Her Master's Heart Read online

  Her Master’s Heart

  By

  Lawrence Southwick III

  Copyright 2014 by Lawrence Southwick III

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.

  DEDICATION:

  To my three muses: MAL, Krismasself, and She Without Whom This Book Would Not Exist: Nikki Sex. Thank you for all the reading pleasure you have given me.

  Last, but Never Least: To my Editor/Co-Conspirator, S. H. Beans, You make the blossoms bloom on my bare branches. Your words enhance mine. You make me better than I am.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1.

  Chapter 2.

  Chapter 3.

  Chapter 4.

  Chapter 5.

  Chapter 6.

  Chapter 7.

  Chapter 8.

  Chapter 9.

  Chapter 10.

  Chapter 11.

  Chapter 12.

  Chapter 13.

  Chapter 14.

  Chapter 15.

  Chapter 16.

  Chapter 17.

  Chapter 18.

  Chapter 19.

  Chapter 20.

  Chapter 21.

  Chapter 22.

  Chapter 23.

  Chapter 24.

  Chapter 25.

  Chapter 26.

  Chapter 27.

  Chapter 28.

  Chapter 29.

  Chapter 30.

  Chapter 31.

  Chapter 32.

  Chapter 33.

  Chapter 1.

  ROBIN

  What am I doing here?

  Robin Sinclair nee Johnston asked herself that question for what must've been the hundredth time that night.

  I’m forty-five years old, for God's sake. What was I thinking?

  As the mother of two adult children, she saw herself as an overweight, frumpy woman who was well past her sexual prime. She'd endured twenty years of marriage and almost two years as a divorcee. Yet here she was, with her heart pounding, sweating a bit more than any 'lady' should.

  Oh, isn't that attractive! I probably look like I'm melting.

  Here she was in all her glory, about to take the first step toward joining a sex club. It was difficult, if not impossible, for her to believe she'd actually had the nerve to follow through and meet with fellow fetishists in a public place. She felt a strange mix of apprehension, shame and excitement.

  When Andrew Sinclair, her husband of two decades, decided to trade her in for a younger, thinner, prettier model, Robin had despaired. Everything she’d invested in her marriage, now seemed like a cruel joke.

  Andrew had Gloria, his twenty-something inner office fling. He was enjoying his midlife crisis, telling himself he was still young, while bouncing his receptionist around the bed endlessly.

  Well, good for him, except his new girlfriend and their daughter were the same age.

  Pig.

  They say there is no fool like an old fool, and Andrew sure fit that bill. However, she didn’t want a boy the age of her son. Robin wanted a grown man, an adult who'd share her life, her dreams and her fantasies.

  It was only after that insight Robin realized her divorce was not a calamity, but an opportunity. After all this time, she was finally free to explore aspects of her sexuality she'd spent many years tamping down and denying, even to herself.

  Strangely enough, she wasn't exactly sure what those aspects would entail. Robin had limited sexual experience and had rarely been satisfied during sex. Her married life had yielded only a stultifying sameness, and she craved something new. Something different.

  Oh, sure, along with almost all of her friends, she'd read a number of the "50 Shades" types of books. She'd also explored other erotic romances on her Kindle, finding herself turned on, especially by the Dominant/submissive genre. Who wouldn’t adore those delicious Alpha males who took control?

  Andrew, of course, had nothing but contempt for her interest in anything alternative. He was close-minded and hypercritical of anyone or anything that was even slightly different from himself.

  Her ex was strictly a "lights out, missionary position" kind of guy. Although that could be pleasant, on occasion, it certainly wasn't the excitement she'd craved and been denied for so long. It just didn't scratch her itch.

  If Robin had ever worked up the courage to ask him to spank her, she honestly believed he might simply self-immolate in a ball of horrified disbelief.

  Yeah, and she was the one with sexual issues.

  Hmm. Maybe I should've used that tactic, a long time ago. The thought made her smile broadly. No, that door had already been closed; thank goodness.

  Robin had always enjoyed steamy romance novels. She'd emailed her favorite authors, and some had even responded. Following their recommendations, Robin logged on to FetLife, and found like-minded individuals.

  She was surprised and thrilled to discover she wasn't alone in her part of the world. It was one thing to fantasize and to read erotic fiction and kink, but it was quite another thing to associate with others like herself. Robin took comfort in the knowledge she wasn't alone or a total freak. She was encouraged by that fact, and her shame had eased. She'd also found out about a local Fetish group, right here in her hometown of Buffalo, NY.

  They held events at least once a month. The first step to join the local club was to attend a munch, which is a get together at a local restaurant. The word 'munch' was a mash up meaning a 'meeting' at 'lunch.' These were where potential members could introduce themselves to current members of the group, pay admission fees and get information. Robin would find out the location and time the next event was being held, as well as the rules of the group.

  So today, just over nineteen months after her divorce was official, Robin sat in her car, outside of the Family Restaurant, trying not to hyperventilate.

  She focused on breathing slowly and deeply and tried to take herself in hand. She was no shrinking violet—she was a grown woman, with a lifetime of experience behind her.

  Get up and go inside, her internal voice said sternly.

  Her heart pounded and her throat was dry. She was seized with apprehension. What if she saw someone she knew? Then her perverted interests could be found out and known by all. Would they point at her and laugh?

  Would her friends, neighbors and peers laugh at the plain, pudgy, lady who was trying out weird kinky ideas at her age?

  She straightened her spine, curbing her fears. Don’t they say life begins at forty? If so, better get started because she’d already wasted the last five years.

  You raised two kids, practically on your own. You can do this, she told herself.

  Taking a deep, steadying breath, she pushed her shoulders back, held her head high, walked into the restaurant and asked where the computer group was meeting. A waiter directed her to the back, where several tables were pushed together. A group of thoroughly ordinary looking people was sitting at those tables.

  "See? Nothing to be afraid of," she muttered under her breath to reassure herself, as she mustered up the courage to approach.

  Silently, she found an empty chair, sat down and picked up a menu with trembling fingers. A woman on her right, wearing thick glasses, with even more gray in her hair than Robin, smiled at her.

  "Hi, I'm Gwen. Is this your first time?"

  Robin nodded spastically. "Is it that obvious?"

  Gwen shook her head. "No, it's just that we get together every month, so we all know each other. I've never
seen you here before."

  Robin gave her a small, tight smile. A young, blonde waitress with a friendly smile came to take her order. She asked for French fries and a diet Coke. Even though she hadn't eaten dinner, she didn't think her nervous stomach could handle more than that at the moment.

  Glancing around the tables, she happily observed she wasn't alone in her state of being overweight. While the majority of people assembled, particularly the women, were probably twenty years her junior, she was sure she wasn't the oldest woman here, either.

  She began to relax, feeling as though she didn't need to be so concerned about her age or weight anymore. These had been her biggest hang-ups when she'd been planning to attend.

  Strangely, nobody talked about anything sexual; including what had brought them here. That surprised her to a degree. However, she realized she'd had no idea what to expect. There were discussions about road construction, new taxes and car talk among the guys. The women talked about the menu, food and a new chick flick that was very popular. Many of the people already seemed to be paired up, much to Robin's dismay.

  How was she going to find what she wanted, indeed, what she needed, if there were no single or unattached men to help her explore?

  Robin's food came and she nibbled on her fries. A little later, one of the men stood up and walked around to each person in their group. He asked if they planned to attend the next event. If they wanted to prepay, they could do so at a lower price.

  When he reached Robin, she blurted out, "Yes!" and then quickly had to come up with a nickname to use.

  Joining the club required two names—her legal name, as well as a "scene name," something that would allow her to keep her anonymity. Thinking of another bird, Robin said the first one that came to mind, "Swallow."

  Immediately she turned red, thinking of a rather sexual interpretation to which the name lent itself.

  To cover her confusion, she quickly handed over the fee and was informed she'd receive an email with her receipt and instructions, as well as directions to the event site. She'd need to read over the rules regarding behavior at the Club. She had to know what was allowed and what was not. When she arrived, Robin would need to sign an agreement to abide by those rules or risk being evicted.

  Dumbly, Robin nodded and then watched and listened as the others conversed around her. She was actually relieved nobody tried to include her in any of the conversations taking place around her. She was able to let her guard down as much as humanly possible, given the circumstances.

  Sitting back in her chair she watched everyone, gleaning information about the dynamics of the group as well as some individual personality traits of various members.

  She found herself mentally playing a game of trying to figure out which people in the group were Dominants and which were submissives. This wasn't as easy a task as she'd expected.

  Once Robin returned home to her small apartment, she checked her email. She immediately saw the message she'd expected from the Club. The event was in two weeks, at Buffalo's premier Fetish and Bondage Club, Bottoms Up.

  Too excited to sit still, Robin spent the rest of the evening trying to figure out what she'd wear. She also wondered if she could possibly lose at least ten pounds between now and then.

  By midnight, the room was awash with clothing spread out across every surface. The floor, the bed, the top of the dresser, everywhere was covered with the contents of her closet and drawers. Nothing seemed appropriate. Apparently, she needed to go shopping. Tomorrow.

  Chapter 2.

  ROBIN

  Robin arrived at Bottoms Up, filled with a combination of trepidation and excitement.

  What will I see in this place? Will it frighten me? Will it turn me on? Am I going to run away screaming into the night?

  She squared her shoulders against her fears. None of those kind of thoughts, she chided herself. You're about to embark on a grand adventure. Keep yourself open to new possibilities, her inner voice commanded.

  Resolutely, she got out of her car and strode to the entrance, trying to appear confident. She figured maybe if she acted the part and looked the part, her mind might catch on and begin to feel what she projected about this experience.

  Bottoms Up was in an enormous warehouse of a building, standing four stories tall, with no windows. It was located in an industrial neighborhood. The only sign of people was the mostly-full parking lot across the street.

  As she reached the entrance, she extended her hand for the knob. The door opened in front of her before she made contact. She gaped as she looked up at the man-mountain who stood in front of her, blocking her from entering. He reminded her of some giant legendary monster from a tale she'd been told as a child. He loomed over her and flexed his muscular arms.

  His voice was gravelly and he didn't smile. “You lost?”

  He was so intimidating; it took a moment for Robin to regain her composure. With a shaking hand, she held up the printout of the email she'd been sent, confirming her reservation at the club. The monster man took it from her in a surprisingly delicate manner using his fingers. He squinted at it and then bared his teeth at her.

  Yikes! Is that supposed to be a smile, or is he planning to chew me up and spit me out? I was scared walking in, but now I'm terrified.

  “Welcome, Swallow,” he ground out. Robin blinked, and then realized he was addressing her by her scene name. Oh, right.

  “Hi,” she answered, hearing her own voice shake. “Who’re you?” She blushed at herself, realizing she'd just demanded information from the scariest man she'd ever laid her eyes on—someone who looked like a version of the Frankenstein creature.

  Fortunately, he didn't seem to mind. He sat down on a chair behind a small desk, checking off something on a clipboard.

  “I'm Lewis, the bouncer. I make sure only people who belong here get in, and nobody gets disturbed while they're here.”

  Robin licked her lips. “Oh. Do you… participate?”

  He shook his head. “No, ma'am. It's not my thing, frankly. My wife and I are what you folks would call ‘vanilla’.”

  Robin was intrigued, despite herself. “Have you been married long?”

  Once again, the big man displayed his incisors in what she now deduced must be a smile.

  “Eleven and a half years, with two kids to show for it. Thanks for asking. Most people are in such a rush to get upstairs, they barely have time to grunt at me, let alone ask me anything.”

  Upstairs? Oh, yeah. Gulp.

  Suddenly, Robin was eager to begin her adventure. “Well, Lewis, it was very nice to meet you.”

  “You too, Swallow. If you ever need anything, just let me know.”

  Robin blushed. “My real name is Robin. Thank you, Lewis.”

  She smiled at him then walked into the large freight elevator, where a thin man waited to escort her to the third floor.

  It turned out that his name was Tiny. Tiny? What man would want to be called 'Tiny', especially in a sex club? He was an aspiring author. He showed her a small handheld voice recorder, into which he intoned all of his ideas. Tiny urged her to share any ideas she had with him.

  Robin said she'd think about it; her mind was elsewhere, on the third floor.

  Disembarking from the elevator only moments later, she saw a small receptionist's desk, manned by a young guy wearing a leather vest and a cap. He introduced himself as Troy. He had her sign all kinds of official paperwork and then sent her further inside.

  Robin stood in the semi-darkness, letting her eyes adjust. The walls and ceiling were painted black and the floor was sheathed in a thick, black rubber covering. Several colored spotlights hung high overhead, offering the only illumination. It set a dark, moody atmosphere.

  At one end of the large room was a gallery of spectator seats, arranged theatre-style. The rest of the room was mostly occupied by what Robin considered various torture devices. She guessed she'd learn more about them, soon enough.

  Off to one side, on a series of ta
bles, was a decent spread of finger-food, arranged buffet-style. It was apparently there for everybody. Various fruits, veggies, cheeses, crackers and cookies were laid out, along with a Bundt cake and some obviously homemade cupcakes.

  Maybe I'll bring my deviled eggs next time. If there IS a next time.

  Heavy, pounding music blared from speakers, which were positioned high up on the wall. Nobody was on the floor, but the spectator seats held an audience of a couple dozen people. There was a large table beyond the seating, upon which were rows of knapsacks and totes. She wondered what they were.

  Robin took a seat and watched as things began to unfold.

  A man and a woman descended from the seating area and walked over to a massage table. He took off his shirt, displaying a taut chest and muscular shoulders and arms. Then the woman took off her dress, and panties, revealing that aside from the dark hair on her head, she was hairless.

  The man climbed up onto the massage table and laid face down. The naked woman began kneading his muscular back, vigorously.

  Well, a massage seems nice, but I’m not sure I could strip naked in front of all these people.

  Her eye was caught by the sight of a cute Asian girl walking hand-in-hand with a Caucasian woman, who had to be at least ten years her senior. They went to one of the large, upright, X-shaped crosses. The Asian girl shimmied nonchalantly out of her clothes, and donned leather wrist cuffs.

  The older woman, who Robin imagined was her Domme, attached the cuffs to the cross with the girl facing forward, her back to the audience. The older woman reached into her backpack and drew out a long leather whip.

  Oh, that's what those bags are for—their personal equipment. A whip. She shivered. Her entire focus was on this couple.

  The Domme stood back a few strides then flicked her wrist. She began lightly striking the bound girl's body with the end of the whip, barely touching her shoulders, hips, back and buttocks. As Robin watched, the whipping got harder and harder. The girl's skin began to turn rosy, and she began making noises, which were heard clearly, even over the loud music.

  Gasps, little mewling cries and the word 'please' were uttered repeatedly, almost like a heartfelt chant.