The Boyfriend (The Boss 7)

Since he hadn’t told me to put it on, I carried it carefully with me back to the center room, where he’d gotten Skype up and running. El-Mudad was already visible on the giant screen, the blue glow from his computer illuminating him. Even via an internet phone call, he was gorgeous. I could almost feel the crisp black cotton of his button-down shirt against my cheek. My body ached to feel his arms around me, and I had to blink back unexpected tears.

With any luck, there would be tears of a more satisfying kind later.

I loved it when they made me cry.

“Hello, Sophie,” he said with a slow smile. “Are you ready for your birthday present?”

I squeezed my thighs together in anticipation. “Oui, Monsieur.”

He laughed. “Already in the spirit.”

“You can see everything well?” Neil asked, reaching to adjust the camera.

“I can see what I need to,” El-Mudad answered. “Shall we begin?”

“Yes, I believe we shall.” Neil turned to me. No, not Neil. My Sir. Though they were one and the same, they were very, very different. “Give me your collar.”

I held it out to him, balancing the cool weight on my open palms, presenting him with the physical proof of my voluntary submission.

“Get on your knees, Sophie.”

“Yes, Sir.” I carefully arranged my skirt, though I seriously doubted my dress would survive the night. Ruining my clothes—especially if they were beautiful and fragile—was one of my Sir’s major turn-ons.

He stepped close, and I kept my eyes down. He put the collar around my neck and brushed my ponytail aside to fasten the latch. The moment it clicked shut, just slightly too tight, I took a deep breath to still my panic. I pushed aside the thought that we would probably need to get the collar resized; being self-conscious about my body would only keep me from getting into the submissive state I craved.

I deserved better than to mentally berate myself out of a good time with the men who loved me.

“Stay calm, Sophie,” Sir instructed, and gave me a minute to breathe through my initial jolt of worry. When my body relaxed, he wrapped my ponytail in his fist and tugged. “On your feet.”

I rose and let him lead me to stand in front of the frame. He took the scissors we kept handy for emergency rope extraction from a nearby table. “Your dress is very pretty.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

He slid the bottom blade of the open scissors along my collarbone and under the whisper-thin fabric. With a quick snip, the strap fell away. “What a shame.”

Another teasing slide of the cold metal against my chest and the other strap was gone, too, the dress gliding to the floor and leaving me in the corset and panties. Sir’s eyes lit up in recognition, but he said nothing.

“Beautiful,” El-Mudad praised me from the screen.

“Thank you, Monsieur.” Having two different names for my two different Doms helped avoid a lot of confusion. Since we’d first met El-Mudad in Paris, Monsieur was the most logical name for him.

“Turn,” Sir ordered, and when I did, he ran his palm over my bare skin above the back of the lingerie. “Mmm. Too bad we can’t leave you in this. But it doesn’t give us much room to work with.”

He stood behind me and jerked hard on the laces, loosening the corset until it, too, slid down my body. My nipples beaded in the comparatively chill air. The goosebumps that stood out on my skin, though, were wholly the result of my anticipation.

“So beautiful,” El-Mudad repeated. “If I were there, I would kiss every part of you.”

There were differences between my Doms that played out like a good cop, bad cop relationship. Or, more accurately, like an angel and a demon. Monsieur would shower me with kisses and praise among all the pain. Sir relished demeaning me and pushing me to my absolute limits of blissful agony. The dynamic had introduced thrills none of us had expected; I loved both styles of dominance, and with Monsieur providing touches of comfort in our play, Sir was free to be as sadistic as he pleased without worrying, as Neil sometimes did, that he was psychologically destroying me. Watching the harder stuff was enough kink for El-Mudad; though he did enjoy inflicting pain, he didn’t seem to care for the really rough, degrading treatment that I craved. All three of us had found a delightful way to service our needs together.

Sir leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Those pretty words can’t save you, remember that.”

“Yes, Sir,” I whimpered.

Sir stood behind me and pulled me up tight against his chest. “Put your arms around my neck,” he commanded, and I did, stretching my torso out long and vulnerable.

Sir tickled his fingers up and down my sides, and I struggled not to squirm away from him. He cupped my breasts and ran his thumbs over my nipples in firm, teasing circles.