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was doing and how she was doing it.
    “Feel the pain, Brendan. Accept it.” She lifted the iron, handed it to Jeremy.
    Reaching down, she worked the plug in slight movements, her fingertips whispering against the sensitive bulge of his sac as he breathed hard through his mouth. There was a light sheen of sweat on his skin. When she held out one hand, she was handed a soft cloth which she patted in the dip of his spine on either side of the fleur de lis brand.
    “It hurts now, almost more than when I did it, doesn’t it? That will go away, because the nerve endings will die. But the nerves around it will compensate every time you move for a while, bringing you pain. Reminding you of your gift to me.”
    “My…pleasure, Mistress.”
    There was a soft murmur among the watching audience at the devotion in the trembling male voice, even though he knew he had two more coming. Two that would hurt worse because of their proximity to the first brand.
    35

    Joey W. Hill
    Tyler could only shake his head in amazement. Even Marguerite for once displayed a less than perfectly controlled reaction. Laying her cheek in the middle of Brendan’s back, she swept her ponytail to the side so the strands of her hair spilled over his shoulders, the line of his cheek, across his mouth. Pursing her full lips, she blew soft, cool air along the brand. He shook in response. She cupped his buttock again, twitching the plug with her thumb and forefinger, her head moving as he writhed at the stimulation. “Two more to go, Brendan. I could do them at the same time but I won’t.
    Do you know why?”
    “Because my pain is your pleasure, Mistress.”
    “Yes. Yes, it is. And I like to savor gifts.” She rose, one lithe movement from the erotic squat where her knees had been splayed, the white material straining over her ass, the dark shadow of the cleft visible, showing Tyler, showing them all that she wore nothing underneath it.
    As she turned, Tyler’s eyes narrowed.
    “What?” Lisbeth asked, apparently catching his reaction.
    “She’s not wet.”
    Lisbeth lifted a brow. “With that pristine white, she could be wearing something inside to keep from staining. For some Mistresses, part of the turn-on is completely controlling their external reaction to the slave. Keeping them guessing, not giving them the advantage of thinking they’ve aroused you, though of course they know you wouldn’t be doing it if it didn’t.”
    “Of course.” But his gaze drifted up as Marguerite straightened, caressing Brendan’s hair, allowing him to place a fervent kiss on her palm. Her nipples, clearly visible in the bra that had to be open-cupped or thin beneath the outfit, were not drawn to taut points that arousal indicated. In fact… He leaned forward, studied her skin. She wasn’t even perspiring.
    But he wouldn’t say she wasn’t aroused. He sensed the still explosiveness of her, the total attention that was possible with intense sexual sessions with a submissive. It was as if her physical response was hidden somewhere that no one else could see or find it. He wondered if even she could feel it, or if it was somewhere contained inside her like a bomb she had no idea she was carrying. When he kissed her neck, he’d had a clear view down the front of her blouse, the full curve tucked into white lace. He’d seen gooseflesh rise on her skin then. If he’d commanded her to be still, if he had inserted his finger into that neckline, down the column of a perfect throat, would he have felt her nipples harden beneath his fingertips, her body tremble? And if he’d pressed the heel of his palm in between those elegant thighs, would he have discovered damp heat?
    Somehow, he knew he would have. Even as he knew he wouldn’t now, despite the sexually charged atmosphere.
    He suspected either he was losing his grip on reality or the pathway to Marguerite’s soul was a truth like the law of gravity, something so obvious that it took really looking at it to see