THE CASTLE COLLECTION Part 1 by John Castle - written for DTM / Amy's Conquest Business And Pleasure Light and sound. Quick movement and hushed conversation. Muted clicks as glasses were placed on mahogany bar-tops. Plates, bowls, coffee mugs, and flatware created conversations of their own to accompany those of the kitchen staff. Beyond the fluorescent lighting, white tile and brushed steel confines of the kitchen, warm incandescent bulbs, gleaming marble and lustrous hardwood graced the Sedona Villa's Entertaining Hall. Through the light, vanilla-scented currents and eddies stirred to life by strategically placed ceiling fans moved men and women of half a dozen businesses on twice as many missions: caterers, decorators, chefs, servers, hosts, hostesses, bartenders, delivery men, musicians, their road crew, supervisors. Each one moved with the grace and focus of the consummate professional; many of them were at the tops of their respective fields, and the rest very nearly there. That had little to do, today, with the fact that this was one of the most exclusive and expensive resort hotels in the state. No, tonight was to be a special occasion, and each of these professionals was a gear in a very large machine built for one purpose: to put on a very private, upscale party for a very private and discerning family. There was one individual, however, to whom everyone answered, and it was she who moved now into the Entertaining Hall. She moved with the grace of a geisha and the precision of a surgeon; like those of a geisha, her long skirts gave her the illusion of gliding or floating across the floor. Like that of a dedicated surgeon, her pretty, delicate face bore no hint of the thoughts or emotions which might or might not have been at play behind it. Her eyes were the shade of blue usually reserved for oceans, her skin only a faint point darker than rare ivory. Her hair was long, square-cut, straight and black, lending her the look of a classic 1950s pinup girl, though the 1950s pinup girls had certainly never dressed in the combination of leather and latex this woman was carrying off so well, nor had even the tallest or most athletically built of them exuded the air of authority this woman did. Her name was Sierra Blackcomb. Whether it was genuinely her birth name or simply an affectation no one knew, and none had so far had both the temerity to ask and the inclination to speak of the answer afterward. But that was the name by which the Department of Motor Vehicles, her Realtor, her business contacts and her clientele knew her; though her clientele never, ever spoke to her or even -- on the odd occasion -- referred to her in the presence of others, by that name. To them, she was simply Mistress, and nothing else. Ever. Well ... rarely ever. She arrived at the Emcee's podium, as per arrangement made a few moments prior by mobile phone, and assumed an air of expectant contemplation. The posture of her 5'5", 130 pound, curvaceous frame simultaneously bespoke calm and impatience; it was a practiced pose, one which never failed to elicit instant subservience from subordinates while leaving a more lasting memory of awe and respect rather than any kind of ill feeling. She, as much as any of the others working under her watchful eye to create this evening, was a highly skilled professional. In short order, a diminutive and rather overweight gentleman swathed in an expensive suit and cheap aftershave made his way lazily to where she waited, her arms folding across her breasts at the sight of his approach. "Ms. Blackcomb, yes." he nodded as he reached her. "My apologies, I was delayed in the office, the -- " "I'm uninterested in excuses, Mr. Davenport." Her voice was low, which was of course the proper thing for a conversation of this tone, but there was certainly no sympathy disguised beneath the concession to uninvolved ears. "My understanding is that you are the man most directly responsible for your resort's success or failure regarding this event. The buck stops with you." "Well, I -- " the little man's eyes narrowed as he tilted his head back, as if to look down his nose at her. Unfortunately, this Mr. Davenport had yet to learn that a five foot six inch man really has no clear vantage point from which to look down on anyone at all. Rather than raise her voice to bring the conversation back on topic, she simply reached out with one pale, long-nailed hand and took his chin between her thumb and index finger, shutting him up dead in mid-thought. "We have more important things to talk about, Mr. Davenport." she corrected him, her voice light and airy now. Her pheremones were mesmerizing, overpowering, as were her eyes, her face. And so unaccustomed was he to being touched by a woman in any fashion at all that her reaching out and taking his face in her hand -- the easy, graceful motion and the intimacy the gesture implied -- shocked him not only into silence but to the very edge of mindless immobility as well. "Now," she continued while he stared blankly at her, "why hasn't the bartender you promised me arrived?" She removed her hand from his face. "He's... ah..." he sputtered, then got himself together. "He called in sick just five minutes ago." he didn't dare add that such was what he'd been trying to tell her at the beginning. She nodded. "May I assume that you have a replacement in mind?" "Yes, ma'am." he answered eagerly. "He's on his way now." "I'll screen him when he gets here." she reached out again, patting the man's shoulder; his face rapidly flushed. Just the puppy-dog reaction she wanted. Turning, Mistress Sierra left Davenport to gather up his scattered wits. From the Entertaining Hall, she proceeded down a wide corridor where the scent of vanilla gave way to a light perfume of spring flowers, and where the marble tile floors and dark wood paneling were lit, at this hour, by both sconces and the rusted gold of early sunset. She would tend to interviewing the replacement bar help at her convenience. The guests of honor weren't due here for another two full hours; the flight from Las Vegas wouldn't take nearly that long, of course, but her slave had insisted that he absolutely could not arrive any sooner. Just as well; she had allowed him his excuses, knowing that a surplus of time when preparing any social gathering was always preferable to a shortage. And now, with the issue of the help being the only deviation from her planning -- she crossed her fingers at the thought -- she had all the time she needed to deal with it, at her own pace. A long, warbling burst of sound from her breast pocket pulled her from her smiling inner world. She pulled her phone free, pressed a key. "Hello." "Mistress!" a faintly East Coast-accented male voice called out. "You ordered me to let you know as soon as I got off the plane. I'm here." "You're here now." she shook her head, but let no emotion into her voice. "Are you still at the airport?" she slowed her pace, angling toward the corridor's inner wall to gaze through the windows on the opposite side and out into the desert, while also removing herself from the path of foot and cart traffic. "Yes, Mistress." her slave was well-trained; he had obviously read the emotion behind her words despite the fact that he could detect none in her voice. And, as per his training, he did nothing but answer her question, simply and directly, then wait patiently for her next word. "Where is your family?" There was a moment of hesitation -- only the smallest fraction of a second, really -- before he answered this question. "My children, brothers and sisters are at the rental car counter, arguing about do they want vans or SUVs." "They're going in minivans. They're not freight pallets, don't you dare let them ride in full size vans. And the roads here are perfectly paved; you will not waste money on one single sport-utility vehicle -- they're unsuitable for sport, and with fuel prices as they are they've little or no real utility to them." Belittling her slave's choice in vehicles -- especially his two month old Cadillac Escalade -- was Sierra's favorite form of recreation, and she would likely never tire of it. "Yes, Mistress." he answered meekly enough. She smiled to herself knowing how such comments grated on him, thoroughly enjoying her ability to make comments of this kind to a man of his power not only with impunity but with his undying -- and quite formidable - loyalty. "I want you here in one hour." she ordered, returning cool detachment to her voice. "No sooner, no later. Do you understand?" "Yes, Mistress." "Good." without another word, she terminated the call, then dialed another number. "Sedona Villa, Toby Davenport." "Mr. Davenport, I'll be in the lobby shortly. I'd like your replacement bartender there in no less than fifteen minutes, so I suggest that you tell me he's arrived." "He's here." the little supervisor replied, his voice weary even over a cellular connection. "I'm sending him to meet you right now." "Very good, thank you." Joe Carlin had had no idea, when he pulled himself out of bed this morning, that he was going to begin his first day at work in an interview with a professional Dominatrix. Actually, he still had no idea, as he pulled his Celica into Staff Parking. Not a clue, as he heard Davenport's harried voice relaying the Guest Coordinator's instructions, and still nothing like an inkling as he rounded the corner into the hotel's spacious lobby. The woman he saw waiting for him, far from being clad in the usual female version of a business suit, was wearing an ankle-length black skirt over matching thigh high boots over fishnet stockings. Above that she wore a black tank top of a material Joe couldn't identify under a jacket of - naturally - black leather. There was no way this was the woman who was supposed to be screening him for this VIP event. Joe didn't know, and didn't really care, who the VIPs were - all he knew was that Special Events meant extra pay, so when Davenport called him in to pinch-hit for the regular guy, Feretti, he was all over it. Still, he'd expected, you know, suits - not ... what was this chick, a Hell's Angel, or a Dominatrix or something? "Uh ... hi?" he tested. "Sit down, please." she obviously wasn't the "Let's start off a conversation with a greeting" type. Nice. "Your name, please?" He cleared his throat. "Joseph Carlin. It's, I'm sorry, it's on my paperwork, ma'am." She gave him a look as if to say, Well, no shit. "Thank you, Mr. Carlin, for volunteering the obvious." she took his application from a large portfolio at her side. "I've already reviewed what's on your paperwork - what I'm interested in is what's not on your paperwork. I already know the statistics, the history, the numbers and names. Before I can allow you to serve my clients, I want to know you." He sat back, shrugged. "Okay." "First thing's first." she took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders to emphasize this point: "In my presence, as well as in the presence of my clients, you will conduct yourself with absolute professionalism at all times." Well, that was that - Joe Carlin had walked out on more money than this with far less provocation. He leaned forward, shaking his head sadly. He was going to stand up, he was going to walk right past this snotty bitch who apparently borrowed her fashion sense from Darth Vader's little sister, he was going to hold his head high while he walked straight out the fucking door, and he was not going to give this hotel or this job a single backward glance. Except that, apparently, he wasn't going to do any of that, after all. Her hand was pressing down on his shoulder, and damned if this chick didn't either weigh a solid ton, which didn't seem likely, or she was as strong as a fucking grizzly bear. "I haven't dismissed you, Mr. Carlin." she spoke quietly. "So you're either going to sit down on your own, or I'm going to take you over my knee, pull your pants down around your ankles and paddle your ass like the ill-behaved child you are, right here in the lobby, and don't you dare doubt that I'll do exactly that if you continue to give me reason to." His mouth hung agape, his eyes wide with disbelief. "What?!" "Oh ... " she grinned wickedly, and with just that one hand on his shoulder, hauled him across the space between them into her lap - "No! No! Okay!" he conceded. "Jesus!" She did not, however, release him. Instead, she leaned in close, whispered into his ear. "You're going to watch your language from now on. You're in the presence of a Lady. You'll refer to me as Mistress, and no other way, regardless of who's listening. Do you understand?" He didn't answer -- not quickly enough for her liking, anyway. She reached down with her free hand, and like lightning his belt was unfastened and her fingers had popped open the button above his fly, were taking hold of his zipper. "Yes, Mistress!" he whispered hoarsely. Mercifully, her fingers froze where they were. "Good boy." She took her hand away, but without refastening what she'd opened. She released him, and he quickly fumbled to get his button buttoned and his belt latched. "I think I can work with you." she decided. "Go on, now, go get your station ready." He turned to leave, then saw her upraised index finger. She was waiting for something. "Yes, Mistress." he said quietly, his head bowed. She pointed at him. "Good boy. Don't forget. Go." Dominic Quintiliani arrived precisely on schedule, precisely as instructed. He stepped out of the passenger's side of the first of three white, late-model Dodge Caravans to pull into the Villa's wide, flagstone-paved ellipse of a driveway, his driver and closest acquaintance, Mack Finelli, climbing out after him to release both side passenger doors. A menagerie of faces and voices was disgorged into the dying Arizona sunlight, the brood quickly moving toward the hotel's lobby entrance in a raucous cascade. They wanted their rooms, they wanted snacks, they wanted coffee ... mostly, they wanted bathrooms. Dominic wanted only one thing - to see his Mistress. But he'd have to be cautious; as far as anyone else knew, she was his accountant. Which itself was also true - she managed his finances, she managed his casino's accounts - what no one including his lovely young wife knew was that she also managed him. He flipped open his phone, hit the speed dial for her. "Mistress," he spoke quietly after letting the brood get a good handful of meters away, "We're here." He listened to her instructions, nodding but not speaking, then flipped the phone closed. "Okay, hey! Everybody!" he shouted. They stopped, obediently enough if not without a few formless complaints. "The rooms ain't ready yet, arright?" More complaints, louder now. "So you all stay to the right, there's bathrooms and snacks in the lobby, they're gonna take care of ya. You get whatever you wanna eat, I'm gonna might have to bust a few heads, you get comfortable, Daddy's gonna take care of everything!" They resumed their mass migration. "You hear me? You stay in the lobby 'til I tell you different!" There were grumbles of agreement from a few, hand-waves from the rest. "Okay, good." he said to no one in particular, catching the door behind them, then heading left through the lobby and down the corridor to the Entertaining Hall. He spotted her from a good ways off. Although she was by no means physically imposing - not with her curves all sheathed in black as they were - she was simply unmistakable, unmissable. He cleared his throat, having learned the hard way never to approach her unannounced. She turned, saw him, and nodded; this simple gesture from her constituted both her permission for him to approach as well as being the closest thing to a hug or a kiss she would indulge in public. Whereas with the random toy she might acquire being instructed to refer to her as Mistress at all times and in all places, she was of course more discreet when it came to this particular pet. After all, unnecessary complications would cause drama that might affect his public standing, which would affect his power, his reputation and his resources - which would, in turn, diminish his value to her. That's not to say that there was nothing more at work than cold calculation - she did, of course, care for him; otherwise why keep him? But it was precisely because she did care that she wanted to preserve and increase his worth to her, not damage it. "Mr. Quintiliani." she smiled slightly, taking his hand in hers to give it a slow but fierce squeeze that made his eyes water. Only familiarity with her brand of understated sadism kept his response limited to a mild watering of the eyes. She released him, then turned to the short, squat little man in the suit. "As I was saying, Mr. Davenport, your bartender will do just fine. I do hope you haven't interfered with him setting up his station as I instructed." "No, ma'am." Davenport shook his head. "He's prepared, just give the word and the bar is open. Oh - I meant to tell you, sir," he turned to Dominic, "we received a call for you just a few minutes ago." "Why was I not informed?" Sierra demanded. The little man pointedly ignored her, the look on his face both defiant and triumphant, "It was from your wife, sir." Now Dominic Quintiliani was a large man - a very large man. Standing six foot four, weighing better than two hundred forty pounds, and most of that being chest, shoulders and arms, he dwarfed the stout little hotel supervisor quite literally. And, not to put too fine a point on it, when his rivals complained that he'd muscled his way onto the Vegas strip, not all of them were speaking metaphorically. When he took a step into Davenport's space, leaned forward and looked down at the man with a scowl on his big, rough-hewn face, intimidating was entirely insufficient to describe the effect that filled what little air there was between the two men. "And this," Quintiliani spoke with subtle menace, "is my business manager. Understand?" Davenport gulped, his Adam's Apple bobbing up and down like a cork in rough water. "Y-yes sir." "What if that had been a business call you had just decided to keep to yourself?" Quintiliani asked idly. "What if ... " he leaned forward just an inch further, dropping his voice another notch directly into a growl, " - your decision had cost me money?" Beads of cold sweat dotted the little man's face. "I-I'm sorry, sir ... " he looked like he might faint. "It won't ... ah ... won't happen again, sir!" "No, it won't." Quintiliani straightened back to his full height, glaring down at the supervisor. "Now if you'll excuse us? We have business to discuss." "Y-yes sir!" Davenport rushed away, nearly tripping over himself in his haste. Sierra watched him go, then turned and graced her pet with an open, bright smile. "Very well done, pet. You're learning." "Thank You, Mistress." Quintiliani said quietly, pleased with her approval. Before she'd taken him as her own, begun training him to solve problems her way, Quintiliani would have been more inclined to deal with such an issue by tossing the little man through a window or three. "Your wife being here is going to interfere with my plans for you, I'm afraid." His heart sank; he'd wanted to be hers to play with, that had been the whole reason he'd agreed to leave his casino and come all the way out here - and if it hadn't been for his eldest son getting the phone call from her instead of him, if it hadn't happened that she'd needed to make an excuse that they were celebrating the fifth anniversary of his casino's opening, he could have just taken the weekend, disappeared, and blamed it on a drunken whim. He reminded himself again to "thank" the boy. "Well, there's nothing to be done about it now." she said breezily. "I'll simply have to entertain myself with whomever I can find until we can arrange a 'business meeting'." She gazed intently at him, looking for any kind of negative reaction on his part, and saw only the stoic mask she'd taught him to wear so well. "I think it'll be the bartender," she prodded, just to see how far she could press his buttons. Still nothing - he knew his place; he belonged to her, not the other way around, and she'd play with whomever she liked. Satisfied, she scanned for seeing eyes and listening ears before reaching up, wrapping a hand around the back of his big head, and pulling him down to give him a quick but impassioned kiss before letting go. "Go get your family settled in. I'll call for you when it's time for you to entertain me." So he turned and went to tend to the flock, disappointed but uncomplaining. Mrs. Maria Quintiliani, however, lacked Mistress Sierra's excellent discipline. In other words, she had no qualms whatsoever about complaining - about the cab ride out from the airport, about having to fly by herself, about not having been able to get out of work in time to avoid having to fly by herself, about the desert heat, about ... pretty much everything, really. Though not clad head to toe in black leather, Maria Quintiliani was rather a striking woman without the exotic outfit. On the tall side at five foot nine, she was no less curvaceous or fit than Mr. Quintiliani's other, shall we say, owner. As a matter of fact, she presented a most unusual and most compelling optical illusion - seen from a good distance away, she appeared to be only five foot three or so and with a shocking figure - ample-breasted, wasp-waisted and with what Quintiliani often received dirty looks for referring to as a "ghetto booty", these assets became all the more impressive as one drew closer to discover that the proportions simply kept growing. Of course, it didn't hurt any that she was a green-eyed redhead, either. Her first words to the already put-upon Davenport didn't improve his day at all: "Where is my husband?" "I really don't know-" "I really don't want to hear that. His phone is turned off, so you go and find him." she glared down at him, then - when he didn't move fast enough - leaned forward, right down in his face, her eyes narrowing, "Right now." "Sure." he turned, sighing heavily, and started walking. He did look over his shoulder to make sure he was out of earshot, though, before adding, "It's not like I had anything else to do today ... " She took out her phone in one hand, the hotel's business card in the other. While the little Events Supervisor was off on his errand, she'd check their suite. "Hello?" she asked, her voice as sweet with the concierge as it had been sour with the Events Coordinator. "This is Maria Quintiliani. Yes, Dominic Quintiliani's wife. I can't seem to locate my husband, can you tell me which suite we have, please? Thank you. Yes, thank you. Goodbye." With the wanted information planted firmly in the forefront of her mind, Maria just needed to get her bearings. The Sedona Villa was not of the standard "two boxes make an 'L'" configuration. It was actually three separate clusters of buildings - five private villas surrounding a central recreational center/lounge in each cluster - and each cluster equidistant from the larger building, the Villa's Main Office and Entertaining Hall. It would have been trivially easy to find oneself hopelessly lost in such an arrangement, especially considering that each private villa was identical to any of the others, as were each of the Lounges. Fortunately, each Lounge was thoughtfully bestowed with a Directory. Directories are notorious, however, for being useless when the persons they're meant to benefit are too impatient and self-assured to actually use them, as Maria Quintiliani was now. And so it was that Dominic looked up suddenly, having just heard the door to their suite slam open and then shut again, to see his drop-dead gorgeous wife glaring at him as if she intended that he should ... well ... drop dead. "Eh ... " he scratched his head, pursing his lips and scoured his brain for just the right thing to say. "Hi, honey!" That obviously wasn't it. "'Hi, honey' ... " she ignored him as she walked past, through their cozy living room area and into the bedroom. She stopped long enough to shed the light cream jacket she'd been wearing, then leaned out again. "Where's my luggage?" "Not sure, honey." he knew he wasn't out of the dog house yet, but at least he was getting the cold treatment instead of a yelling match. Of course ... well, that could change real fast if he didn't play it sugary sweet, so ... "I'll track it down for ya." She advanced on him slowly, "Oh, I know you will. But first, we're going to have a little chat ... " She took her billfold from her purse, took a small business card from it. The front of the card was black-glossed and printed with gold lettering. The back was rough white with more lettering, this in ballpoint pen. This same card had disappeared from Dominic's safety deposit box at the bank a month earlier without even being noticed. Before his wife's, his had been the last hand to hold it. Before his, that hand - as well as the card itself, the advertisement of Domme services and the handwritten instruction on the back of the card ... belonged to Sierra Blackcomb. Dominic retreated slowly from his wife, who smiled like a cat that'd just trapped a rat. Sierra checked her watch, sighed. Apparently, her pet's wife was really reading him the riot act over having gone un-notified of the departure time for the flight out here. The idea had been a time bomb from its conception, and Sierra and Dominic had both been well aware of the kind of strife he'd be in for when it went up. But neither of them had expected the explosion to cut into the celebration itself, which - as of four minutes, thirty two seconds ago, had already become the case. Now there were bored and impatient family members; soon there would be bored and impatient family members with uncomfortable questions on their lips, and that could lead to potentially explosive and irreparable answers, the blast of which would spare neither she nor her pet. It was time to distract these people. She located Davenport huffing his way toward the Hall, and caught his eyes with hers. Clearly, today was not his best day ever. "Mr. Davenport." "I know, I know!" the little man fussed. "You want something! It's something extraordinarily impractical, if not impossible, and of course, you'll be wanting it right now!" Taken aback, she simply stared. "Well?" he huffed. "Would you care to name it, or would you like me to add mind reading to - " "Mr. Davenport!" she scolded, then put a thoughtful finger to her lips, holding herself back. Obviously, the man was stressed right to the breaking point. Instead, her tone became one of sympathy and sweetness. "This is something well within the realm of practicality. I'd like you to tell your staff that the event can begin now." He stilled, softened a bit himself, allowed himself to take a breath. "I'd like to," he shook his head, "but our guest of honor has disappeared." "I'll tend to that." she assured him. "Just get things going here, and then I have one last task for you." He sighed. "What's that?" "Have a drink," she patted his shoulder, "and relax." She was in a rare and unpleasant dilemma now; she was herself concerned, to say the least, with the situation Dominic might be embroiled in right now - but didn't dare check up on him to ascertain it, on the hope that maybe it was really nothing at all and not wanting to be the trigger that set off the very situation she increasingly dreaded might be occurring. Sending Davenport to scout things out on her behalf would of course have been a colossal mistake; as put-upon as the man had clearly been, he might as easily have set off trouble as she would have done herself. And probably done it with a smile on his face, too, just to be rid of the entire bunch of them and done with the whole affair. She came to two realizations almost immediately. First, her breathing was too shallow, too rapid. Her skin was too cool under the glass-filtered desert heat; tracing a discreet fingertip over her brow, her suspicion was confirmed - cold sweat. Anxiety was unlike her. Second, she needed to be otherwise occupied with male companionship that was not Dominic Quintiliani. Of course ... any other Quintiliani would be a bad choice as well. That left one good candidate, as Sierra saw it - but he still needed a bit of training. A plan already forming in her mind, Sierra headed down the corridor on the way to her own suite. "So." Maria Quintiliani sat, arms and legs crossed, chin thrust forward, looking down her nose at her nervous, fidgeting spouse. "Care to explain yourself?" Silence is a time-honored interrogation technique; police ... soldiers ... interrogators throughout the ages have discovered for themselves the antipathy the human social animal holds for prolonged gaps in conversation, and the irresistible drive human beings have to fill these gaps with anything - even the truth. "There was never any sex." he offered. "Oh!" she threw up her hands, rolled her eyes. "I guess that makes it okay, then, huh?" Shaking her head, she prompted, "Anything else?" He opened his mouth to say something, but there just weren't any words to dispense. He slumped, shook his head, then buried his head in his hands. Silence again, weighing down all the air in the room until there was nothing left to breathe. Dominic continued to fidget. The clock on the wall seemed to grow louder ... and louder still. Finally, Maria asked. "Why a dominatrix?" Her expression had changed. Finally, it was no longer cold indifference - it was curiosity. "I really want to know, why a dominatrix?" "I - what?" he was completely at a loss for a moment. But the look on her face was already changing back; he held up a hand. "Just ... wait. Gimme a second, you kind of threw me with that one." "Okay." He had always wanted to tell her this - he never could. God help him, it was the whole reason he'd started flirting with her the day they'd first met - he a man who'd just made his bones in the family, she a showgirl who'd so outshone the club she'd been working at that he could no longer even recall the name of the joint - and he'd never, not once, told her ... "I like strong women." the words had been locked away in the back of his head for fifteen long years, had never been spoken around her. But now that they were out, they seemed ridiculously simple. Just little things that should never have seemed so imposing, but which he'd never even considered uttering in his wife's presence. But now there they were, out in the open air, hanging between husband and wife. Now it was her turn to be short of words. "Huh?" She got up, stood over him. "What do you mean, you like strong women? You mean like, 'kick your ass' strong?" She was sure this wasn't what he meant, but couldn't think of what else it could mean, so maybe he'd correct her. He looked up. "Yeah." She just stared. Finally, she dropped her arms to her sides, shrugged. "Okay." He looked up, at her, a question on his lips, "Wha - ?!" He didn't get to finish his question - she hit him like a ton of bricks, having launched herself at him in a flying tackle. "What are you doing?!" His words were muffled, indistinct, from beneath her astounding breasts. "You like strong women, right?" she hissed, wrapping her arms around the back of his head to bury his mouth and nose deeply into her cleavage, clamping the hold tight and leaning her weight into him, straddling his chest to pin his arms under her knees. "Right?" "Mmph!" his air was totally cut off now, and his height and weight advantage was no advantage trapped in a seated position under one hundred sixty pounds of very fit female flesh. But she wasn't done showing off yet. She took notice of his struggle for air. "Ohhh, you want me to let you up?" A quick movement of her legs and his arms were free - then she brought her legs in again to brace them against his sides as he pushed himself up and out of the chair, still blind and breathless as she smothered him in her breasts. But now she squeezed him in her thighs as well, taking one of her hands from the back of his head to reach out as he fell to his knees on the carpeted floor. Leaning backward, she pulled him forward on top of her, then tightened both arms behind his head again, unfolding her lower legs to lock them out straight, crushing him brutally in her thighs. His muffled grunts and desperate bids to draw air spurred her aggression. Rolling them both to the side, she relocked her ankles and redoubled her savage squeeze, feeling a stirring grow in her womanhood to blossom up her spine, causing her eyes to roll back to the whites as his struggles subsided, then vanished as his body went limp and he lost consciousness. She hadn't come, but she'd come close. She released him, moaning in sexual frustration but incredibly aroused, then sat next to him, brought back to the brink again by the sight of him twitching and sputtering back to consciouness. She wondered if his "business manager" felt this way when they did ... whatever it was they did. If it was anything like this, well, that put the lie to his assertion that they'd never had sex - well, maybe not that he'd known. And if it hadn't been anything like this, well ... the other woman was missing out ... The other woman was, in fact, missing out. But not for long, if she had her way - and Sierra Blackcomb almost always had her way. She opened her phone, dialed the hotel's main number, then entered the extension listed on the sheet of paper in front of her. "Villa Grill, this is Joe." "Mr. Carlin, I need to see you in my suite. Immediately, please." There was a nervous pause. "Would you ... like to place an order?" She blew air through her teeth, rolled her eyes and grinned, then resumed her stern voice. "I just have, Mr. Carlin. I'd like to see you ... in my suite ... immediately." She thought a moment, then added. "Mr. Carlin ... you were given directions on how you're to address me. If you neglect them, there will be disciplinary action. Understood?" His voice was hushed and hoarse, but he said. "Yes, Mistress ... " She hung up, grinning brightly. "Wake up!" Dominic twitched, rolled over, sat up. She was gone. "Ow ... " he put a hand to his chest, pulled it away quickly. Yes, it was definite - "Ow." He took a deep breath - not so bad. So, he was probably bruised. And his wife had done it. Hot damn! Then he remembered why she'd done it. Aw, damn ... All this introspection was fine, but everything has its time and place. This was not the time, and not the place. In his confused mental sorting, he'd forgotten that he'd lost track of her. She had not lost track of him. Her arms encircled his waist, then those legs were bracketing his shoulders again. Before he could react to the threat, though, those legs were shoving the floor out from under him. She was holding him aloft now in a reverse bearhug. "What do you think, baby?" she demanded. "Am I strong enough for you? Huh?" She started to walk them both, slowly and with effort, from the suite's living room into the bedroom. "I think you need to find out how strong I really am ... " "What are you ... " he tried to get a deep breath. "What are you doing?!" he tried squirming out of her grip, but his arms were trapped again under hers, and his feet had no traction - then she cinched her arms tighter, lifting him further until his feet left the floor entirely. Involuntarily, he began to kick his legs as his oxygen-starved body went into defensive reflex. "I can see this is going to be a problem." she said sadly. "I don't know all the tricks your little girlfriend has for keeping you in line, so I'm just gonna have to improvise." She let him down onto his feet, but then stepped backward, kicking them out from under him to hold him suspended in her arms again, bringing his head down level with hers to whisper, "Don't try to get away unless you want to make me very, very happy." She turned sideways, scooping his legs out from under him but releasing his arms and torso so that he now lay on his back on the floor with each of his legs on one of her shoulders. She reached down, taking a firm grasp on his hips, and pulled him up. His head swung down, and she widened her feet just in time to catch it between her well-built calves. "Oh, look at this!" she cooed, pressing her calves into his ears, then walking carefully forward, taking them into the bedroom. **** For The Full And Complete Story, Come Visit us In Our Amy's Conquest (www.amysconquest.com) Exclusive, Members Only, Text Stories Section ****