into what could almost be a smile. She more than sensed the sexual energy pulsating outward from him as he began to gurgle once again, and she let it join with the insane burn that was racking her own body. Immediately, it began feeding on the intensity and sent her inner fire flaring to near ecstasy.

  In that moment, she knew she commanded his absolute devotion.

  Looking to the side, she could see that he had stiffened yet again and was now throbbing in time with her own racing heartbeat.

  In that moment, she knew she held captive his innermost desire.

  But, for her, that simply wasn’t going to be enough.

  She continued to lean forward, placing all but the smallest amount of her weight onto the one foot, all the while twisting the sole of her shoe against his throat. It didn’t take long before he gurgled a barely intelligible utterance that resembled more than just random sounds but a group of deliberate syllables-a phonetic string that sounded like it might possibly be his “safe word.”

  She knew it was meant to be her cue to cease the torture. But, it was a cue that would go unheeded. She simply smiled down at him and continued to inflict the deliberate cruelty with renewed fervor.

  A flicker of realization lit behind his eyes, and he began to struggle, but she had him pinned-held fast and completely at her mercy. There was no way he could break free of the bonds she had so carefully applied. He tried to buck against her, but it was obvious that he was already growing weak from the lack of oxygen. She now brought her full weight to bear on his collapsing windpipe, laying her gloved hand against the nearby wall for support.

  In that final moment, she knew she had his fear, and it was delicious.

  During the quiet minutes after that, as his eyes turned glassy, staring sightlessly upward to the stained ceiling, she knew she had the last thing she-and they-needed from him.

  When she felt the very essence of his terrifying death seep into her own soul, satisfying the gnawing hunger for a time, she stepped down and slowly lifted her foot from his throat. She barely heard the quiet hiss of his trapped breath as it quietly escaped his lifeless form.

  Then, and only then, did she receive her reward.

  She now allowed the fury to run rampant through her body as she stepped forward and collapsed on the bed, writhing with an ecstasy not entirely of this earth.

  11 Months Later

  Thursday, November 3

  7:23 A.M.

  St. Louis, Missouri

  CHAPTER 1:

  “You knew I was taking these classes, Rowan.” My petite, Irish-American wife made the statement and then paused to poke her head through the neckline of a sleeveless, pullover sweater then tug it down over her blouse. Quickly sliding her thumbs along either side of her jaw, she gathered her recently shower-dampened spirals of auburn hair and pulled them from the back of the garment then allowed them to spill over her shoulders, falling almost to her waist. She looked back at me and gave her head an exaggerated shake. “So what’s the problem?”

  “I never said there was a problem,” I replied.

  “You didn’t have to,” Felicity stated.

  Her normally soft, Celtic lilt was taking on a far more discernable edge, and the colloquial speech of her heritage was starting to add itself to the mix. While the undertone was always there, it didn’t usually present itself so clearly except under particular circumstances-such as being overtired, inebriated, or surrounded by her relatives. Since I knew she was none of the above, it could only mean one thing. She was getting perturbed.

  “I’d call it more of a concern,” I told her.

  “Semantics,” she chided.

  “Not really.”

  “So, you don’t have a problem with this then?”

  “No… Yes…” I almost stuttered, fighting for some middle ground with regard to my feelings. “I don’t know. I just wish you’d said something earlier instead of springing it on me like this.”

  “I’m not springing anything on you, Rowan,” she returned. “I just took some photography classes, that’s all.”

  “You’re the most sought after freelance photographer in Saint Louis, Felicity,” I objected. “You don’t just take some photography classes.”

 
“If I’m going to maintain that reputation, then I have to keep up on new techniques now, don’t I?”

  “Quit dancing around it. You specifically took certification courses on crime scene photography.”

  “Fine,” she spat. “Yes. I took classes on forensic, crime scene, and evidence photography to be exact. And, yes, I’m certified now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I passed the final exam.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Because it’s an aspect of the business I wasn’t familiar with.”

  “And it doesn’t have anything to do with Ben mentioning the freelance consultant program for the police department?”

  She tried to sidestep the question. “You were sitting right there when he asked me if I was interested, and you didn’t object then.”

  “No, I didn’t.” I gave a slight nod. “But, that was what? Seven, maybe eight months ago? As I recall, you said you were going to think about it.”

  “Aye, I did think about it,” she shot back. She fixed her jade-green eyes on me and arched her eyebrow, daring me to challenge her response.

  “And, apparently you came to a decision,” I said with a half-hearted shrug.

  “Aye, that I did.”

  “And now you’ve taken these classes, which tells me your decision is that you’re going to sign up for the consultant gig.”

  She nodded. “Probably.”

  “Probably?”

  “Okay then. Yes. I am.”

  “Felicity, it’s not like we need the money. Between my business and yours, we’re in great shape. The house is paid for, our investments are stable, we’ve…”

  She didn’t let me finish. “Money isn’t the point, Row. It’s something I want to do.”

  “You WANT to take pictures of dead bodies? Victims of violent murders? Suicides?” I asked with more than a note of incredulity in my voice.

  “It’s not likely to even come to that,” she explained. “The freelance program is for specialized photographic techniques that the regular crime scene unit doesn’t do. Infrared, ultraviolet, painting with light, and that sort of thing. Primarily for evidence.”