The Last Good Knight Part I: Scars and Stripes

Feeling frustrated by Simone’s abrupt departure, Nora took another drink of her vodka. Maybe she should call it a night, go home, get some sleep. She might even get up early tomorrow and work on her new book. Kingsley didn’t let her have much in the way of free time these days, now that her career as a Dominatrix had taken off. In two years she’d become the go-to gal for all things kink. The money poured in. The pain poured out. Days off were few and far between.

As she hopped off her stool, the elevator at the end of the bar rose. Maybe Kingsley had decided to come up for air finally. She hoped so. She wanted to chew him out for sending Simone to Søren when Nora had already decided that Simone would belong to her tonight. Not that Kingsley had known that, but Nora never missed any opportunity to drive Kingsley halfway up the wall. Maybe she’d make him take Simone’s place on her St. Andrew’s Cross tonight.

But no, it wasn’t Kingsley who stepped out of the elevator. It was a different man—one she’d never seen before. He wore black jeans and black boots, a red T-shirt stretched over his broad chest. He had a good tan, short dark hair and a handsome face—handsome in a rugged sort of way with half a day’s stubble and troubled eyes. Troubled? Interesting. Nervous she might have expected, especially since he seemed to be new. But troubled? That was a mystery she had to solve.

The man came up to the bar and ordered a boring American beer. With nonexistent effort he popped the top off and drank it in a few easy swallows. She noticed a handkerchief tucked in his back pocket—black on white: a submissive looking for a Dominant. This evening was starting to look up.

“Military,” she said, walking over to the bar stool next to him. “Am I right?”

“Is it the haircut?” he asked.

“And the really good posture. Let me guess...Army Ranger. All you guys are kinky fuckers.”

He laughed a little.

“I’m insulted.”

“Oh, insulted, are you? Gotta be a Marine, then.”

He shook his head. “Keep guessing.”

“That’s ‘Keep guessing, Mistress’ to you.”

He swiveled on his stool and for the first time looked straight at her. She wore black thigh-high boots decorated with a dozen silver buckles, a red leather skirt, red corset, black jacket and a black top hat complete with red band. She looked amazing and she knew it. Kingsley had gotten the best tailor in the city to design her fetish wardrobe. Yet another reason she’d been looking for a little play tonight. Shame to waste such a good outfit on an evening of celibacy.

“Keep guessing, Mistress.” He bowed his head in deference.

“Only one type of military more proud of themselves than the marines. Navy SEAL?”

He said nothing. Only sipped at his beer.

“I knew it. SEAL,” she said. “Give me a second to pat myself on the back.”

She reached her arm around her shoulder and swatted herself awkwardly.

“This is harder than it looks,” she said. “Don’t laugh at me.” Nora switched arms and tried patting herself from around and behind her back. “I’m going to keep doing this until you admit you’re a SEAL.”

She crossed her arms over her face and then stretched back to pat herself again. Her breasts nearly popped out of her corset.

He laughed even harder.

“Fine. Just stop that before you hurt yourself,” he said, a broad grin taking over his face and a twinkle shining in his dark blue eyes.

Nora immediately dropped her arms to her sides.

“Whew. Thank you. That was getting weird fast.”

“For both of us.”

“What are you doing at my club, Mr. Navy SEAL? I know it’s not Fleet Week. I have Fleet Week marked on my calendar. And my underwear.”

“It’s Mr. Ex–Navy SEAL. And I’m here because I was told to come tour the place, enjoy myself and see if I liked it.”

“You do like it, don’t you?” Nora rested her chin on her hand and waggled her eyebrows at him.

“It’s definitely...entertaining?” He turned the word into a question. She didn’t blame him. Hard to find the right word to describe The 8th Circle. Most days she just called it home. “Nice floor show.”

“I’ll be here all week.” Nora held out her hand. “I’m Mistress Nora. Nice to beat you.”

Instead of shaking her hand, he took it delicately and brought it to his lips for a kiss.

“An honor to serve you, Mistress Nora. I’m Lance.”

“Would you like to serve me, Lance? I haven’t been served all week.” She gave him a wide smile, a smile with a promise, a promise she fully intended to keep.

“Someone should serve a woman like you every single day, or as often as you desire, of course.”

She took her top hat off and set it on the bar. Without pretense or shame she perused his body. One good thing about being a Dominatrix—she got to have as much fun as the men of this world did. Dominatrixes weren’t just allowed to treat men like sexual objects, they were expected to. Hell, they were even paid to. Down here the Dominatrixes were treated like queens. Even the male Dominants usually gave them wide berth. Every male Dominant except for a certain arrogant six foot four blond she’d like to see on her cross one of these days. Kink or crucifixion, either one worked for her.

“You’re good at this,” she said, impressed by his attitude.

Lance leaned in a few inches and lowered his voice.

“I’ve had a little practice, Mistress.”

The Mistress raised her chin.

“Only a little? You need a lot more practice than that. Wanna go practice?”

“We just met.”

“Are you calling me a slut because I asked you to play?” She batted her eyelashes at him.

“No, ma’am. Never.” His laugh reached all the way to his dark blue eyes. She loved a man who could laugh.

“Am I calling you a slut by asking you to play?”

“You can call me anything you want.”

The Mistress placed a hand on Lance’s thigh and felt the hard muscle under the denim.

“You looked troubled when you came in here. And your entire body is tense. I’d like to flatter myself that you’re hard all over because of me, but you looked uncomfortable before you saw me. What’s up?”

Lance nodded at the bartender who brought him another beer.

“I haven’t played in a long time. I’m not even sure if I should be here.”

“Should you be here? Or did you sneak in?”