Club Mephisto Read Online Free PDF Page A

were carpeted with a deep dark gray shag that felt soft against her hands and knees. She often curled up at Master's feet on that shag carpet as he talked to other patrons or watched scenes in one of the surrounding play areas.
    She knew to keep her attention on him, but a cursory glance revealed a few scenes in progress already. A sub surrendering to a hypnotic fire play session; a severe caning; an involved bondage scene in which a slave was being restrained over a padded horse and tormented with various implements. Her Master led her past all the scenes and past the bar to a large table in the corner of the play space. Mephisto's office, more or less, where he met with prospective members and surveyed the goings-on as head dungeon master and owner. He rose from the massive oak table and extended his hand to her Master.
    "Clayton. Good evening."
    Her Master greeted the club owner effusively and Molly stole one of her usual fascinated glances at him. He was dressed in black—he was always in black. Today he wore a loose black cotton shirt and black jeans, and his thick dark hair was pulled back from his face in long dreadlocks. The effect was not disordered at all, but very striking. He was nearly as tall as her Master, but he was far more muscular. Even so, when he moved it was with a grace and quickness that seemed dangerous, not clumsy. Mephisto's eyes were dark, as black as his clothing. Perhaps they weren't black, but she'd never chanced to look directly at him out of the cowed submission he inspired in her. So she assumed they were black, for it seemed most fitting. His skin was dark bronze, mulatto cappuccino, deliciously set off by piercings in his nose and ears.
    His eyes fell on her then and she shivered. He was studying her in a way that unsettled her. But then he smiled and reached to pat her head, a light touch of welcome.
    "Ah, your lovely kitten,” he said to her Master. “She's looking as sleek and fine as ever."
    She couldn't pretend to herself that his words didn't affect her, but hopefully she didn't give too much pleasure away. Mephisto turned and went to the table, gesturing for her Master to join him. Molly took her place on the floor at Master’s feet, sitting back on her knees and watching for any cues. But he was focused on Mephisto now, so she attended to their conversation.
    With the low hum of trance music in the background, the men exchanged pleasantries and her Master told Mephisto a little about his trip and the work that necessitated it. Mephisto ordered drinks for them from the bar, and Master gave her some sips of water from his own glass. After a time, as their conversation moved on to happenings at the club and local lifestyle news, Molly's attention began to drift and her back started to ache from trying to sit up straight. Her Master must have noticed her begin to struggle. He jerked on the leash and she straightened, but then he drew her head down into his lap and began to stroke her hair. She relaxed against his hard thigh, trying not to drool from the smell of him. She sometimes thought that, like a dog, she could sniff her Master out from a roomful of imposters, just from the familiar scent of his skin and his clothes. She drifted in pleasure as his fingers rubbed her nape and trailed up into her scalp, parting her curly hair. I love you. I love you, Master.
    Then she realized with a start that the conversation had turned to her. Her Master was explaining some of her routines and habits.
    "Of course, for this week she is yours. Feel free to handle her as you wish, within the limits we talked about. I just wanted to give you a sense of what she's accustomed to."
    "Certainly. That helps me. And just to reiterate, these are the limits we've outlined here." She heard the faint rustling of papers. "No scarring or body modification, no unprotected sex. What about withholding of food and water?"
    "I'll leave that to you. I know I can trust you to act responsibly." He reached beneath the