Prometheus Triumphant [Prometheus in Chains 8] (Siren Publishing Classic) (2 page)

“Shall we go upstairs for an hour, Jenny wren?”

“No, Master Prometheus, I can’t.” Anger and frustration warred within him, but anger won.

“Can’t or won’t? Very well.” He turned and strode away, ignoring her. Why wouldn’t she tell him what was wrong? He was certain it could be put right but not if he didn’t bloody know what “it” was. Out of the corner of his eye he watched her go to the uncollared subs’ area. She seemed upset.
He
was upset. He’d every right to be upset. She’d let him love her in the public room of the club, but she wouldn’t go to a room with him, where they could explore what they felt in private. The screen gave some measure of privacy, but it wasn’t nearly enough for him. Would he ever get to the bottom of all this?

* * * *

Jenny felt like bursting into tears, but she was in the club and didn’t want to draw attention to herself. She curled her hands into fists and pressed her nails into her palms until she gained a measure of self-control. She’d seldom enjoyed anything half so much as the waltz with him. He’d held her close and, in the turns of the dance, as one of his long, sleek thighs had parted hers, she’d been breathless and her cunt leaked moisture. She’d no knickers on, as the rules for the evening dictated, and she was worried that she’d stain his trousers, but he didn’t seem to care. He’d hummed the tune of the dance under his breath. He had a lovely deep voice. The very timbre of it vibrating in her bones caused her cunt to clench and her nipples to swell. Why couldn’t she just say yes and do as he wanted? The truth was she was afraid.

* * * *

Seven years ago Jenny had gone to the hotel room as Jim Laurents had requested. She’d known him for two months in the Black Rose club in Watford, on the outskirts of London. They’d done scenes together and got on well. She liked him and believed he liked her, too. She was twenty-four, and she’d been a naive little fool. She knew that now. Then she’d had stars in her eyes. They were soon to be extinguished. He’d opened the door to her, already in his bathrobe. In hindsight she could see there’d been something odd in his manner, a glitter in his eyes as they rested on her, and anticipation as he licked his lips. He’d taken her to the bed. There were no covers on it, just a sheet and heaps of pillows. He’d been urgent, more so than usual. Previously he’d seen to her arousal and release before seeking his own. That night he’d seized pillows, pushed her face down over them.

“I want you now!” he’d said. “Facedown, legs over the edge the bed!”

She heard the foil rip, as he tore it off the condom, then he was inside her and fucking her, hard and fast. She felt the rush of hot semen inside the condom as he came.

“Very nice, Jim, my turn now!” said another man’s voice.

She’d tried to get up, but Jim held her down and his friend, whose name she never learned, had fucked her, too. They’d used every orifice, until she was exhausted. Now she knew they must have taken Viagra or something like it to last so long. She suspected they were on other drugs, too. By the time they’d had enough, she was exhausted, beaten, and cowed. No amount of pleading or crying had had any effect. Hours later, cowering in a corner, bruised, battered, and shivering, she heard, “We were never here. We have four pillars of the community who will swear we spent the whole night with them, playing poker, as usual. The hotel staff have been paid to be blind. Don’t even dream of making a complaint. Who’d believe you, a little whore from a kinky club? We have the power to make you regret it if you breathe a word of what has happened here! The room is paid for until 10:00 a.m. Get out before then.”

They were dressed and ready to leave, relaxed and elated. Both men threw money at her before they left, in a final act of humiliation. She heard them chatting and laughing as the door closed behind them. It was over! She crawled to the door and locked it, and then she sat on the floor, leaning her back against it. Too exhausted and shocked even to weep, she sat for a long time. Eventually she’d panicked. What if they came back? Galvanised into action, she scrambled into her clothes and grabbed her coat. She had her hand on the door when she remembered the money, it was dirty money. She didn’t want it, but the children’s hospice that she raised funds for with sponsored events needed every penny. She collected it, stuffed it into her bag, and crept out of the hotel.

She’d taken a week to pack her life up. She’d spent the week terrified. She never went out at night. She was constantly looking over her shoulder. Her first act was to buy a padlock and chain. Every time she shut the door of her flat, she attached the padlock and checked it again before she got into bed. She slept little, leaving the light on, fearful that if she did sleep, they’d be there standing over her when she awoke, looking down on her shivering, naked, and vulnerable body. She swore she’d never get herself into that position again. It had been her own fault for being so bloody stupid as to believe a man.

She quit her job, packed all she owned into two suitcases and went to the railway station. Where to go? The next train north had a long list of stops. One name caught her eye. Sheffield. Her mother had some scissors that had been made in Sheffield. She said they made good cutlery there, too. Sheffield it was then. It was as good a place as any. She got into the train and sighed with relief as it left the station. It was time to put it all behind her and make a new life.

* * * *

That was then, but she knew that if she said yes to Master Prometheus, all that had happened would come back to haunt her. She wasn’t even sure that she could stop herself from running screaming from the room and then what? He’d want to know what the matter was, and she’d tell him. She knew she’d not be able to resist his compelling voice. If she did that he’d despise her. He wouldn’t want such damaged goods. He called her his Jenny wren. What would he call her if he knew the whole truth? She couldn’t bear to think of the condemnatory look in his eyes, before he lost all interest in her. Worse still, it would all come out, and they’d all know and she’d lose what she’d built here. It was bad, very bad. She couldn’t think about it without shaking. Yet she couldn’t get it out of her mind, even though it had been so long ago. She couldn’t risk all that she’d built here and start again. It had taken her five years before she’d gone back to a BDSM club. She’d heard of this new one being set up. Prometheus in Chains, was in a house, set in its own grounds on the outskirts of Sheffield. She’d gone with a friend, to the open night. She liked what she saw. There were several dungeon monitors, and the club itself was luxurious. She applied for membership. There were special introductory rates for subs, which she could just afford. She’d been accepted and, very gradually, she’d got back into the lifestyle. One rule she never broke, there were no scenes other than in public. She’d been to few private parties, and then only if she knew there would be lots of her friends there. Now she was in trouble. She had known for two years that she had strong feelings for Prometheus. He was pleasant, kindly, and a considerate lover. Fool that she was, she loved him. She always knew exactly where he was in the club. When he wasn’t looking, her eyes strayed to him. She was certain that he returned her feelings. He was getting tired of waiting and wanted to be private with her. She wanted it, too, but the thought scared her half to death. He wouldn’t wait forever, he’d let her see that tonight after that Viennese waltz. It was time to make a decision, if she didn’t do as he wanted, she’d lose him. She didn’t want to lose him, but could she risk being on her own with him? Could she be alone in a room with him? It would all come back, and she’d lose control of herself. The thought terrified her.

What the hell is wrong with Jenny wren? Prometheus asked himself. His friend and partner, Angus, was deep in wedding plans and head over ears in love with his Jane, a sub he’d met in the club. Eric, the head of security in the club, had his Emma, a virgin sub, but he seemed to be having fun with her in the training, and he’d collared her. Prometheus didn’t have his Jenny and, for the life of him, couldn’t work out why. His cock and balls ached with the desire to make mad, passionate love to her. She was a delicious armful, and he knew she felt something for him as he’d caught some of the wistful looks she cast in his direction. Why, then, didn’t she take him up on his offer? They could have one of the upstairs bedrooms. It didn’t much matter which one. They could explore what they had, in private. There was so much he wanted to do for her and to her.

His cock agreed and swelled even more, and he moved to adjust it in his leathers.
Another bloody trip to the hot shower that solves nothing. When will it be my turn to find love? I’m getting older, and I want my happy ever after ending before I’m too fucking old to enjoy it.

Nobody knew his real name except Torquil and Angus, who had taken care of all the club paperwork and permits to allow Prometheus to preserve his anonymity. One other knew, but he was as closemouthed as an oyster. Jack Robinson was Eric’s ex-flatmate. He and Prometheus had served together in the SAS in the Falklands war. When they had left the army, Jack Robinson had gone into the Special Branch, and so his days of BDSM were over. Prometheus had drifted for a while but ended up as a professional Dom, working in various clubs until he met Angus and they started their own. They’d both agreed that John, or Jack as he was called in the SAS, Jones was not a name for the owner of a BDSM club. They’d toyed with the name “The Two Jacks” as he and Jack Robinson had been called in the service, but in the end they’d decided against that. The club was his idea, so Angus was happy to call it Prometheus in Chains. The club was housed in a mansion, which was situated it its own grounds on the outskirts of Sheffield. Surrounded by a high stone wall, capped now with razor wire, the only entrance was through the wrought iron gates, which led to a car park. When Prometheus thought about the house, it never ceased to please him. When he’d first seen it he’d known immediately it was the one for Prometheus in Chains. Built in the nineteenth century with a facade of mellow old Portland stone, it stood three stories high. In the centre three stone steps led up to an imposing entrance with stone columns flanking the double oak doors studded with black nails. To either side of the doors were floor-to-ceiling bay windows on the ground floor, and elegant Georgian windows in the next floor. The attics on the third floor, former servants’ quarters, had skylights and had been converted to a private flat, where he lived alone at the moment.

No sub had ever been taken to his private quarters, but with all the romance and pairing off that was taking place lately, he was beginning to feel restless. His fiftieth birthday was coming up, and he suspected that was part of the cause. If he was going to have a family and settle down he needed to do something and soon. Now, where had the thought of a family come from? He was a successful man, had all the sex he could use and more on offer. Did he really need the complication of a wife and family? How would that fit in with the life he led, and his work at the club? He didn’t know, but it was getting to him. He shrugged and shook off the feeling.

Earlier on he’d felt restless and uneasy. He couldn’t put his finger on the reason, but he was far from his usual calm self, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He decided he’d better get on with the tour of the club, which usually calmed him down.

He’d gone outside and checked. The gates were closed, and nothing seemed amiss outside. He opened one half of the door and went inside. The cool marble floor, burgundy velvet curtains and dark oak panels all spoke of quiet opulence. He enjoyed the club. It was his creation, and he was proud of it. He nodded to Linda, the receptionist, and entered the club’s main room via the double doors. He inhaled the lingering smell of spices and leather and let out a long, sighing breath. He looked around and saw the furniture had been rearranged as he’d ordered and all was clean and smelling of the lavender furniture polish he loved. It was the one his mother had used and brought back happy memories of his childhood. He looked with satisfaction at the new uncollared subs’ area. A new designer called Chris Walker had helped him with it. A square had been sunk into the floor, steps had been placed in the centre of one side, and all the rest of the space was taken up by chocolate brown leather couches with cushions in shades from caramel to dark brown and aqua to deep jade. Jane had made the cushions for him, and she had done a superb job. He made a mental note to take her and Angus to dinner as a thank-you. They’d placed small tables in the square left in the middle of the couches and, all in all, it looked really elegant. The first evening after it had been installed, the subs had arrived in ones and twos, and there had been squeals of appreciation from the women while the male subs just smiled and nodded. They’d all liked the cosy feel to the area. Prometheus liked to see them all corralled together. It would be very handy for passing Doms to lay their hands on any sub they wanted. Chris wanted an introduction to the lifestyle. Maybe Master Rafael would oblige her. He’d certainly enjoy warming her behind.

“I’m getting maudlin,” he thought, as he crossed to the staircase up to the next floor to run a check on the rooms.

There were five large bedrooms all with their en-suite bathrooms. The seventeenth-century French one, in shades of blue and gold, had a bathroom with pale blue tiles and fancy fluted washbasins with gold fittings and taps on basins and bath.

Next to it was the medical playroom, with the examination table, complete to a shade with stirrups and an overabundance of stainless steel. This was not one of his favourite rooms. He’d wanted a Chinese theme based on the Royal Pavilion at Brighton. The music room there had so impressed him. Wiser councils had prevailed, and the medical playroom, it had to be said, was always well booked. It was very popular with many of Prometheus in Chains’ patrons. Once again he promised himself that, when the seventeenth-century French room came up for redecoration, he was having his Chinese fantasy. It would be counterproductive to redo the medical room as it brought in a lot of extra income.