"The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it."
Oscar Wilde
I.
The setting, the shadow world of Perilous Gard.
Medieval in tone, velvet tapestries of mythological beasts and of beautiful men and women under their dominion adorn the fortified stone walls. Grotesque gargoyles gaze sightlessly at the revelers, certain in their power to terrify. Discordant chants and sinful madrigals echo the seductive screams of the blessed.
Those in attendance move as if wraiths; the silks, satins and brocades of exquisite vestments barely making a sound. Voices are low whispers as if amongst the wind. Crystal goblets chime, filled with vintages rare and precious. The food is a delight even for the most discriminating of tastes.
Perilous Gard is a world where the lines between pleasure and pain are non-existent. Those considered masters and mistresses of Perilous Gard are highly sought. They are at the very height of their decadence, moral only when it suited their purpose.
Unlike many of their kind who regard a submissive only in terms of a willing body to be used and discarded at whim, the dominants here tended to form lasting attachments to their slaves. Many of the slaves at Perilous Gard bore marks of loving ownership, either brands or rings. Deep and fierce commitments between the two are certainly not uncommon. A few of the more pragmatic souls, however, saw the bond as a means of securing total and abject devotion.
The slaves of Perilous Gard were highly trained, pampered, and prized all over the world as the most obedient. They are not picked for beauty alone, for all know well that beauty fades over time. They are striking creatures, no doubt, but are chosen for their intelligence, as well for their capacity to transcend the boundaries of pain. Sometimes cruel, almost god-like in their demeanor, the masters and mistresses of Perilous Gard expect nothing less than total worship. And, nothing else is given.
II.
She is Regine d'Florentaigne—known to all as the Countess Regine. A sobriquet, bestowed upon her by those who adore and worship her dark beauty and regal bearing.
Those who know her well and there are but few, for Regine does not take her attachments lightly, that when she enters Perilous Gard, all action, all conversation ceases. Her very self demands, and receives, obeisance.
This night, she is dressed in a gown of shimmering ebony velvet, the cinched leather bodice compressing and pushing her breasts up and out, a train of black Valenciennes laces trails in her wake. A sparkling Victorian garnet cross adorns a slender throat. Beneath the gown, a pair of patent leather boots with six inch heels caresses a pair of voluptuous thighs.
Her short dark hair, a widow's peak lending a faintly enchantress-like air, is pulled away from smooth ebony skin, emphasizing a seductive innocence that belies the heart of a skillful whip hand. Full, lush lips are coloured a sultry crimson. Dangling from slender fingertips with their perfect half-moon nails, a leather crop, the thin snakelike tongue supple from much use.
Outwardly, Countess Regine epitomizes all that a well-loved Mistress should be—arrogant, proud, and untouchable. Inwardly, she seethes with an unspoken desire. Regine is restless tonight and has been for several evenings past. Many are aware of it, as well as being more than familiar with the cause. However potent Regine's overwhelming hunger may be, none would dare to presume upon her willing submission. If questioned (and again, none would dare such presumption), she would be unable to explain such need. She'd never experienced anything so demanding, a feeling that filled her waking days and dreaming nights.
Regine seeks one who will take her far beyond the rubicon of pain, past where it crosses over into pleasure. She has not yet savored the feel of giving up control, of being at the mercy of another's caprices and she feels denied, incomplete. Her last slave left unsatisfied, complaining that her mistress' punishments left little to be desired. Unfortunately, her heart simply wasn't in the moment.
Regine has been dominant for so many years, and it no longer excites her. She is consumed by the need to belong, heart, mind, body and soul...
She wants to walk on the razor's edge.
III.
He stands in a corner, enveloped in warmth and the mystery of shadows, sapphire eyes blazing in the semi-darkness. Regine is aware of his presence long before their gazes meet. To some around him, he is an afterimage, created by flickering wall sconces; to others, he simply isn't there at all.
His attire is that of an eighteenth-century man of leisure; the close fit of dark trousers, a perfect frame for his tightly muscled thighs. The gleaming knee boots and waistcoat were also dark. A silk shirt, almost blinding in its stark whiteness, lays casually open at the throat. The most startling aspect of his dress however, is a leather collar with the familiar d-ring fastened around his throat.
Regine moves closer, intrigued by coldly sensuous eyes with the feral glint of a predator. His hair is waist-length and silky straight, the subtle light casting bronzed-gold shadows through the strands.
His features were too perfect, too delicate; the high cheekbones, thinly arched brows, long sweeping lashes, and yet the seeming femininity of his face did little to diminish the powerful air of masculinity at its core.
In spite of the d-ring that marked him, Regine is more than certain that he has never submitted to anyone. The aura that surrounds him is tempestuous, dangerous. He was a blatant challenge.
Their eyes were level as she stood before him. A few inches taller, yet his presence made him appear more than he was. Once locked into that disturbing cerulean gaze, nothing else existed.
"I do not believe that we have been formally introduced." It is the Countess Regine who addressed him, in a voice of low velvet steel. Those who knew it well knew that it was a tone to be disobeyed at one's peril.
The alluring stranger regarded her with aloof insouciance. Taking her measure and finding her wanting. At first, Regine was angry. Who is he to look upon her in such a way? Then, curiosity overrode anger. She had never been appraised quite so frankly. Like an object.
"My name, if it is that important for you to know, is Astin Prescott. I am the tenth Viscount Sothern, not that my title holds any relevance for me any longer." The voice was deeply resonant, the English accent elegant, highborn and just slightly patronizing. Here was a man more than used to being obeyed at all times.
"Viscount?" Regine sniffed. "How many of those pass through the gates of Perilous Gard, only to be brought to their haughty little knees by the harsh, yet loving ministrations of my pleasure toys? Far too many, I daresay. So," and Regine's tilted her head arrogantly, "Your title, if indeed it is truly your title, holds absolutely no allure for me."
Astin's reply was just as insolent. "For a dominatrix suffering from ennui, you certainly have a high opinion of yourself. I am uncertain as to whether I should be angry or amused by such temerity."
Regine raised her crop, pointing to the d-ring that encircled his throat like some barbaric celtic torque. "You dare to wear such a provocative piece, yet you consider me arrogant. Your audacity is astonishing, to say the least."
He shrugged casually, dismissing it. "I am a peer, my dear. Audacity as well as arrogance is my right. You, however, have no such excuse."
