Bound in Blue (Cirque Masters 2)

Chapter One: Extra

Jason Beck braced in the back seat of the swerving taxi, tapping his fingers on his thigh. Breathe in. Breathe out. The smoke, crowds, and hectic commotion of Ulaanbaatar’s downtown district were not things he could control.

As much as he liked control.

The cab dodged a drunken pedestrian and turned on a narrow street lit by neon signs, then glided to a stop beside a low building with a scarred, black door.

“This is it?” he asked the driver.

“This is it,” the man replied with a knowing smirk. “I hope you have enjoy.”

Jason made a conscious effort to return the man’s good-natured grin. He knew people perceived him as rigid. Uptight. At Cirque du Monde, he was considered a workaholic in a company of workaholics. He preferred to think of himself as responsible, but at the end of the day he was mostly an out-and-out, three-alarm control freak. Maybe his boss was right. Maybe he needed to loosen up a bit, stop thinking about work so much, even if work had brought him to this far-flung place.

“You’re strung so tight,” Michel Lemaitre had chided as Jason prepared to leave on his scouting assignment. “I want you to take time to enjoy the local pleasures while you’re in Mongolia. I’ll be disappointed if you don’t.”

Jason knew Lemaitre wasn’t talking about Mongolia’s food or scenery when he talked about local pleasures. The man was a hedonist, a sex freak. Jason was pretty freaky too…when he wasn’t burying himself in work.

He made excuses for all the time he spent at work, for his obsession with self-discipline and control. He was driven by the ideals of Cirque du Monde—that circus could be entertaining, even visionary, without the use and abuse of animals. The only animals at Cirque were its human artists and performers, many of whom Jason helped train. Michel Lemaitre, the CEO, had mounted productions in cities all over the globe, sixteen productions in all, and that only happened with a hell of a lot of self-discipline and control.

Jason’s dedication to Cirque had him moving up the ranks, and he had no intention of backsliding. He’d recently been promoted from the coaching team to the Department of Artistic Development, a promotion that included longer days, a more intense workload, and greater involvement in Lemaitre’s decisions. It was a dream come true for Jason, even if his personal and social life suffered. To see an act develop from a scattered hodgepodge of ideas into a polished show-stopper…that brought him more pleasure than he’d ever achieved from serial dating, or casual scening at BDSM clubs.

Then why are you sitting in a cab outside a Mongolian fetish club?

Because of Lemaitre’s little lecture? Or because, somewhere deep inside, some part of him wanted more? More than Cirque, more than talent development, more than the euphoria of a successful opening night? More than a string of short, controlled relationships with women he barely bothered to know? Michel Lemaitre thought Jason needed to loosen up, work less and experience more pleasure, and maybe, just maybe, he was fucking right.

Jason shoved a hand in his pocket and paid the Mongolian cabbie, then emerged from the taxi onto a littered, cracked curb. He straightened the wrinkles in his charcoal suit jacket, adjusted his collar and tie, and ran a hand over his hair, tamed into a low ponytail. When he walked closer to the building’s door, he noticed a hand-lettered sign to one side that read BDSM Fun Club in curly letters.

Maybe this would be stupid.

Maybe it would be sexy.

There was only one way to find out.

The burly men inside the door looked him up and down, assessing his suitability as a patron. Ulaanbaatar was Mongolia’s largest city—nightclubs and bars abounded—but this club apparently strove for exclusivity. He tried to exude his most austere, exacting-dominant demeanor. Otherwise it was a night in a vanilla bar somewhere, or back to the hotel.

At last the head doorman nodded and motioned him forward. They probably gauged his monetary worth more than his fetish potential, but he was in and that was a good thing. He showed his American passport rather than his French one and forked over the exorbitant cover charge. Well, that was the same all over. Single men paid the most for their pleasures. That done, he was waved toward a pair of black curtains.

“No touch girls,” the doorman warned. “Pay for private room, you like. Extra.” He emphasized the extra with an arch of his brow.

Well, obviously the sex was extra, probably a lot extra for a foreigner with an American passport. It didn’t matter, since prostitutes weren’t covered under Cirque du Monde’s travel budget, not even for a newly-promoted Director of Artistic Development. Jason might hit up his boss for the cover charge, though. Michel Lemaitre loved fetish and owned his own network of BDSM clubs, all called le Citadel, one in every city where Cirque had a show. Lemaitre would have visited this club if he’d come to Mongolia, and probably would have taken over the whole damn thing by the end of the night.

Jason entered the main bar and sat at a table near the back, taking in the familiar trappings of the fetish world. Low lights, dark, soundproofed walls, pretty girls writhing in cages in the corners, some nude, some wearing black, strappy lingerie. Others were cuffed to posts or racks, waiting to be played with—for a price. Every woman in the club wore a thick, black collar, even the waitresses weaving between the tables. Most of the patrons sat alone, although a few sat in larger groups, joking and talking.

At the front of the room, a spotlight illuminated a raised platform with a BDSM scene in progress. A short, pudgy man and a very tiny woman were performing some mash up of an English schoolmaster and French maid theme. The woman was cute, if a little shrill for his tastes. Her dominant glowered, brandishing a cane and scolding her in the local tongue. Jason figured he’d do that for a while, talk and lecture and threaten. Titillate the audience to frothing needfulness so by the time the “headmaster” actually started playing with his victim, half the men would be in the back, in the private rooms. Paying extra.

“Good evening, Master.”

Jason turned at the soft greeting. A slender, skimpily-attired waitress placed a napkin on his table, her gaze cast down in true submissive style. “May I get you something to drink?”

She spoke English, sweet, slightly-clipped English with a British lilt. He stared for a moment at the delicate flare of her hips above the band of her lace garter skirt, then raised his eyes to her breasts, perfect in her low-cut bra, and then to her slave collar and the sweep of her shiny black hair. Her high, broad cheekbones gave her an elegant prettiness. She was gorgeous. Exotic.

Young.

“How old are you?” he asked. He had standards. He wasn’t going to slaver over her unless she was at least eighteen.

Her pale blue eyes met his. Blue eyes? Mongolians didn’t have eyes like that. Cont

acts, most likely. It made a pretty effect, although the blue darkened slightly around the iris, revealing her true color. Blue-eyed or dark-eyed, he found her magnificent. Her bronze skin looked so smooth and soft.

“I’m twenty-two,” she said. “Old enough.” She leaned closer, so her breasts lifted a little from the cups of her bra. She was delicious, so tentative and shy. There was naked flesh all around him, bold, seductive women, but all he could think was, I want this waitress. I want her tied up. I want her in a cage, peeking out at me in dread. “Please, Master,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. “I’m here to serve you. A drink,” she added, lest he misunderstand.

He looked at the laminated page of squiggles she handed him. “Do you have any menus in English?”

“If you need help making a choice, Master—”

“Why are you calling me Master?” It irritated him, because he wouldn’t be allowed to master this girl. He couldn’t even touch her without getting thrown out. Bouncers massed in the back, watching all the activity in the room.

She looked away, focusing on the couple interacting on the stage. “We’re supposed to call our visitors ‘Master.’ If you don’t like it…” She blinked mournfully and looked down again.

“I don’t mind it,” he heard himself say. Snort. Guh. Wow, she was beautiful. He swallowed hard, fighting uncontrolled arousal. Maybe…extra…

No. He’d never paid for sex in his life and he wasn’t going to start now. “Can you get me a drink, little slave girl? Something cultural? Local? I’ve never been to Mongolia before.”

“Yes, Master.”

She hurried off. He wondered if all these hot little sex workers spoke English, or whether she got his table because she was the only one. He watched the sway of her hips as she headed for the bar, the curve of her ass cheeks barely showing beneath her tight-fitting skirt. The sight of her walking away was worth the cover charge he’d paid.

Okay, enough gawking. She was a cute young woman in a short skirt. No need to be creepy. There were plenty of other women to look at. The dancers in the cages grew more suggestive as men milled around, checking them out, and the girl onstage was finally getting her palms whacked by the schoolmaster.

Her palms? Yawn.

Jason wanted to see her ass played with and punished, her cheeks scarlet with cane stripes. Breasts bared and tortured with tit clamps. In his mind’s eye, he pictured his pretty waitress bent over, crying out as he caned her. He pictured his hands on her delicate hips, grasping tight as he plunged inside her pussy…

“Here you go, Master.”

Her melodic voice arrested him mid-fantasy-thrust. For a moment he said nothing, because everything that came to mind was inappropriate. Kneel down. Take out my cock. Suck it. “Thank you,” he finally said in a tight voice. “What is it?”

“It’s a Mongolian sort of vodka. It’s called har.” She bit her lip. “It’s very strong.”

Good. He needed something to take the edge off his rising desire. He lifted the glass to her in tribute. “To—what’s your name?”

She shook her head, tracing the rough edge of her collar. “We aren’t supposed to tell our names. You can call me girl if you like, or slave.”

“I don’t want to call you girl or slave.”

“Please, it’s not allowed. I need my job here and if I break the rules...” She glanced over her shoulder at the stone-faced bouncers lining the walls. “We’re not supposed to talk to any customer too long, unless you pay.”

“Fine. Go. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

Jason watched her move to another table, wondering if the extra also applied to her. Was she one of the girls who worked in the back rooms? He didn’t want her to be, because that seemed dangerous and depressing, but at the same time...

Extra. Just a bit extra. Let go of control and do something reckless, just this once. Had she looked hopeful, then disappointed when he sent her away? Was he only imagining it?

He sipped his drink, wincing at the sharp, dry taste. It was like vodka, but stronger, more viscous. He couldn’t decide if he liked it or not. As he nursed the clear, cold har, the audience grew more vocal around him. Everyone was drinking, and some yelled comments at the couple onstage.

Jason didn’t say anything. His mouth felt cottony, and God, a little numb. He was a big guy, and usually had a pretty high tolerance for alcohol, but a few sips of the har had his skin flushing and his head whirling. The alcohol hit him so hard, he wondered if he’d been drugged. He stared at the couple onstage, irritated to find them going in and out of focus. The cages in the corners were blurs, the voices around him blathering away in a sing-song language.

He’d only had a few sips…hadn’t he? Where was his slave girl? He needed her. If he passed out here, alone, what would happen to him? Just as he reached the edge of panic, she was there, touching his elbow.

“Master? I brought you this.”

She held out another drink. He eyed it suspiciously. “Is that soda water?”

“Yes, Master. Mongolian spirits are very strong. Perhaps that drink does not agree with you?”

She leaned down and peered into his eyes. He subdued the urge to grab her, his lifeline to the world. “You drugged me.”

“No, Master. I swear, it’s the har. They told me to give you full strength but this will be better.” She looked around, a furtive glance. “Please. Just wait a few moments and the effects will pass.”

He hoped to God she was right, because he wasn’t feeling so hot at the moment. He took the drink and gave her the other one. “Thank you.”

“Yes, Master.”

He stayed upright long enough for her to leave, then leaned on his elbows and sipped the sparkling water. When he finished, she brought him another. He drank all of it, feeling his vision, his thoughts and most importantly, his control, return in slow degrees. Through all of this, the waitress hovered and flitted, watching him. A half hour later, he was almost himself again.

“Thank you for saving me,” he said the next time she came to his table. “If I’d drunk much more of that, I’d have been under the table.”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “In Mongolia, alcoholism is a serious problem. The liquors are...what’s the term...very high proof?”

“Yes, proof. Alcohol content. At any rate, thank you for protecting me from myself.”

“You’re welcome. Would you like some other cocktail? Something less potent?”

“I think I’m off alcohol for the night.” But he didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t want her to go off and ignore him. “More sparkling water would be great.”

Up on stage, the maid was forced onto a spanking bench, her skirt tossed up and over her back. When his waitress turned to go, he stopped her with a sound.

“Are you ever in the shows?”

She turned back. “No, Master.”

“But you wear a collar.”

“I have to.”

He felt disappointment. “You don’t do this in real life? Fetish? BDSM?”

“I am submissive, yes.” She glanced at the stage, where the French maid was finally getting her ass beaten by the schoolmaster. “Just not like this.”

“Hm. That’s an intriguing comment.”

He heard her soft intake of breath. She stared into his eyes and he saw something that pleased him. Interest. Maybe even longing. Just as quickly, the revelation was shuttered. “I’m sorry, I have to keep moving. You’re certain you are better from the drink?”

Yes, he was better. Too much better. He was sober enough to want her with a needling ache. “I’m totally better.” He lowered his voice. “I wish you’d tell me your name.”

She wanted to. He could tell she wanted to. He wasn’t misreading her longing looks, her attraction. She fluttered her eyes closed. “I can’t. I’m not allowed. I’ll get you another sparkling water.”

She moved away just as a customer across the room stood and beckoned her with a sharp voice. Even when she went to him, the old

er man shook his finger and scolded her.

Jason didn’t know what the man said to her, but heads turned toward them—and toward him. His waitress bowed and apologized to the customer. Soon, two of the suited bouncers approached, trying to smooth things over. As Jason watched, they nodded to the complaining man and yanked his girl toward the back.

His girl. Why did he think of her that way? Because she’d been calling him Master for the last hour? Or because of something else?

It didn’t matter. Either way, he wasn’t letting them manhandle her like that. He was on his feet, heading for the corner where the three heavies surrounded her. They barked at her in a rough stream of foreign syllables, and she yelled back, gesturing toward the tables and then toward the place he’d sat.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

She turned to him, her face tense with anger. “They’re angry because they wanted me to serve you strong alcohol. They wanted to get you drunk, take advantage of you and get your money, because you’re American—”

One of the men pressed a palm over her mouth to muffle her words. No, that wasn’t okay with Jason, not at all. He knocked the guy’s hand away from her face, and then they were scuffling, pushing at each other.

“Don’t touch her,” Jason said, even though he doubted the guy could understand him. “Don’t fucking touch her like that.”

The bouncer tried to knock him back but Jason was bigger and stronger. And angry. But before he could give the guy the beating he deserved, an army of bouncers convened on him, hauling him toward the door. Okay, he was getting thrown out. That was fair, but he wasn’t leaving until he knew she’d be all right. He cast a wild look over his shoulder, but she was gone. Where had they taken her? “Let go of me,” he yelled. “Where is she?” Everyone stared as he struggled to free himself. Even the scene onstage had stopped.