The Collar

“Dena.” Nathaniel nodded to her on his way out.

“Sirs,” she said as he and Daniel walked by her.

The two men closed the door behind them, leaving Jeff and Dena alone.

“Where did everyone go?” Dena asked. “I thought we were going to do a demo? Why—”

Jeff snapped his fingers, and she stopped talking. “On your knees. Now. No talking unless I ask you a question.”

She huffed but knelt down where she was.

“The demo was scheduled to start twenty minutes ago. You didn’t show up, so I canceled it.”

“I was just running a little late—”

“Did I ask a question?” He wasn’t sure what had gotten into her tonight. She was never this disrespectful or belligerent.

“No, Sir.”

“Then you are not to speak.”

She exhaled deeply.

“I’m extremely disappointed in your behavior tonight. I had a scene planned and prepared. I came early to set up. You didn’t even have the decency to show up on time. That was your only job tonight—to show up on time—and you didn’t do it. Then, when you did decide to stroll in, you showed up in your clothes.” He kept her in his sight while he talked. She was shaking a bit. Probably afraid of what he was going to do. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I lost track of time, Sir.”

“Lost track of time? I’ve known you for years and you have never been late. Are you okay? Is there something going on?” Because her behavior was so out of character, he had to be sure.

“No, Sir. I’m fine.”

He walked to where she knelt. “Look at me.” When she lifted her head, he continued. “I’m not fine. I’m the opposite of fine. It’s your fault, and you’re going to deal with the consequences.”

Chapter Two

Seven years ago

Dena took a deep breath and knocked on the door to the large two-story house that stood just on the outskirts of Wilmington, Delaware. Though she’d been a sexual submissive for four years, she always felt slightly apprehensive when showing up at her first function with a new group.

She’d recently taken a job in the district attorney’s office and had moved to Wilmington a few weeks ago. Being somewhat settled in her new apartment and job, she’d searched for a local BDSM group. The day before, she’d attended a group meeting and filled out paperwork so that she could join the play party tonight.

The group’s dynamics had impressed her. They were structured, without being overly so. The guidelines were simple, fair, and in place to provide safety and confidentiality. She felt comfort in knowing her previous Dominant would have never been accepted.

“The asshole,” she mumbled while waiting for the door to open. Then she shook her head; she wasn’t going to think about him tonight. This was a new start, and she was ready to meet new people.

The front door opened and a guy with a shaved head and a friendly smile greeted her with a warm “Hello.”

She shook his hand and noted he wore a green bracelet, a switch, according to the group’s color system. As a submissive, Dena’s bracelet was red. A Dom or Domme would have a black one.

“Hi,” she said. “Dena J.”

The guy looked over his clipboard, and a frown came over his face. “I don’t see your name, Dena J.”

“My first meeting was yesterday. I filled out the papers there.”

“Your name should still be here.” He looked up. “I’m sorry. I can’t let you in.”

She squared her shoulders and tried not to show how disappointed she was. “I filled out and turned in all the paperwork yesterday. I’m all dressed up.” She had bought a new corset specifically for the party. It was a deep blue and black lace piece that gave her slim figure curves. “Isn’t there something you can do? Please.”

His frown deepened. “I really can’t, but—” He turned and looked over his shoulder, speaking to someone behind him. “Master Parks, I need your help, Sir.” He turned back to Dena and said, “Stay here for a minute.”

A few people looked her way in curiosity and she sighed. There went her hope of blending in unnoticed. Maybe she should leave, try again next month, or try a new group altogether.

“Is there a problem?”

The voice was low and deep, and something about it made her heart pound. She looked up and met the eyes of the voice’s owner. He was tall and well built, with short dark hair and dark eyes that were somber and serious. There was something in the way he moved, though, the way his long legs covered the distance to her, that exuded sexual confidence. He came to a stop right in front of her, crossed his arms, and frowned. Her gaze slid from his face to his muscular biceps and then to the floor. The entire time, her heart continued its racing beat.

“This is Dena J,” the guy who opened the door said. “She went to the meeting yesterday and filled out paperwork, but her name’s not on the list.”

“I wasn’t there,” Master Parks said. “I can’t say one way or another.”

There was a long silence while Dena kept looking at the floor, but she felt his eyes on her so she knew he was still considering what to do with her. It took almost all of her self-discipline and years of experience as a submissive to remain still under his scrutiny.

“Look at me,” he finally said, and she knew he wasn’t talking to the greeter.

Her gaze met his once more, and his dark eyes searched hers. It was so intense, it was as if he could somehow peel away the mask she always wore and little by little expose her soul. She felt more naked than she’d ever been in her entire life.

“Dena,” he said.

Her reply was a whisper. “Yes, Sir?”

“I understand you were at the meeting yesterday and somehow your paperwork got lost?”

Maybe he had some blank forms with him. She’d just fill them out again. “Yes, Sir.”

But he didn’t move to get papers or anything. He just kept staring at her. “I’ll vouch for her,” he finally said, not once looking at the greeter.

“Thank you, Master Parks,” the man said.

He simply nodded in reply and motioned for Dena to follow him. “Come with me. I’ll show you where you can put your coat.”

When he turned and walked toward a hallway, she shivered. Partly because of his scrutiny, but even more so because as she’d looked into his eyes, she’d observed his own secrets. He, too, wore a mask. She had the overwhelming urge to see what was under it.