It'll Be Fun, Page 2

  “How’s Essie and the baby, anyway?” Abbey asked.

  “Doing well,” Cali said. “I think she’s seriously considering drugging the guys and wrapping rubber bands around their testicles to castrate them, to keep her from ever getting pregnant again.”

  Eliza started laughing, almost to the point of choking.

  “It wasn’t that funny,” Cali said.

  She shook her head, still laughing. “No…” She snorted. “I used rubber bands on the barbarian’s balls last night!”

  Abbey rolled her eyes. “Didn’t need to know that fact, but thank you for the idea to threaten Gilo with in the future.”

  Once they finished breakfast and left to go their separate ways, Marcia got back in her car and headed for the warehouse store to do the shopping for the club. It wasn’t like the supplies just magically appeared there.

  People had no clue how much work it was to keep a club like this running. Well, everyone at breakfast knew damn well how much work it took, because they were her friends and part of the core group of volunteers. She and Derrick knew there was no way they could have kept Venture running and thriving for as long as they had without everyone’s help. It really was a group project, a labor of love, and a service to their local kinky comunity. Fortunately, they were going to be able to take tonight off and chill at home, but they still had things to do to help keep Venture running.

  It wasn’t all work, though. It was satisfying to have this place for them and their friends, a safe, clean facility that wasn’t risking anyone’s home, or a citation for zoning violations for noise or parking.

  Damn you, Kaden. Why’d you have to die on us? It’s not fair you aren’t around to see what we’ve done. You should be a part of this, too.

  When she finished that chore she headed for the club and was relieved to find Derrick there and taking measurements on the new side.

  “Hey, Mister Master. Want to help a slave out with schlepping groceries?” she called from the door leading from the office.

  He smiled and walked over. “I suppose I can help you.” He gave her a kiss and delivered a playful swat to her ass. “How was breakfast?” He followed her outside to Marcia’s car.

  “Good. When did you get here?”

  “A few minutes ago. I’m just starting measuring.”

  “We have a suggestion…” Marcia told him about their idea for leaving the one corner bare of carpet tiles, and he nodded.

  “Yeah, I like that plan, too,” Derrick said. “I’ll still order plenty of extras in case we ever need to replace any. We can put down linoleum or something in that corner.”

  Once they had the car unloaded, Derrick locked the office door and smiled at her, waggling a finger in her direction. “How about getting appropriately attired?”

  She glared at him. “Seriously?”

  He arched an eyebrow at her and waited.

  They didn’t have any early classes today, and weren’t expecting anyone for at least four hours. Grumbling, she started pulling off her shirt as she walked back into the dungeon to go put the groceries away in the kitchen area. After stripping down to her wedding ring and day collar, she got busy in the kitchen.

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he said as he walked over.

  “Hey, you want play time, I need to get this shit done first, Mister Master. Go finish your stuff, then we can play.”

  One of the benefits about owning a dungeon was that despite the rules prohibiting sex, if they were alone and had the door locked, they could have sex if they wanted to.

  Sometimes, if their week at work was crazy, especially during income tax season, since they ran a CPA firm, the only times they got to have sex were at the club during off-hours, when they arrived early to clean or do maintenance.

  Or put away groceries.

  He delivered a smack to her ass that held more sting than the previous one. “Listen, wench, that’s Mister Master Sir, to you, you mouthy thing.” He grinned.

  She rose up onto her toes to kiss him. “Then go fucking finish your shit, Mister Master Poobah Sir.”

  “You’re awfully mouthy for a slave. You know that?”

  “And you’re awfully mouthy for a guy who wants to get laid in a few minutes.”

  He thought about it. “Fair point.” He grinned and brushed another kiss across her lips before turning and heading back to the new side.

  It took her about twenty minutes to get the kitchen put into order. Then she needed to clean the bathrooms, which weren’t nasty or anything, they just needed a quick wipe-down. One of their volunteers came in twice a month—and they paid her—to do a thorough cleaning of the bathrooms and floors.

  Once she finished with that, she headed over to the new side, where Derrick stood staring up at the two “trapeze bars” they had hanging from the ceiling at the front of the space. They weren’t hard-points for suspension, though.

  “Whatcha thinking?” she asked.

  “I saw a picture of a girder-like structure at a big rope convention up in Vancouver. I was wondering if we could do something like that here, but suspend it so it wouldn’t take up floor space.”

  She realized he was staring up at the steel girders overhead that held up the warehouse space’s roof. “I’m going to go with noooo,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  She pointed. “For starters, shock load. You’d need heavy-duty clamps to handle the weight of the structure and the weight of the bottoms. That’s too much weight. Let’s just put clamps and chains up. We can tie the chains up when we’re not using them to keep them out of the way.”

  Marcia’s step-father was a contractor, and she’d practically grown up helping out with his business, and was damned good when it came to construction and building. She’d actually been the one to plan the office structure and sketch it out.

  Derrick scratched at his chin. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  She playfully gasped. “Whaaaat? Mister Master Poobah Sir thinks the slave is right? Oh. My. God.”

  “Smartass,” he muttered, grabbing her and pulling her in for a kiss while he ground against her. She felt his hard cock pressing against her through his jeans. “Honey, don’t think I don’t know how lucky I am that you’ve put up with me for over twenty years.”

  She draped her arms around his neck and wiggled her body against him. “Then how about we break a few club rules? Maybe we can turn ourselves in and get ourselves thrown out of here.”

  He snorted. “Cali would hunt us down and drag us back kicking and screaming, and Eliza and Abbey would help her. Not to mention June. And she terrifies me.”

  * * * *

  Derrick loved that after twenty-plus years of marriage, he and Marcia could still find playful joy in their dynamic. He refused to take himself too seriously. Sure, he knew there were a few people who didn’t know him and Marcia well and who thought she was a “brat,” but that was the farthest thing from the truth.

  Yes, she was his slave, but in the ways he wanted her to be. Outside of that, which, frankly, wasn’t anyone else’s fucking business but theirs, Marcia was her own person, complete with the spark and fire that kept their relationship going.

  A damn hard thing to do when they already had one business they ran together and hadn’t divorced over it yet.

  Add in a “hobby” business that was every bit as much work, and yeah, they were lucky.

  He took her hand and, after snagging a blanket from the rack of them, he led her over to one of the couches earmarked for aftercare.

  He put her on her hands and knees on the couch, her head to his left, and slowly stripped his leather belt out of his jeans.

  He might have had this exact scenario in mind when he was getting dressed.

  Fisting Marcia’s long, brown hair in his left hand, he let the belt trail over her back and ass as he teased her with it, ran his fingers through her pussy and felt how wet she was, slipped one into her cunt and slowly fucked her with it before withdrawing it and patting her
on the ass.

  “Quick one so we can get to the fun part, huh?”

  “Who says this isn’t the fun part, Sir?” she teased.

  “My smart girl, you might be right.” He took the first stroke with the belt against her ass, then teased her with his fingers, back and forth, enjoying every moan she gave him in response, pleasure and pain entwined and both that much sweeter for it.

  In his jeans, his cock ached the way it always did when they played.

  This never got old, either, the fire between them.

  When he took too long between strokes, she’d playfully wiggle her ass at him, prompting him to give her an extra-hard smack with the belt.

  Finally, when his cock couldn’t take it any longer, he dropped the belt and unfastened his jeans, climbing up behind her so he could fuck her like this. He easily slid home inside her pussy and the deep, needy groan she gave him meant he had to hold still for a moment or risk shooting almost immediately.

  Lightly raking his nails down her back gave him a moment to breathe and regroup. “Such a good girl you are for me,” he said. “You take such good care of me, and this place, and I love you so much.”

  She tried to rock back against him and get him moving, but he clamped down on her hips and held her in position. “No, you don’t,” he playfully said. “You just wait until I’m ready.”

  “Dammit,” she groaned. “You fucking sadist.”

  “That’s Mister Master Poobah Fucking Sadist Sir, to you, girl.”

  She started laughing—full on snorts that made him smile and gave him extra time to get his willful cock under control.

  He pulled out and flipped her over onto her back, her legs over his shoulders. Like this, he could stare down into her sweet brown eyes and watch her come undone for him. He sat up and played with her clit. “Mouthy little thing today,” he said as he played with her, knowing exactly what buttons to push with her, what to do to make her make the noises he loved.

  “Mouthy for you.”

  “Better only be mouthy for me.”

  Marcia looked like she wanted to say more, but then she bit down on her lower lip and tried to arch her back to rock her hips against him.

  She was close.

  He focused on her, wanting to get her over, loving the way she only let go for him.

  That was the true power he held—that he didn’t have to force her to stay with him.

  That he was able to keep her happy and willingly with him, wanting to be with him, wanting him and only him.

  Who wanted a slave forced to do anything? A sociopath?

  No, thank you.

  He didn’t want a doormat—he wanted a partner who was strong enough to stand up to him and keep him on his toes.

  When she started coming, he felt her pussy squeezing around his cock first before her eyes fell shut and her moans began. He leaned in and kissed her, loving the way she greedily held his head in place and moaned into his mouth while he felt every quiver rolling through her cunt.

  He could do that to her.

  That was power, too.

  Only once he was certain she’d finished did he start moving, fucking her hard and fast and knowing he wouldn’t last long now. She stared up at him with a sweetly hooded gaze as he felt himself tip over the edge and pumped every drop of cum in his balls into her before falling still so he could kiss her again.

  Her fingers ruffled through his hair, massaging his scalp, nails gently raking. She nuzzled noses with him. “Management’s gonna throw us out,” she softly teased. “Rule violation.”

  He smiled. “Lucky thing I know a guy, huh?”

  Chapter Three

  Eliza headed away from the restaurant with a long to-do list on her phone awaiting her attention. Several errands to run that she’d taken off Rusty’s hands. He was spending the morning and part of the afternoon with Ron’s Viking group. The mixed Viking-slash-combat group had merged after a convoluted and failed opportunistic coup on the part of a teenaged demagogue whose ass Eliza thoroughly kicked.

  She deserved it.

  The girl had mistakenly thought the group, which had been in existence since Rusty and Eliza were literally kids younger than the girl was, should totally change their methods.

  Including, unfortunately, neglecting safety issues.

  Most of them fought with real weapons, or wasters that could still hurt someone, if not used properly. The girl had wanted to choreograph complex fight scenes from movies and yet failed to grasp that the participants still needed to know the basics of the moves—including safe fighting and how to fall—in case there was an oopsie.

  Had Eliza not kicked her ass, it was only a matter of time before the girl got someone seriously injured or killed, a point Eliza thoroughly drove home to her with a little pain of her own.

  Fortunately, it looked like the girl was dropping out for good after her ignominious and completely deserved ass-kicking.

  Eliza had sat down the girl’s friends—and their parents—for a very stern lecture about why she’d approached the issue the way she had, complete with pictures, some she’d taken herself, of injuries that could result by not knowing the right way to safely fight in the first place.

  The few parents who had grumbled about Eliza’s draconian teaching method immediately apologized to her when they realized she was completely right.

  Now, the group got together with Ron’s Viking reenactment group for fun, combat, crafts, costuming, and they got to do it all over at Wylie and Everett’s property. They had a couple hundred acres of homestead, and hosted the groups for their activities. It saved the Viking group a drive to the state park they’d been using, it allowed the other group to get valuable training in alternative fighting styles, and it was a fun fitness activity for whole families. The crafters set up picnic tents to do things like chainmaille, leatherwork, costuming, and other crafts. Eliza did have fun with the combat and helping train the newer members, but it was the first Saturday in November in Florida, and still hot as balls.

  That meant no way in hell was she getting out there today. Not when they were slated to volunteer at the club tonight. She’d be exhausted if she did that.

  The barbarian, however, loved getting hot and sweaty and the crap half beaten out of him as a breathing sparring dummy. He’d had a grind of a work week and the extra masochism always helped him unwind, meaning less work for her.

  Plus, since he was now in charge of their combat group, he kind of needed to be there.

  Today, she needed to hit the pet store, grocery store, office supply store, craft store, and Target.

  The last for first-aid supplies, because their kit was running low, and he’d no doubt have one or two new wounds that would need tending by the time he returned home.

  It’d be a little bit of a pain not having her SUV to do it all in, but she’d sent Rusty off today in hers because of all his gear. Not only did he have his usual stuff, but he was now accumulating his own Viking kit, including a shield, sword, helm, and other various accoutrements.

  He didn’t do shit half-assed, that was for sure.

  With all those errands completed, she returned home, performed the bully-dog dance around their two bulldogs to keep from getting slimed so she could turn off the alarm, and took them out for walkies before she started unloading the car.

  She nearly had all the groceries put away when she noticed the dogs both perked up, jumped up, and excitedly bounced their way toward the front door, all schnurfles and snorts, and stood there, waiting for their daddy to arrive.

  But…he didn’t.

  Her cell rang where she’d left it on the kitchen counter, Rusty’s custom tone.

  “What’s up, barbarian?”

  He sounded horrible. “I…need help, Ma’am. I’m sorry.”

  Heart pounding, she ended the call, dropped her phone to the counter, and ran for the front door. The agony in his voice definitely left her terrified, and she’d already considered about five scenarios from heart attack to stroke
before she’d even yanked the front door open.

  He still sat in the SUV where he’d parked in her usual spot.

  She flew down the front porch steps and, trying not to panic, she jerked the driver’s door open.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?” She was already trying to check him out, looking for wounds, and—

  “I dropped the cooler on my foot when I was loading it. I think I broke it.” He pointed down to his feet, where, yep, his right shoe was off and the foot was definitely a shade of purple not usually seen in healthy feet.

  And it was swelling.

  “What the hell, Rus? Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Because I didn’t realize how bad it was until I was halfway home. I ended up pulling over, taking off my shoe, and driving with my left foot.”

  “Jesus freaking Christ—oh, my god. What the hell is that smell? Is that cow shit? You better not have gotten cow shit in my car!”

  “No, it’s goat shit. And no, it’s on my other pants, which are in a grocery bag in the back. I’m stupid, but I’m not dumb, Ma’am.”

  Eliza’s heart had finally started returning to a normal rhythm, now that she knew her worst fears weren’t coming true. The look in his green eyes finally reassured her that, no, he wasn’t dying.

  He’d just maimed himself.

  Again.

  His worst maimings usually were self-inflicted.

  Unable to help herself, she started laughing, which made him laugh.

  “Let me get the goat shit out of my car first before I get you out. I will not be a happy Ma’am driving around with that stink.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Agreed. I’ll wait here.”

  She walked around to the back hatch and immediately found the bag containing the offending trousers.

  This was why she always ordered him to take spare pants. Usually it was a matter of splitting the crotch or ass in them from fighting. He normally wore bike shorts under them to help keep things contained and prevent chafing, so it wasn’t like the boys were exposed, at least.