Page 70 of Dominion’s Collar

The room has the low-energy hum of a Wednesday night at Dominion. Intimate, unhurried. Every person in it fluent enough in what happens here to watch without staring.

Natalie arrives in the corset and thong, barefoot, the collar already at her throat. I fastened it in the hallway outside the submissives' lounge, sent her to the bar while I changed, and told her no alcohol tonight. She didn't ask why. The ruby sits against the hollow of her neck, and the braided leather holds the warmth of her skin.

She registers the stage. The open floor. The people. Her step doesn't falter, but I catch the fractional widening of her eyes before she controls it.

"Do you know what fire play involves?" I ask.

"Alcohol applied to the skin and briefly ignited. A flash of flame that warms without burning." She meets my eyes. "I did the reading."

"The reading covers technique. It doesn't cover what it feels like to trust someone enough to let them set you on fire." I hold her gaze. "In front of a room."

The words land in the space between us. Her chin lifts. The defiance is subtle, the same angle I've been tracking since her first visit.

"I trust you," she says.

The sentence inflicts a wound she can't see.

"Turn around. Hair up."

She turns. Lifts the dark mass of her hair and secures it in a knot at the crown of her head. The gesture exposes the nape of her neck, the collar, the bare line of her shoulders above the corset.

I check the knot. No loose strands.

I step behind her and work the corset lacing free. One cross at a time, pulling the tension loose, easing the boning away from her ribs. The fabric loosens and I lift it over her head. Set it aside on the cart.

She's standing on an open stage with her back to the room and nothing above the waist except the collar. The muscles along her spine are taut.

I hook my thumbs into the thong and slide it down her hips. She steps out of it without being told.

Naked except for the collar, standing in the amber light of Dominion's scening area. The ruby at her throat and nothing else. Every person in the room can see exactly what she's offering.

Her breathing is steady. She doesn't cover herself.

"I need you on the table. Face down."

She climbs onto the padded table and lies on her stomach. Her arms rest at her sides, palms flat.

I move beside her. "Color?"

"Green."

I pick up the first wand. Dip the Kevlar tip into the alcohol. Let the excess drip back into the bottle.

The lighter is a long-reach butane. The click carries across the scening area. The flame catches the wand's tip and holds, blue at the base, gold at the edges.

I pass the wand above her shoulder blade without touching. The heat radiates downward.

Goosebumps race across her back, and the fine muscles along her spine contract. Her body registering danger. Her mind choosing to stay.

"That's the heat," I say. "The flame doesn't touch you. The heat does."

"I know."

"Knowing and feeling are different conversations."

I trail the wand lower, following the line of her back. The flame dances in the amber light, casting moving shadows across her skin. She holds still with the particular looseness of a woman giving me her immobility because I need it.

I extinguish the wand. Set it on the tray.