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Dominion Trust, Volume One

Dominion Trust : Book I

By: Trent Evans
Published By: Shadow Moon Press
Copyright: Copyright © 2015 by Trent Evans All rights reserved.
Eighty-six Chapters / 277,000 Words
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For the first time, the ongoing Dominion Trust series has been collected into a single volume! 

Book I - Becoming Theirs 

What is a modern, independent woman to do when the only thing she truly wants is to surrender herself completely? Erica, a young, beautiful college student is looking for that something which speaks to what she truly is deep down inside. Is it possible to finally find peace, even happiness within the strict bonds of utter submission? 

When Blaine, a powerful, successful businessman realizes he and his wife are ready for something new, a deeper exploration of the love and lust they've shared as husband and wife, the naive, fetching Erica enters the picture. As a member of the Dominion Trust, Blaine has witnessed the fascinating dynamic of other couples who've taken a submissive into their beds, and into their lives. And now it's time to experience it for himself

Blaine's wife Kathryn — a fiercely driven executive in her own right — submits to her husband in all things, but as the years have gone by, new needs, darker desires have stirred within her. Is she ready for a submissive of her own? Is their D/s marriage ready for a third, a woman who will submit to them both? 

In this story, three people come together to find out if happiness really can be found in the complicated dance of dominance and submission, pain and pleasure of a BDSM menage relationship. 

This is a MFF BDSM menage erotic romance, with sexual contact among all three members of the M/f/F menage

Word count: approximately 22000 words. 

Book II - Her Troika 

Two strict Doms, one brave sub, and a slave auction... 

Kurt Erickson has been offered a Dom’s dream job. He picks his own hours, answers to no one, and gets to train submissive women all day. One of those submissive women happens to be his willing wife. Making Breanna's deepest, darkest fantasy come true is the easy part. It may be trickier to persuade his best friend Derek to... buy her. 

Breanna Erickson prides herself on being ready for anything. From the courtroom to the bedroom, she can handle it all. But when her strict, but loving, husband gives her the chance to live out a dream, she finds there are things no woman can be ready for. 

Derek’s marriage ended because he buried dark 

needs that proved incompatible with a vanilla wife. He’s buried those needs, those truths, deep down, determined to never let them hurt him again. Being Kurt’s best friend has many benefits, but some of them are much more than Derek is ready for — or so he thinks. 

Then one night, an auction. Only a select few women agree to a Term of Service to the shadowy organization known as the Dominion Trust. One of them is Breanna. For Kurt, thrilling, tantalizing possibilities are laid out before him. For Breanna, it’s the chance to realize a dark, erotic dream -- and to heal a broken heart. And for Derek, forced to confront who he really is — and what he never realized he needed — he must take that first step. 

All he has to do is bid on her... 

This BDSM book contains the following acts or themes: Consensual sexual slavery (auctioning), pony play, D/s, total power exchange, bondage, corporal punishment, forced exhibitionism, objectification, humiliation. 

MFM menage BDSM erotic romance. There is no sexual interaction between the males in this story. 

Book III - Expecting Surrender 

They’d called it The Game. An intriguing truth or dare, a little spice to an already hot sexual chemistry between two married professionals. But what started as a mere game evolved into something so much more, a dark, exciting adventure into serious power exchange. It soon became the center of their lives, the beating, lust- fueled heart of their sexual relationship. 

It was an exploration of pleasure, of pain, of elemental desire. A married couple diving deep into the waters of Dominance and submission. Like forbidden fruit, The Game had opened their eyes to the primal drives, the animal lusts lurking within each of them — and they knew they’d never be the same again. 

Then came the day she’d received the surprise news... in the form of a positive pregnancy test. 

Now Keihl and Kirsten, deeply in love, facing a profound, joyful change in their lives, must contemplate the prospect of putting aside The Game, just when things are really heating up. 

After all, pregnancy and BDSM are utterly incompatible. Right? 

This is a contemporary MF BDSM erotic romance. The novel contains the following themes: explicit sexuality, pervasive D/s, exhibitionism, spanking, bondage, and other BDSM activities. If such content might offend you, please do not purchase this book. 

 

 Book I

 Becoming Theirs

 Trent Evans

 Chapter One

 Erica was one night away from fulfilling her lifelong dream — to experience true submission. Why does a modern, free woman seek to give away her liberty? To fritter it away in pursuit of that one state of being, that singular experience of being subject to another’s will.

Standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, she felt lost in the immense room, lost within herself. There were people outside, far below on the beach, walking along the car-choked road crowded on both sides with businesses all jockeying for the same tourist dollar. Atop the hill, nestled among Douglas fir and towering Western Hemlock, the sprawling house — her temporary prison — surveyed all.

The late afternoon sun hit the water at just the right angle, the light captured, reflected, transforming the blue green, foam-flecked ocean into the mottled iridescence of flowing, molten metal. Erica had always loved the sea, and though she’d lived most of her life within ninety miles of it, she could count on one hand the number of times she’d actually seen it. Every time, it took her breath away; the enormity of it; that confirmation, at once humbling and freeing, of just how small and insignificant a human being really was.

“Come to the ocean to be… not free,” she whispered. “You should have listened to your Mom.”

A mother’s job is to protect her young, and Erica remembered that night she’d told her mother she’d be taking a break from school. There were the questions, the suspicions, all of it overlaid with the unspoken fear a good mother feels when her young, naive children stray from carefully laid parental plans.

Erica found those plans nothing less than a numbing path to invisibility, the captivity of normal expectations; she sought captivity of quite another sort.

No, mom, it’s not because of a boy.

Erica couldn’t really tell her could she? Some things just can’t be processed.

No mom, it’s not because of a boy. It’s because of a boy… and a girl.

When your life has been meticulously planned, managed by your parents all the way up to college, you’re going to be taking some flack when you decide to quit said college — and Erica took a lot of it.

Worse than her worried mother though, had been the stone-cold silence from her father. He wouldn’t even talk to her. It was like something you’d watch in a Lifetime™ movie: daughter delivers Big Reveal; seething Father, brow properly furrowed, stalks off accompanied by mournful piano score. End scene.

Erica didn’t blame him, of course — not one bit. She’d have been livid if she’d been in their shoes. But they didn’t really know, couldn’t really understand. How do you explain the appeal of subjugation, the frisson of lust a girl experiences amidst diabolically cruel humiliation, the soaring, otherworldly high following the searing pain of a caning? Trying to explain that to her loving parents would be about as successful as attempting to teach algebra to a toddler.

So she ran. It had been six months since that night.

The door opened behind her, but she stayed rooted to her spot, gazing out at the freedom just beyond the glass. The elegant maid Ana had said she’d be up soon to deliver Erica’s “meal,” How bread and water were regarded as a meal, Erica would never understand. She’d been warned though. Sir had outlined to her over the phone what accommodations she could expect at the beach house, and part of her at least (that unthinking part south of her waist), really didn’t mind the idea of mealtime as penance. As long as it was by his direction, by their direction, she would obey… and want even more.

Down there, a lazy summer evening unfolded, the crisp, salt-scented wind banishing any trace of the afternoon’s summer heat while atop the hill, Erica, the tall, lonely bird, caught in her gilded cage looked on, at once wistful and grateful. Her keen vision could pick out the red flash of color as someone slid across a sheen of waterlogged sand on a boogie board. Much further out she could see the white smudge of a low-slung cabin cruiser, bobbing as it drew too near to the surf zone.

Then a moment before she felt it, she saw the slight movement, the black color out of the corner of her eye, reflected in the thick double pane of the huge plate glass window. She moved to turn, but a hand pressed to her upper back, pushing her against the cold plane of the window. Nipples stiffened under the thin blouse, her chest against the hard glass. “Stay right there. Hands on the window.”

It was him! Her heart hammered in her chest, her hands shaking. She put her heated palms against the cool glass.

“Higher.”

She ran them along the smooth surface, grateful for something to mask her shakes.

“Mm, so tall,” he murmured, standing close behind her. His cologne wafted over her, along with something else.

Smoke?

“You stay right where you are. I’m taking a shower. Need to get this fucking cigarette smell off of me.” He pressed the solid length of his body to her back, the bulge at his crotch against her buttocks. “If I come back to find you’ve moved one inch, I’ll be giving that cute ass of yours a beating earlier than I’d planned.”

His lips nuzzled her earlobe, his stubble rough against her skin. Then he was gone, leaving her trembling against the glass, held as fast as if he’d bound her in truth. She wondered what one of those summer tourists would see if they but turned to look up the wooded hill? Could they spot the slim woman spreading herself against the window as if she were being frisked? The sudden mental image of Sir’s big hands roughly manhandling her vulnerable flesh sent her clit humming. She knew the locals would smile knowingly, moving on with the remainder of their day.

Blaine Forster meant as much to the town as ten thousand tourists did, and the long-time residents knew it. So what if the rumors of what went on at his stunning vacation home occasionally drew raised eyebrows and clucking tongues? Those who knew him knew what he represented, understood when it was wise to make an issue, and when it was prudent to simply move on with life.

“I’ll just leave your lunch for you here.” Erica nearly jumped out of her shoes. The maid. How had she missed the woman’s entry?

Erica heard a tray laid down on the wood of the bar. She smiled. Only someone as loaded as Blaine would feel the need to have a goddamn bar in his bedroom. “Ah, thank you. I—”

“No need to explain, Erica.” The satisfaction in the woman’s soft voice made Erica want to crawl under the bed as her face burned. She heard the door close behind her, grateful that the maid had not shown up later — though she had no real idea what was coming later.

Fighting the absurdly strong urge to turn to look at her meager repast, she kept herself plastered to the glass like a perp thrown against a convenient wall by a cop to search and cuff.

She assumed the cuffs would be coming a little later.

The sun had lowered considerably, its waning, filtered light shining directly into the room. Erica wondered at the shadow her body must have cast on the wall behind her. Alas, she didn’t dare turn to look at it. Yes, the idea of Blaine whipping her ass didn’t exactly sound all bad, but she hadn’t yet summoned up enough courage to defy one of his orders outright. Besides, she knew she wasn’t a brat; she found it a richer, far more exciting experience to obey him… in everything.

So there she stood, watching the daytime world slowly give way to that of the night. She grew up in Portland, OR, and she remembered the remarkable transformation that occurred in downtown on the weekends. Where during the daylight hours there were the business suits, the tasteful, stylish skirts, the occasional garishly dressed hippie bucking the conformity of the business day, those gave way to the night — and an entirely different city seemingly grew right out of the ground. There were the street kids, the slumming, BMW-driving teenagers, the punks, wannabe gangbangers, the hookers — she had even seen a man walking across Ankeny wearing nothing but a pair of assless chaps.

That concept of two beings in one had stayed with her, for it was something she felt particularly keenly. She’d given up trying to relate to friends swooning over the romantic dinner their boyfriends had taken them on, when her idea of “romance” was to be bent naked over the back of her couch and spanked. She’d ceased arguing with friends who’d used sex as a tool, leverage to be used against boyfriends that she generally found rather nice (though there were one or two douche bags as well, truth be told).

The very idea of withholding sex seemed… alien to her. Erica couldn’t really get enough of it, as long as it was kinky — preferably depraved. She liked giving pleasure, and her drive, her urge to serve had always unnerved her. Her mother tutted at Erica when she deferred to others, strived, often at her expense, to make others feel better. She loved taking care of people — and that drive naturally extended into her sexuality.

The blue white of arc-sodium streetlights randomly flickered on below. A single, poor police car, strobes and blues flashing, crawled along the nearly gridlocked coastal road. It surprised her to see only one cop on the night of the Fourth of July, but then again, the night had barely begun. People from the valley would be flooding in, and the cops would have more pressing matters to attend to than directing traffic. Up in her world though, none of that mattered, really, for her concern was only for him — and for her. It was a big night; Sir had told her that he and Kathryn had been discussing things, their arrangement. He had hinted that it might be time to take things to the next level. They would need to test her though, to see if she was capable of meeting all of their… needs.

Erica just hoped she didn’t fuck it all up.

“You’re a good girl.”

Erica had been leaning against the window, her shoulders burning, and she straightened at his voice.

Glass clinked together somewhere behind her as a mass of humanity gathered down below her, preparing to celebrate.

“Do you remember our first meeting, Erica?” She felt him moving close behind her. Her arms trembled with the fatigue of holding them up for so long.

“Of course.”

A finger tapped her shoulder. “Don’t ‘of course’ me, girl.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

“I’ll let it slide, but only because my fearsome wife hasn’t arrived yet.”

“She’s coming… here?” Erica gulped, thinking “fearsome” to be a particularly apt description for her strict Mistress.

“Mm hmm,” Blaine said sipping from his drink, and leaning his back against the window, letting her see him. His close-cropped hair, white t-shirt and muscular arms made him look more like a mixed martial arts fighter than an executive, but she knew he purposely eschewed the look of a “suit.” The fact that he owned this house and close to a dozen other properties in this town alone confirmed he was every bit as successful in business as she had no doubt he’d be in a fighting ring.

He cocked his head. “Why the face? I thought you’d be happy.”

“I—I just didn’t know, Sir.”

His eyes glinted, and he smiled over the rim of his glass. Though he looked like he could tear phone books in half with his hands, his eyes gave the whole game away. It was what struck her that first night, and it still struck her now. Despite the fact that he was her Sir, commanded her obedience, those eyes of his held such warmth, such kindness. She’d not realized how much her life needed those two things until the night she’d agreed to let her friend Cam set her up to meet a friend. Cam knew what kind of man Erica was after, and when she’d first laid eyes on those deep browns, saw the playfulness, the caring, she thought maybe Cam had known more than she’d let on.

“You’ll have to get used to that.” He winked at her. “I don’t know where she is half the time, either.”

Erica smiled. “Yes, Sir.”

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see Kathryn — quite the opposite, really. Nevertheless, she was a lot to take in, a trial to be sure — and Erica wanted to be ready for her. She was attracted to the cold beauty of her Mistress, like a supplicant to a cruel Goddess. She craved kneeling at her feet, wringing whatever kindness she could from the smallest of gestures from the aloof woman. Those kindnesses gave Erica pure joy — perhaps because such things from her Mistress were so very rare.

Truth was sometimes hard for Erica to come to grips with, and in this case, she knew she craved more than those fleeting kindnesses from her Mistress. No, she needed the other part of her too, needed that darkness, that willingness to revel in Erica’s pain, her humiliation. It was only with Kathryn, did Erica realize fully what she was, what she’d been all along but hadn’t the words to describe it.

Blaine’s hand reached out, molding itself around her ribcage, stroking the fabric of her blouse. His touch sent ticklish electricity through her skin. “You do remember that night don’t you?”

“Every second, Sir.”

“Then you know what I want you to do, don’t you?”

She shot a glance at Blaine. “Now?”

Lips tight and jaw firm, he nodded slowly, light dancing in his eyes.

She unbuttoned the blouse quickly, keeping her eyes on the task, not trusting her trembling fingers to complete the job without direct supervision.

His hand patted her ass, and he walked away. She turned toward him, slipping the last button and pulling the blouse from her slacks.

“No, turn back around.”

“Blaine—”

He glared at her, his jaw clenched.

“Sorry. It’s just that… they’ll see.

“And what if they do?”

She inhaled, her breath shaky. “I don’t … know.”

“That’s something else you’d better get used to, girl. If you really want to do this, be mine, this body is going to be on display. A lot.”

He was at her back once more, his lips touching her cheek, kissing the smooth flesh at the join of shoulder and neck. “Yes, I think you’ll have some adjusting to do won’t you?

“Yes, Sir.” Her hands clutched both sides of the blouse. She was grateful for something to hold on to her fingers trembled so much.

His arm reached around her, the warm hand sliding up her belly. Fingers worked at her bra, releasing the front clasp in moments, the lace falling away to let cool air caress her breasts. “How will you react when we make you walk down a city street in a skin tight shirt but no bra? Your hard nipples on display for all to see?”

Clutching them both in his big hands, he squeezed her breasts firmly. “I think we’ll make you wear some nice tall heels too. Get those hips rolling and these tits bouncing.”

She dropped her eyes as her deep blush traveled down her neck, the flushing evident even on the slopes of the breasts still clutched in his big hands.

“I love your reactions,” he murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth. “You can’t hide anything from me, you know.”

“Yes, Sir.” She didn’t want to hide anything from him — ever. She only hoped it would be enough, her submission the key that would unlock his heart to her.

He spun her around, forcing her chest against the window. His hands pulled the blouse and loose bra out to the sides and she gasped as her breasts made contact with the cold glass.

“Don’t you dare move,” he growled. He clawed at her slacks, yanking them down along with the black thong.

“Sir, wait I—”

“Shh, just be a good girl. Obey me.”

Breathing labored, heart racing, she closed her eyes against the embarrassment of it. She felt as if every eye down below was trained upon her now, watching the girl with her naked boobs squashed against the window.

Urging her to lift each foot in turn, he slipped off her heels. His hands massaged the grooves the straps left in her flesh, then pulled her slacks completely off. Naked from the waist down, she fought the insanely powerful urge to bring her hands down to cover her pussy. They could see all of it!

“Spread your legs.”

His hard hand stung her ass, and she tried to ignore the embarrassing jiggle of her flesh. “Wider.”

She moved her feet shoulder width apart, trying to ignore the image of what she must look like; the dark patch of pubic hair drawing the eye like a beacon to the sex nestled between pale thighs.

Strong hands gripped her buttocks, kneading the flesh. “God, I thought about this ass all day long.”

Erica’s breath hitched as his fingers dipped into the valley between the cheeks, stroking the velvet flesh of her bottom hole.

“I had Jack Weber giving me construction estimates for the new server farm, and all I could think about was being inside you, fucking this wet cunt.”

A hand smacked against her soft labia, and she yelped. Despite the sting, she could feel the slickness of her sex increase by the second. He always knew how to touch her — just that right mix of roughness, possessiveness. His fingers spread her labia apart, the air cool on her heated inner flesh. Two thick fingers slid in, sinking deep into her wetness, and a low moan escaped her lips.

“All ready I see,” he chuckled, planting a light kiss behind her ear. “Soon enough, bad girl. Soon enough.”

There was a sound of a zipper lowering.

Oh, God! Please don’t make me do this here.

Erica turned, dropping her hands from the glass, moving to step around him. “Wait, not—”

His hand clasped her upper arm in a bruising grip, his other hand grabbing her by the hair, pulling her up short. “What are you doing?” His voice was so quiet she had to strain to hear it.

“I can’t do that… there.”

Blaine’s hazel eyes locked with hers, boring into her, searching. She saw the warmth there, warring with the lust, the need to control, to own her. He kissed her, hard, his tongue plundering her mouth even as his fist twisted further in her hair, holding her fast. He bit her lip, sucked on her tongue, the almost imperceptible growling from deep in his chest making her pussy spasm.

“You’ll do what I tell you, girl. No questions.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, it’s just—“

A finger, scented with her juices, pressed its wet length across her mouth, silencing her.

“What happens to girls who disobey? Slaves who disobey?”

Erica knew this was right, had fantasized about this as long as she could remember. It had felt like a dream come true meeting a man like Blaine. However, sometimes it unnerved her, the reality of her submission more raw, more intense than even the darkest of her fantasies. She reveled in it even as she tried to flee from it. Flee from the woman she was deep inside… the slave who craved this.

She whimpered as he jerked her head, the sensitive roots of her hair protesting.

“I’m waiting.”

“Slaves are — punished, Sir.”

“That’s correct.” His voice lowered, the sound vibrating in her chest, through her pussy. “And do you deserve to be punished?”

No! Yes! I don’t know!

“Yes… Sir.”

“Good. You will be.” He released her hair, and pointed at the bed. “Bend over the side of the mattress and wait for me.”

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered. Blaine left the room, the door closing with a quiet snick, the lock thrown with authority.

Get it together, Erica.

She splayed a hand over her ass as she walked away from the window. She knew she was being ridiculous; it was unlikely anyone on the road below could see much in the waning light of the evening. The sun was nearly set, the clouds on the horizon awash in pinks, lavenders, and deep blues.

Folding herself over the edge of the high mattress, she felt the heat of her blush as a bead of moisture escaped from between her labia, wetting the curls of her sex. Punishment always did that to her, the anticipation and dread becoming all mixed up, confusing her. Soon the pain would clear her mind, simplify everything into nothing but sensation and reaction.

The waiting was as bad as the punishment (okay, maybe it wasn’t quite as bad), and she knew Blaine took great joy in making her wait. He never told her how long she’d have to stew until he'd carry out the sentence. He’d make her lie there for two minutes, or twenty. She never knew, and that uncertainty was itself a cruel certainty of any punishment. Blaine believed that punishment needn’t just be physical — it could be psychological as well. Getting into, and messing with, a sub’s head was a favorite technique of his… and in that, he wasn’t alone.

Shivers coursed through her body at the thought of what Kathryn would do were she to walk into the room and see a bare-bottomed Erica laid out like this for punishment. Though Blaine could be scary when he wanted to be, it was her Mistress who truly terrified Erica.

The fact that such terror held more than a slight undercurrent of excitement to it disturbed Erica. Was it normal to be turned on by fear? She knew the answer to that — and it didn’t lend her any comfort. She wasn’t sure she knew how it was possible to be both scared to death of the woman, and yet have her pussy be soaked at the thought of being under her thumb.

It made no sense, but Erica had long since passed trying to sort out her desires. Things were just too tangled up, her sexual motivations so convoluted as to make any determination of the whys of whom and what she was, impossible. She’d just learned to accept it — mostly. Someday she would examine those motivations more closely, but right now, all she cared to do was surrender to sensation, surrender to her Sir, to her Mistress. Nothing else mattered.

The door opened again, and she heard his heavy footfalls draw near. Something solid hit the mattress near her head, the air current disturbing a strand of her hair.

“No, not there. Other side, Erica. I want that ass facing the windows. Better light.”

She gulped, nodding. Erica had hoped he’d let it go, but as usual he didn’t. Why did she hope for something she didn’t really want? Leniency wasn’t what she wanted. Quite the opposite, actually.

As she moved around to the other side of the bed, her eyes alighted on what he’d dropped on the mattress.

The paddle.

It was a broad rectangular piece of dark leather; flexible enough not to cut her with harsh edges, but with enough stiffness to give her what she knew he intended — a roasted ass.

He took up the paddle, swinging it a few times through the air, practicing his form. He brought the leather to her face, the smell of it strong and clean. “Kiss it.”

She pressed her lips to the cold leather, her face burning with a deep blush. He took away the leather and presented his fingers to her lips. She gently kissed those too, his hand leaving her with a caress of her blushing cheek.

It was a well-practiced ritual, but it didn’t make it any easier. Her Sir liked to draw out a punishment, luxuriate in her embarrassment, strip away any last vestiges of her dignity, and finally, enjoy her pain. it sounded crueler than she really thought it was; he was quite open about enjoying inflicting pain — but only if the person receiving it wanted it too. She was ashamed to admit she was very much that person, disturbing to her though it had been when she'd finally come to grips with that fact.

His hand stroked her hip. “Legs together.”

She complied, squeezing her thighs in a vain effort to hide her sex from his gaze. She knew that with her height, bending over the bed would blatantly display the swollen folds of her pussy.

As if to confirm this, his palm patted her labia. “I love the way your pussy peeks back at me this way.” Hands smoothed over her buttocks. “But I’m afraid this won’t do. Move your feet back.”

“What?”

“Come on, girl. Move them back,” he said, landing a slap to her bottom. “Your ass is too tight bent this way. I want those cheeks loose for your punishment. As much as I enjoy watching your cunt weep for me as I discipline you, I don’t want you clenching.”

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered, pressing her burning face to the thousand thread count sheets. She shuffled them backward until her heels came off the carpet, the weight of her legs on the balls of her feet.

“That’s better; keep those thighs nice and tight now.” His hands roamed over the taught hamstrings. “God I love these legs. These were what I most wanted to get my hands on when I first saw you, Erica. These long legs of yours. So powerful, so graceful.”

All she could think about was wrapping those legs around his waist as he pounded into her needy cunt. But first, she would receive her punishment… eventually.

She hissed in pain at the harsh pinch to her inner thigh. “I’ve got plans for these legs, girl.”

Those little comments made her wonder. Erica had agreed to see both Blaine and Kathryn on a regular basis. In truth, it had quickly evolved into a one-sided arrangement: one of them would call her, and she would arrive at the predetermined destination, aroused, fearful — and hopeful. She considered if perhaps their arrangement was about to change. How would it? Was she ready for it if it did?

Hands smoothed over the curves of her bottom once more. “Kathryn didn’t believe me when I told her about this ass,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. He grasped a cheek between finger and thumb, shaking it back and forth like a dog chewing on a toy. “But when she finally got a look at it, she marveled at it.”

She did?

Erica, like many women had a love/hate relationship with her ass. It gave her great, forbidden pleasure when her Sir caressed it, spanked it — even fucked it. But she thought it was much too big. Cursed, when other tall woman typically had slender hips and asses, she bucked the trend with what was (to her mind anyway) her too plump bottom.

“You still with us, Erica?”

“Oh — sorry. Yes, Sir.” The feel of his hands on her drove her to distraction, the thought of his thick cock pushing between her cheeks sending her mind spinning, even as her pussy clenched with need.

He continued. “Yes, well. Like I said, she couldn’t believe it. I think I remember hearing her use the words ‘dream girl’.”

Erica was stunned. She felt so inadequate when in the presence of the icy, steel-willed Kathryn. Half the time, she wanted to either kneel at her Mistress’ feet, or raise her ass for her whip. It was ridiculous of course; why would she respond in such a way to that callousness, the sometimes arrogant indifference? Could a woman even be described as arrogant? If so, Kathryn could occasionally resemble the remark. Something about the woman spoke to Erica though, spoke to her on a level that simply compelled her to want to do one thing.

Kathryn was so different from Sir, though not in a way that left him wanting in Erica’s eyes. No, to Erica, nothing about him would ever be found wanting. Nevertheless, the two certainly differed dramatically in how they treated her, their styles of dominance. To Erica though, they were just two halves of the whole — she responded (God did she) to both of them, regardless of their differences in technique. Her pussy knew what she wanted.

“That first night we all got together,” he said, his fingers stroking up and down the crevice of her buttocks. “She was almost uncontrollable.”

It was at an outdoor light festival, one of several put on display around the city during the winter holiday season, where Erica had agreed to first meet them together (she’d seen Blaine alone before). Nervous as hell, Erica had perched herself on one of the wrought iron chairs, her breath fogging in the chill night air. There were people all around her of course, everyone bathed in the dazzling white light of the displays, but the only two she registered were Blaine and Kathryn. Two beautiful, powerful, unattainable people — both there for her.

God, she was so beautiful, so far out of Erica’s league! She’d thought for a moment about just slinking away, wanting to avoid the humiliation of those strangers’ eyes comparing her gawky frame to the classical beauty of the willowy, elegant Kathryn.

They’d stood and moved away, just out of earshot of her (she’d tried to listen though, oh yes, she’d tried). Erica had watched them talk, watched them stare at her, the cold possessive calculation in their eyes sending chills down her spine, yet moistening her pussy.

“She wanted me to bundle you up and take you home that very night. No taking ‘no’ for an answer, either. Ours — whether you liked it or not. She told me she wanted me to hold you down while she caned your ass until it turned purple.”

Erica’s mouth went dry at the thought. Her pussy, however, had an entirely different reaction to the frightening imagery.

Jesus Christ, Erica. You slut.

Cold leather covered her ass, tapping gently, and she froze. “Do I have your attention?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Oh God, here it comes!

But there was no burst of pain, no loud crack of leather on flesh. Nothing.

The tension in her calves and hamstrings was already building, and waiting for her agony to begin only made it worse.

“I’m waiting.” The leather tapped her bottom.

“Sir, I don’t …”

“You’re clenching. Relax them.”

“Sorry, Sir.” Consciously willing your tense buttocks to relax in the face of an imminent paddling was not a natural act, and despite the fact that this wasn’t the first time he’d admonished her for clenching, she still had a difficult time complying with his order. Her cheeks just wanted to huddle together fearfully, as if they could better weather the coming storm. She couldn’t blame them.

“Now, girl.” The leather snapped down, heat blooming across her skin.

Come on, loosen. Relax! Get it over with, Erica.

“There, much better.” He pulled the leather away, and his hand lightly smacked each cheek a few times. “I like to see them shudder and wobble as I punish you. That doesn’t work when you’re clenching, and keeping those cheeks tight just makes the strokes hurt worse. Unless, that’s what you really want. I can oblige your needs by hitting harder if that’s the case.”

“NO! No, please, Sir!”

Her face heated at his low chuckle. “Okay, girl. Maybe another time we can explore just how much you need that pain, hmm?”

She didn’t answer, afraid one day he’d go through with it; afraid one day that he wouldn’t go through with it.

He laid the paddle across her ass once more, the leather still, menacing. “Why are you being punished?”

“Because I disobeyed you, Sir.”

“You did, though admittedly it wasn’t too serious an offense. You’re mostly a good girl.”

“Thank you, Sir.” She wanted to turn around and kiss him. Praise helped her, gave her strength for the ordeal to come. The pain was bad enough; his disapproval with her was worse.

“You just… lost your head for a moment,” he said. “Still, punishment is called for here. How many do you think you deserve?”

None! A hundred! Shit.

“As many as you think I deserve, Sir.” Her voice broke ever so slightly on the last word.

She tried to marshal her courage, to be strong. It was this way every time, a warring within her between the urge to flee — fight or flight — and the urge to tell him to hurt her, that there wasn’t enough pain for her.

“Good answer,” he said. “I think ten will do — a minor offense after all.”

The first stroke landed with a loud pop in the quiet room. The tip of the paddle wrapped around her bottom and bit into her flesh. She knew if he gave her a few more like that, she’d wake up tomorrow morning with nice, deep bruising on that far hip.

The next blow was harder, and seemed to cover the whole of her cringing bottom, sending the cheeks bounding.

Relax, relax.

His hand stroked gently over the marks. “Good start here.”

The next blow was much harder, and she yelled at the smart, the sting digging deep into her buttocks. “Felt that one?”

“Yes, Sir.” She drew still once more, urging, begging her body to cooperate.

The leather whipped down four more times in quick succession, and though they were just as hard as the previous strikes, she just managed to keep still for them, her cries muffled by the sheets she clutched to her face in desperate, white-knuckled hands. His growled voice admonished her to loosen her cheeks again before the last blow.

He stroked the body-warmed leather over the curves of her bottom, his hand caressing her lower back. She could feel the fine sheen of sweat on her skin already.

“These last three will be the worst, Erica. I’m going to make these hurt, because you need them. Are you ready?”

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God!

Her ass burned, the skin feeling abraded the way it always did after a solid leathering. It wasn’t nearly as bad as a caning, but she knew she’d be a sore girl in the morning, even without the last three strokes still to come.

“Yes … Sir.”

He bent over her, his lips whispering at her temple. “Be strong, beautiful.”

Quick, crisp smacks rained down upon her ass. Each blow was harder than the last, the pain searing, and she cried out at each one. He knew how to make a paddling hurt when he wanted to — and this time it seemed he definitely wanted to.

Erica sucked in a great lungful of air, exhaling it in a soft whine. The throbbing made her move her hips, trying to shake off the pain.

“Punishment over,” he whispered, making her kiss the paddle once more. He grasped her arm, and helped her to her feet. Her head swam a little and her bottom was definitely warm. Overall, though, ten strokes was a very light paddling, and she was grateful that’s all she’d suffered for her transgression. She knew it could have been a lot worse.

Blaine sat on the edge of the bed, tugging on her arm.

“W—what are you… ?”

The fire in the hazel depths of his gaze was unmistakable. “The paddling was for your punishment. This is for me. Over my lap.”

Oh no.

She swiftly found herself in that familiar, humiliating position, blood pounding at her temples, the unruly dark curls of her hair all around her. She felt heat against the side of her hip and looked back. His cock stood up from the open fly of his slacks, its heavy length laid along her flesh. The urge to turn and take him between her lips was so strong; she almost risked further disobedience to do it.

Blaine looked down at her, his jaw clenched. “Get your head down.”

She obeyed, shivering, hiding her face back under her curls once more.

The loose blouse partially covered her bottom, so he rucked the fabric higher, fully exposing her, the air cool on her sweaty lower back. His hands eased over her ass, the calloused fingers rough against her soft skin. Her thighs shook, fatigued from holding them steady during the paddling. His hands squeezed the lush flesh.

“Tired, little girl? We’re not done yet — not by a long shot.”

Blaine massaged each cheek in turn, both hands stroking, kneading, working the tension from her muscles. He traced each stinging, abraded mark with gentle fingertips, even bending to blow on them once, making her shiver. “Scorched here I see. Might be pretty sore after your spanking.”

“Um, maybe you could skip the spanking?”

His hands stopped moving, his body tense, still. She swallowed. Maybe talking back hadn’t been the most brilliant of moves.

Fingers dove into the tangle of her locks, twisting as he pulled her head up sharply. “Do you get to dictate what happens in this relationship?”

Wait — relationship?

He’d never called it that before. ‘Play’ or ‘arrangement’ were the terms she’d most often heard him use.

“N—no, Sir.”

“And why is that?” The cadence of his speech slowed, his voice soft. But she wasn’t fooled — when he got this way, she knew she was in trouble.

There were few right answers to these questions, and many wrong ones. “Because my only duty is to obey, do as I’m told?”

“That’s correct. So, does that mean you get to suggest I let you off of your spanking?”

Were it possible to unspeak words, she knew she’d be doing it now.

“Ahh!” Her scalp burned as his hand tightened in her locks. “No, Sir! I shouldn’t have said it. I’m sorry.”

“Good, then we understand each other, don’t we?”

She nodded as best she could against his steely grip.

Blaine let go of her hair, his hand stroking from her nape down the length of her spine, fingers tangling in the blouse bunched at the small of her back.

He squeezed her buttocks harshly, making her wince. ”Ready for your spanking?”

I thought this was for you?

She was eternally grateful her snark did not make it past her lips.

“Yes, Sir. Please, not too hard.”

Hands stroked circles over each cheek, adding to the heat of her paddling. “That’s up to you. Be a good girl, and this shouldn’t take long.”

The spanking began immediately, heavy smacks swiftly building heat to scorching levels. His palm slapped down onto the middle of one of her cheeks, the sound like a pistol shot. Soon, she was wagging her hips side-to-side, unable to help herself, even though she knew it would only encourage him to be even harsher with her.

“Keep still. I’m not hitting you that hard. A good girl takes her spankings quietly.”

What the hell was he talking about? Her ass was on fire, the pain much more intense than that from the paddling. She breathed in through her nose, and out through her mouth, trying anything she could to cope with the burning heat. All the while her body betrayed her, the deep uncoiling in her belly as she thought of what he must be seeing, her naked ass laid out for him to punish. She wished he’d give her a breather, to let the heat in her ass cool off, but his steady, hard blows continued.

“Please, Sir! Too hard!”

Blaine laughed, landing a smack along the top of her thigh, making her yelp. “We’re just getting started, girl. You aren’t fooling anybody.”

His hand spanked over every inch of her ass, raising a throbbing burn everywhere. He paused after a harsh blow to the bottom of one cheek, sending her flesh bounding. She was grateful her hair shrouded her blushing face, for she hated the mortifying feel of her cheeks bouncing and wobbling under his smacks.

“I love seeing your little bottom move, girl. We’ve got some good color now too. Need some more here though.” His fingers pulled up on one cheek, and she felt the stretch at the junction of thigh and buttock before he cracked a palm down onto that sensitive spot. An identical blow smacked down on the other cheek, shaking her whole body, the sting dragging a small sob from her.

Blaine moved his hips against her. “God, you’re fucking killing me.”

I’m killing you?

She wanted nothing more than to take care of his problem for him, but she knew there was no way it was happening until he’d roasted her cheeks to his exacting specifications; likely until they were hot to the touch, and tears streamed down her face. She had no doubt he’d then pronounce them “just right.”

“Spread your thighs, Erica.”

Thankful for a reprieve from the punishing blows, she gladly complied, widening her legs until she could feel her wet slit open, exposed to him. The first few times Blaine had spanked her, the humiliation of the exposure of her pussy (and often her bottom hole) to his gaze proved more of a trial to her than the actual pain of the spankings. She always felt so… vulnerable. Erica well knew that that was precisely the point, but knowing that didn’t make submitting to it any easier for her.

Thick fingers traced the sensitive folds of her labia, smoothing the delicate flesh out with gentle fingertips, then splaying her lips firmly, making her gasp.

Yes, finally.

She never ceased to marvel that two hands that could deal out such pain, be so rough, cruel, yet in the next breath, become so very gentle, attentive, even loving. It was just one of the many remarkable things about the man she called Sir. The man she hoped someday might truly claim her for his own.

A long finger slid into her, curling in the way he knew drove her insane with pleasure.

Oh God, yes!

His finger squelched within her soaked flesh as he stimulated just the right spot within her, the exquisite sensation curling her toes, the tension bunching the strong muscles of her thighs, her abdominals clenching. “Oh, that’s good,” she breathed, her hips rolling, wanting more, needing more. “Oh Jesus, that’s so good!”

Then he stopped, his finger held still inside her. She tried to keep it going with her hips, clenching down, twisting upon him, but his hand smacked her sore buttocks. “Stop that. You come when I say you can — if I let you come at all.”

She stilled her hips, but it took every ounce of willpower she possessed to do so. Erica thought about begging him (it wouldn’t be the first time), or telling him she’d let him do anything to her (which she knew he’d do anyway) as long as he let her come. The tension thrummed through her body as she kept herself motionless, hoping, praying he would continue.

When he did, a tear slipped down her cheek, her sigh of relief coming from the very depths of her soul. The man knew how to work a pussy, and he literally (and figuratively) had hers wrapped around his finger.

She sighed as he eased a second finger deep within her, but her sighs quickly turned anguished as he began spanking her once more with his off hand. The explosion of fresh pain had her crying out within seconds. The blows were different though, the stinging, jarring smacks somehow imparting a vibration through her flesh straight to her throbbing, erect clit, her tight nipples aching sympathetically.

Relentless, he did it twice more, working her to the brink, then stopping. Her agonized protests, her desperate pleadings rose again as he smacked her now blazing buttocks some more. The second time he stopped, he added the calloused fingertips to her clit, working the hard nodule back and forth along with the clever, devastating fingers stroking inside her pussy. She grunted as he left off for a third time, clutching herself to his legs, waiting for the harsh pain to begin again, accepting it as her lot. Her face was awash in tears, her hair wet with it.

“Good girl,” he crooned, thrusting his fingers as deep as they’d go, earning a groan from her. “That’s it girl, surrender to it. That’s what a slave does. There’s no choice in this, only acceptance. Give yourself to it, to me.”

Erica sniffled as he spoke to her. All she knew was that he had her; he controlled her, her everything. There was no longer any shame, nor any fear. There was just Sir and his slave. All she wanted was for him to make her come, to let her come for him. God, she wanted it so much.

Fresh tears came to her eyes as he spread her buttocks well apart, his soft lips upon the inner slopes, planting a tender kiss directly upon the delicate, sensitive flesh of her bottom hole. He worked a broad hand over the whole of her sex, cupping her throbbing labia,  coating his palm in her juices, the wet sounds of her soaked pussy making her whimper in embarrassment.

His fingers left off one last time, peppering hard smacks all over her bottom. He finished her off with a flurry of smacks marching down the vulnerable flesh of her thighs, the harsh pain of the blows drawing a strangled scream from her.

As she wept, the pain finally overwhelming her, his thick fingers slid between her labia once more. “There we go, girl. No more spanking now.” His fingers thrust in hard, and she moaned through her tears. It felt so good to be penetrated deeply, the primal, animal pleasure astonishing her with its power. His fingers were back at her clit, pushing the hood back, fully exposing the aching flesh to the pain and pleasure of his rough fingertips.

“Oh God, oh God! Please, Sir!”

“What do you want, girl?” He added a third finger to her cunt, stretching her further as he plunged within her once more, the thrusts rougher by the second.

“Please, I need to come! Let me come. Oh God, please!”

Rough, cruel fingertips swirled over her throbbing, aching clit, and he pushed three fingers deep, the tips hard against her cervix. She went over then, screaming out her ecstasy, the light in the room exploding into a brilliant white, blotting out everything in her world but the mind-bending bliss of her orgasm. She could feel her pussy flood over his fingers, her hips jerking as he wrung more impossibly pleasurable spasms from her. Erica knew she could happily die from orgasms this good. Her body finally hung, spent, her lungs working like a great bellows, her breathing labored. Beads of sweat ran down her inner arms, tickling her sensitive flesh.

“That’s my good girl. My lovely girl,” Blaine whispered as she came down from it, his fingers gently stroking within her. He swiped a fingertip across her over-stimulated clit, and she cried out in both pleasure and anguish. Chuckling at her reaction, he did it again.

“Ahh, Sir, too much! Please, I can’t take it!”

Cruel man. Lovely man.

He bent over and laid a soft kiss on her wet cheek. “Luckily, your Sir is merciful.”

Erica craned her head up at him, flashing a wry smile. “Is that what you call it?”

“Watch yourself, Erica” But she could see the warmth in his gaze. He was pleased with her.

“Come here now.” His strong arms enfolded her, bringing her up to sit on his lap, her long legs curled over his thighs. She rested her head on his chest, the beat of his heart a steady thump under her ear. The tip of his hard cock was wet, and she felt the moisture against her thigh as she hugged herself to him.

“That was … amazing,” she whispered, closing her eyes. Her ass and her clit seemed to throb as one now, the afterglow of her orgasm merging with, becoming indistinguishable from, the warm aching of her ass.

“It’s been too long.” His lips brushed her cheek, nuzzled the frazzled locks at her temple.

She turned her head up to him, to his intense hazel eyes. Such a beautiful man. How in God’s name had he ended up with someone like her in his life? A man, filthy rich, who happened to have the body of a god, holding this gawky, too-tall girl in his arms, cradling her as if she weighed nothing. Sometimes things just made no sense, and even in her short life she’d learned enough not to question too much. Not to question the good things.

“I want you, Erica,” he said, his kiss hard, possessive. His hand held her face while his tongue explored her soft mouth, her swollen lips. Enjoying, claiming.

He pulled back, gazing at her a moment, searching for something, the last light of the setting sun sparkling within the depths of his eyes.

Then she saw it, that darkness descending on his gaze like a cloud passing over a sunny prairie, just a hint of what lay beneath.

“Get up,” he said, a new edge to his voice.

Erica slid off his lap, drawing herself to her full height before him. She barely suppressed the urge to cover her sex, displayed as she was before him. It made her feel like a shamefaced little girl. The thought sent another little surge of moisture between the slick lips of her pussy.

“Take the rest of it off.”

She pulled reluctantly at one arm of the blouse. It was absurd to think so, standing there in front of him with her naked cunt bared to his gaze, but even the open blouse provided something. A symbolic protection, a weird sort of comfort.

“Now,” he barked. “I won’t have you hiding from me, not ever. Get it off.”

Swallowing, looking over the top of his head, she slipped the fabric off her shoulders, the blouse whispering to the floor, the lace bra following suit. Blaine’s eyes roved over her body, his jaw clenching, his unhurried, assessing gaze making her flush anew.

Erica watched his hand wrap around his cock, stroke slowly up and down the long, veined shaft. She licked her lips, and tried to kneel, but he was up and on her in a flash, a hand entwined in her unruly curls. She stumbled as he dragged her over toward the window once more. Back to all those watching eyes.

“No, wait —”

“I don’t want to hear you speak that word again, Erica,” he whispered into her ear. “We need to talk about that again, I see.” He used his grip on her hair to turn and push her against the window, her cheek laid along the glass. “But first, I want you.”

Oh God, yes.

She fluttered her hands at her sides, unsure what to do with them.

“On the window, over your head.”

Absurdly, she felt relieved he'd told her what to do. Despite that, the position made her feel even more helpless, further exposed. She had no doubt that was his intent. Even as she felt something hard and hot touch her ass, she found herself gazing at the brilliant red gold of the waning sunset, the beauty of it so unlike anything seen in the valley.

Blaine was a big man, and as his cock slid into her, she panted, the very tight fit just this side of uncomfortable. It was the same every time of course, no matter how often he’d taken her. She knew he liked that she had to work to take him, that it was never easy. Erica never wanted easy, she just wanted him — and stretched pussy or not, she’d have him.

The fabric of his slacks pressed to the backs of her thighs as he seated himself fully within her, the head of his big penis seemingly at the core of her. Her body shuddered at the deep penetration, the feel of his hard thighs against her making her grind her ass slowly against him.

“Shh, don’t move. I just want to feel you, feel you tight around me. Be still now.”

She moaned, fighting the urge to roll her hips. How could she? With her Sir’s cock deep within her, the need to work him, to thrust down upon him was visceral, primal.

He drew a whispered sigh from her lips as he began to thrust, just slow, deliberate movements at first, the slide of every hot, hard inch of him exquisite and maddening all at once. He kept at her like that, the room silent but for her labored breathing and the wet sounds of her pussy surrendering to the solid strokes of his cock.

“That’s it, girl.” The hand in her hair pushed her face harder against the window. “You just stay nice and quiet, and let me fuck this cunt.”

He let go of her hair, relaxing the tension in her neck. The light had lowered further outside, some of the creeping cars’ headlights now visible on the road below. Erica squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t look out the window like that.

A hard thrust shook her body against the glass, as he took up deeper, faster movements. She moaned again as his hips slammed into her ass, her bare breasts squeaking against the window. Her nipples had grown so hard, she was sure they would etch the glass as her body jostled under the assault of his thrusting.

Hands grasped her waist, squeezing. She responded by clenching her pussy upon him, earning a deep groan from Blaine. “Good girl! Such a good girl.”

Blaine pulled on her hips, roughly moving her back from the window. She took one hand from the glass, trying to balance herself.

“No. Keep them up there unless I tell you otherwise.”

Soon he had her bent almost double, her head hanging down between her arms, his big hands clasped tightly, possessively around her waist. Her hair swayed below her as he took up a swift rhythm, pounding into her repeatedly.

“Oh, fuck,” she moaned as he pushed close, filling her to bursting, the awkward, but pleasurable sensation of the big head forced against her cervix.

She felt his hands reach under her, clutching her swinging breasts, squeezing them until she whimpered. He caught her hard nipples between cruel fingers, pinching and twisting her sensitive flesh, making her cry out. The pain arrowed straight to her womb, transforming itself as she clenched down upon him once more.

He leaned over her, still stroking his big cock within her. “Just wait, girl. I can’t wait until these are mine.”

His? What… ?

“I’m going to have your nipples pierced.”

Erica gasped as he squeezed again, his fingers pinching them at the base where they met the smooth, dark surrounds.

“Kathryn and I talked about it. She wanted to have you tattooed. But I wanted to have you pierced. Nice, thick gold rings right at the base. Soon, bad girl.”

The idea terrified her. It wasn’t that she was afraid of needles at all. Rather, it was the dark fascination with it, with the pain of it. In her freshman year in college, her dorm mate Shauna had decided to have her nipples pierced for her boyfriend’s birthday. She’d dragged Erica down with her as moral support to have it done. Even though the man in the shop had numbed the nipples, then clamped them, Shauna had still cried through the whole procedure. Her high-pitched keening was chilling, but it had also stoked an illicit heat between Erica’s thighs. As she’d watched the man dab the drops of blood from Shauna’s impossibly red, inflamed nipples, Erica had been shocked at her body’s physical, lustful reaction to the undercurrent of subjugation, even degradation, in the act.

Ever since that day she’d wondered how bad it really did hurt, if it was the kind of pain that would morph into the forbidden desire she felt after having her ass blistered by paddle or hand. The kind of pain that made her nipples stand up, her pussy gush.

She grunted once, twice, three times as Blaine straightened, thrusting hard, shaking her entire body. Fingers reached down to stroke over her clit, and she moaned, twisting her ass against him. It hurt to have him stimulating her again, but the hurt just magnified, crystallized her lust for him. She wanted the pain, needed that edge to the pleasure.

“This… is… how… I… want… you,” he ground out, each word punctuated by a brutal thrust that drew panicky breaths from Erica. He leaned over her, still driving into her, one heavy hand clasping her shoulder in a painful grip, as he whispered in her ear. “If you were mine, I’d keep you naked, dependent on me for everything. I’d have you chained to the foot of my bed. I’d wake you in the night and fold you over the foot board. Take you whenever I felt the urge. No words, no seeking your permission. Mine.”

“Yes! Oh, god. Harder, Sir!” Erica could feel her climax gathering, spiraling higher. Both his words and his thick cock worked her, broke her down, made her a slave to him. Nothing else mattered in this moment, just the feel of him, his strength controlling her, enveloping her, binding her body and soul to him.

“Close, so close,” he grunted. His big hand laid down a punishing slap to Erica’s ass, making her yell, the blow reawakening the throbbing, punished flesh. A fist yanked hard on her locks, pulling her head back, the pain blooming in her scalp and driving her lust higher, that agony earthing in her womb, intensifying the pulsing ache of her clit.

His hips pounded against her in sharp, staccato thrusts, his tortured groan punctuated by the harsh pull on her hair like the reins of a thoroughbred. The pain kept her on the knife-edge of orgasm; the feeling of him riding her like an animal lending a taboo energy to their fucking that was at once degrading and exhilarating. Then she felt wetness flood within her as he came, the heat of it a delicious surprise. He slumped over her, catching his breath. Warm drops of sweat dripped onto her back, his labored breath whispering through her hair.

She smiled. He’d been saving up on his trip, evidently. Saving up for her.

They both liked to make her worship his cock with her mouth, revere the gift of his semen. Often, on the days he’d arranged to have her visit him, he’d take great joy (and if she were honest, she did too) in making her kneel naked before him while he brought himself off, thick dollops of hot come spraying over the slopes of her breasts, her exposed neck. Sometimes he’d make her hold her mouth open for him, the strangled purplish head depositing a thick offering on her outstretched tongue. He’d hold her chin gently in his hand raising her gaze to his, his thumb spreading a drop of his come across her swollen lower lip, the warm fondness in his eyes melting her, leaving her defenseless against him. He’d coo to her as he softly told her to swallow, to take all of it like a good girl. Then she’d lower her gaze, shivering as the warmth suffused her cheeks, the pleasure and the shame of it melding within her into a seething mass of lust.

His spent cock slipped from her sex, drawing a ragged sigh from her. His hands helped her to stand again, easing her back against the hard planes of his chest. Somewhere he’d shed the t-shirt, and she longed to see the sectioned abdominals, the powerful pectorals, worship all of it with her lips and tongue. But he just held her, one muscled arm over her chest, his gentle palm cupping the weight of one of her breasts.

They just stood there, both of them listening to the other breathe, reveling in the feel of flesh on flesh. The warm metallic scent of her Sir’s semen was strong as it leaked sullenly from her hard-used pussy. She had the urge to run her fingers through it, to taste it, but knew she wasn’t to move unless he ordered it.

The light of the sun had bled almost totally from the sky, a smudge of magenta and deep blue at the horizon, the night ushering in the dazzling star field above.

“I never get tired of seeing it,” Blaine murmured. “That incredible sunset.”

Erica smiled back at him. “I’ve never seen it before, like this. At the ocean.”

It filled her with such calm, the pure simplicity of it. She thought she knew a little now of why long-time sailors might grow melancholy when away from the sea for too long.

“When your Mistress and I were first married, we spent time here every chance we got, enjoying this beauty, enjoying each other.”

The pang of longing gnawed at her. She searched her feelings to make sure it wasn’t jealousy or possessiveness. Such things were corrosive, insidious, and she was determined never to let herself succumb to them.

No, what she felt was… regret. It wasn’t because he’d had that time with Kathryn, but regret that Erica couldn’t have shared it with them. She pictured them standing at this very window, arms wrapped around one another, two beautiful immortals enraptured by their new love. Erica would be there with them, naked, on her knees, the chain to her collar tucked in the crook of Blaine’s muscled arm. She’d press kisses to their thighs, to the fingers offered to her fervent lips. A silent, loving tableau.

It hadn’t happened of course, but who knew what the future held? It was a future she told herself not to hope for, her naive attempt to stave off the disappointment of reality. She knew she was young, a little rash at times (Mom and Dad would say a lot rash), so she tried not to get too far ahead of things. Blaine, wiser than his years might indicate, had helped her to let events happen on their own, to surrender to them — and to him. He’d tried to show her the peace found in the accepting of the vagaries of chance… and maybe even a little good fortune.

Erica’s stomach growled loudly, both of them laughing at her startled jump. She turned in his arms, looking at him, then pointedly moving her gaze beyond him to the bar.

“Guess we’d better feed you, bad girl,“ he said, winking at her. “All this fucking is sapping your strength. What kind of a vampire would I be to allow my victim to wilt so soon?”

She giggled at him, kissing his soft, sensual mouth.

Blaine nipped at her lip. “Insatiable.”

What more gorgeous specimen of a vampire than her Sir could there possibly be? She his source of sustenance, his blood slave, bound to him in more ways than her chains. The thought made her shiver, her pussy awakening yet again.

 “Go get your bread, and bring it to me.” He nodded his head back toward the bar.

Erica was starving, and just the thought of even that plain bread made her mouth water. She brought the plate to him, and he took it, dipping his chin toward the floor.

Sighing, she sunk to her knees. She spread her ass properly on her heels, her cheeks heating at the bounce and wobble of her breasts. He stood over her, bright eyes drinking in her nudity. Her gaze took in the broad, muscular chest, the brown, flat nipples beckoning to her lips and tongue, down the lean, sectioned abdominals with the light dusting of dark hair that dove down to his crotch. He’d tucked himself back in, only a tuft of wiry pubic hair visible in the casually open fly of his black slacks.

He bade her kneel closer, and she obeyed, not able to divine a way to do it without sending her breasts bouncing once more. Blaine pulled her head to his muscled thigh, fingers stroking though her hair. She kept her hands in her lap as he’d taught her long ago, though she itched to run them up the heavy muscles of those thighs, to feel the barely harnessed power of those legs hum beneath her touch.

They stood that way for some minutes, his fingers feeling positively divine in her hair, stroking the tension from her scalp. Then he stirred, tapping her cheek. “Raise your eyes, Erica.”

Clutched in his hand, the piece of bread floated just above her. She tilted her head, questioning, and he nodded at her.

Then she realized what he intended, and her blush burned to the roots of her hair, his broad grin registering the gleeful pleasure he took in her embarrassment. Plucking up her courage, she knelt up, taking the bread from his fingers with her lips.

She’d feared it would be bland, tasteless, but instead it was delicious, obviously fresh baked, and fair melted on her tongue. He tore off another piece, holding it above her once more. She moved to kneel up again, but a sharp shake of his head stopped her.

“Present your breasts.”

“What? I don’t… ”

“Use your hands, Erica.”

Cupping her breasts, she held them up to him, the globes quivering in her unsteady hands.

“That’s it. Very good.” He placed the piece in her mouth, the back of his hand caressing the warmth of her cheek.

There was a soft knock and Ana stepped in, a hand wrapped around the door. Erica tried to stand, but Blaine’s hand clamped her head to his thigh. She thought better of struggling against him, and instead hid her face against his slacks, her arms wrapped around him.

Ana cleared her throat. “Sorry to disturb you, Sir. Mrs. Forster called to say she’d be late.”

“Thank you, Ana. You can go to bed now, if you want. I’ll lock up.” Erica could feel the smug maid’s gaze on the round, bare ass pressed to her naked feet. “Is there anything I can … get for you, while I’m here, Sir?”

The bitch. No!

“No, I think we’re good,” Blaine said, mirth in his voice. “Thank you, Ana.”

“Good night, Sir.” A pause, her voice raised for effect. “Good night, Erica.”

Erica wanted to crawl into the floor, through to the center of the earth. But first, she wanted to murder Ana.

Blaine growled, his hand tightening on her hair.

“Good night, Ana,” she mumbled, as if chewing on broken glass.

“Oh wait, Ana?” His palm caressed the crown of Erica’s head. “There is something.”

“Sir?”

Erica could claw the woman’s eyes out at the blatant eagerness in her tone. The slut.

He’s mine.

It was insane for her to feel jealous about a man, who essentially, owned Erica — and who was himself married to another woman. However, love — and lust — rarely made sense. She could accept it though, and she knew she’d do everything and anything to make Ana accept it too if the tarted up maid touched one hair on her Sir.

Erica knew he’d probably punish her for such thoughts, but luckily, he wasn’t able to get inside her head — yet.

“Do you know where the arm binder is? The leather one?”

“I think so,” Ana said, hesitation plain in the maid’s voice. “In the … room, Sir.”

No, no.

“Okay, good. Bring it to me along with that black cloth I left draped over the end of the horse.” Blaine used his grip to turn Erica’s face up, her eyes reluctantly meeting his. Something danced in the depths of his gaze, and a shiver shook her body. He grinned down at her.

“Might as well bring the hobble too, Ana. This girl needs it.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Book II

 

 

 

 

Her Troika

(The Complete Story)

 

 

Trent Evans

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Prologue

 

The naked, sweating woman lay lashed securely to the bale of hay, her body motionless in the warm fragrant air of the stall. George Trask slipped in, closing the stall door with a quiet snick behind him. He stood behind her, taking in her beauty in the solitude of the afternoon. None of the adjacent stalls were occupied, leaving the pair blessedly alone, and George free to indulge himself with the woman who was nothing more than property in this place.

He removed his leather kid gloves, draping them over the top of the stall wall. Each enclosure was partitioned with walls and doors just barely six feet high, enough to lend a modicum of privacy but low enough that a passing groom or Owner could easily check on the health of the charges ensconced within the simple, utilitarian spaces.

The overhead fixtures concentrated illumination into the center of each stall, the broad, sun-kissed bare buttocks prostrated over the prickly yellow straw looking almost pale under the harsh lighting. Some of the Owners had once complained about dim lighting in the stalls, and George very much approved of the remedy for such complaints. A woman in this place wasn’t allowed to hide anything: she was bared to all on the track, in the display stands, and most of all, in the intimacy of her stall.

He’d watched E on the dirt track earlier, her heavy boots pounding the hard-packed soil, the merciless sun baking the ground. Round and round she’d run, the grooms’ whips licking out to lend motivation whenever she’d flagged. Her generous breasts, unfettered, bounced wildly on her chest, the vulnerable globes no doubt throbbing by the time she’d reached the end of her prescribed distance. The larger busts of some of the women never caused the trainers to waver, and E was no different. Sore tits or not, she’d obey the dictates of her trainers — slacking was never tolerated.

The bit must have galled the corners of her mouth, George knew, but it was better to get the creatures acclimated to such use as soon as possible. Being firm with them from the very beginning was the most merciful thing to do when training these women. To coddle them out of the gates was to mislead them as to the real rigors of the life their Owners had sentenced them to. For at this place there was only the running, the lash, and obedience. Everything else was meaningless.

George removed his light coat, hanging it from a hook next to numerous whips, crops and canes. The implements hung along the top of one wall, a silent menace none of the inmates in this place ever failed to notice. He ran his fingers through the lengths of leather, playing with the stiff leather flapper at the end of a well-made crop. Perhaps another time.

Rolling up the sleeves of his starched white shirt, his gaze took in the rounded curves of the female rump. It still bore faint lines from the whips of the grooms, but he was pleased to see they’d not needed to mark her over much. He preferred an unblemished bottom to work upon in case he decided she needed further correction.

His hand stroked over the urgent erection tenting the front of his pants, the throbbing between his legs more insistent by the second. He’d deprived himself of his slave for nearly a week, wanting her to acclimate as best she could to the rhythm of training without the distraction of her Owner. But finally it had been too much, and he’d made his way to the intake facility in Washington, eager to be reunited with his precious Elaina. Though her real name would never be uttered by any of the trainers or the grooms – the diminution of “E” her only allowable designation within the confines of the facility – in the privacy of the stall things were different. With only her lord and Master as witness, her name could once more be uttered, if only to remind her that she still had one, that it too existed only at the whim of her Owner.

His hands smoothed over the softness of her hip, acquainting itself with her lush flesh once more. The straw rustled as she stirred, her bottom moving against the bale. Her hands, bound wrist to wrist extended straight ahead lengthwise along the bale her body straddled, the cuffs imprisoning her wrists tied off to an eyebolt in the back wall.

His palms eased across the roughness of whip-scorched skin of her buttocks, pausing to squeeze their weight before stroking down the taut thighs spread to either side. The bound woman moaned through the stout black shield gag, his thumbs yawning open the crevice of the buttocks, the harsh light illuminating the moist cleft, the sweat-sodden valley surrounding the bottom hole.

“Shh, that’s a girl. Be still now, Elaina. It’s just me, having a look now.” The plug had stretched the anus slightly, the pink whorl still glistening with a light sheen of lubricant. Nothing she couldn’t handle easily though. He leant over her pressing his lips to the curve of a buttock. “How I’ve missed you.”

George inhaled the scent of her exertions, remembering the sidelong glance the head groom Lino had given him when he’d instructed that her sweating, trembling body not be sluiced down with the cool water most of the women were greeted with at the conclusion of a hard, exhausting run.

No, to George, who adored every inch, every atom of his slave’s body, such a thing would be to reduce the value of her exertions, and to him, any Owner who couldn’t partake of his slave’s talents in her body’s natural state, who couldn’t enjoy the healthy clean scent of her labors, wasn’t worthy of being an Owner. He loved all of her, and took great lengths to show it.

His hand palmed the swollen, sodden folds of the pussy displayed between the splayed thighs, and she sighed as he stroked the heat of her for a moment.

“You ran well today. So well.” He leaned close allowing her to feel the hard erection through the fabric of his pants, reaching under her, raising her up enough to free her breasts from under her body. “It’s time for a reward. Such a good girl, you’ve been.”

Stroking her breasts, he brushed a sheaf of straw from a turgid nipple, his palms luxuriating in the texture the rough straw had lent to the soft skin of her breasts. Working himself loose, he pressed the heavy head of his cock against the moist lips.

“I don’t know how I’ll be able to stand this,” he whispered into her ear, his body laid over hers, his thick cock sinking into the liquid bliss of her cunt. “An entire month without you is much too long.”

As he took up her hips in a strong grip, sounding the full depth of her pussy, her moans rising in urgency, he resolved to enjoy every last second he could steal with her in the waning afternoon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

The fog was so impenetrable Derek wondered if he’d even survive the drive up. Off the freeway, and snaking up godforsaken roads into the hills above Goldendale WA, he thought back on the e-mail. His friend Kurt had told Derek when, where, and finally:

‘Ask for a week off, for now. You’ll need it. Bring nothing but yourself — and a healthy appetite.’

Cryptic as fuck, which was standard operating procedure for Kurt. Derek had always wondered what Kurt got up to that one weekend a month. Without fail, the man disappeared — literally — for those two days. National Guard? Survivalist retreat? Civil War reenactments? Derek wanted to know, yet no matter how he questioned Kurt, all he got was a brick wall.

So when Derek got the call on a Sunday evening — a Sunday evening of one of Kurt’s Top Secret Weekends, no less — he thought he’d finally get some answers. He just hoped he wouldn’t find out his good friend was a serial killer.

Instead, it was yet more mystery. But Derek was damned if he’d pass up a chance to learn more. It wasn’t as if he’d be sacrificing anything in his social life, which was on life support. What the hell could it hurt?

The road, riddled with so many potholes his truck felt like a fucking bounce house, ended at a heavy steel gate, the kind you often saw rusting away on lonely logging roads. Only this was no logging road. He glanced at his phone again, the glare of the screen filling the cab with its ghostly white light. Assuming the map application wasn’t screwing him, this was the place. He hit Kurt’s speed dial, holding the phone to his head as he wiped the condensation from the driver’s side window.

“This is Kurt.”

“Hey, I’m here I think.” Derek leaned forward, trying to make out anything through the opaqueness of the fog. “Yellow gate? Chained up?”

“Yep, that’s me. Glad you’re here.”

The windshield wipers swept across the glass, smearing the condensation from the fog rather than clearing it. Derek cursed, switching them off. “It’s thick tonight, man. Why the hell are you all the way up here?”

“We’ll take about it later. Look Derek”—Kurt’s deep rumble dropped another octave—”I need to know one thing.”

“Just don’t tell me you’ve got bodies in your trunk, okay?” Derek’s laugh sounded less forced than it felt.

“Nothing like that. Don’t worry. But I need to know that you’ve got an open mind. You’re going to see things, do things, that will probably be … new to you.”

What? Cloak and Dagger much?

“Kurt, as long as you aren’t killing people for fun, I think I can handle whatever. The guys at work and I have a pool on the first person to learn what the fuck you do on your incognito weekends.”

There was tense silence for a moment. “Derek, I don’t think that’s a good—”

“Kidding, dude. Seriously. Are you gonna open the gate or what?”

Kurt’s chuckle over the line was muted, but it sounded genuine. “You drove the truck, right?”

That’s one tentative check in the non-serial killer column.

“Yep. Once I got one look at the directions you sent I knew a pavement princess wasn’t gonna fly out here in BFE.”

“So drive around it.”

Derek looked at his phone, then put it back to his ear. “Say that again?”

“Drive around the gate. Your rig should be able to handle it.”

“Uh … I guess.” The gravel roadway sloped away on either, side small saplings and brush crowding either end of the gate. Not totally impenetrable. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just, you know, open the gate?”

“Sure it would ― if I were anywhere near it. We’re still a ways up the road from the gate. Stop being a pussy and just drive around it. Nobody’s going to care.”

“Except my fucking paint job,” Derek muttered, hanging up. There was an awful screeching sound along the doors as he eased the big Ford through the pine saplings, Derek wincing the whole time.

The roadway meandered up one last, long incline, Derek’s ears popping as he neared the top. There was a house, low, sprawling gray lines stretching away on both sides. Some distance from the house, clustered among several outbuildings and a large fenced enclosure, a large wood barn loomed, its boards also a weathered gray. Surprisingly, several limousines, and dozens of other cars crowded a small gravel parking area next to the barn. Derek thought he could make out several figures gathered outside the doorway to the barn, but the fog was so thick he couldn’t make out any detail.

The hulking black form of Kurt’s jacked-up Silverado was canted diagonally near the door of the house, and Derek pulled in next to it. Breanna’s truck wasn’t there, which seemed odd; every time Derek had seen the tall, elegant beauty, she’d seemed attached at the hip with Kurt. Speaking of hips, hers were…

Don’t do it, Derek.

He shook his head as he stepped down out of the truck. He knew it was bad news to ogle his friend’s wife, but a woman (especially an older woman) built like her was impossible not to ogle. It was nature.

Tell yourself that all you want, Mr. Rationalization. You still check out her tits every chance you get. Prick.

“‘Bout time you showed up.” Kurt’s tall, lanky frame stood on the cracked concrete of the front porch, the fog-diffused brightness of the porch light illuminating him in shadowed outline.

Derek pulled the heavy wool flaps of his coat closer. “Tell me this isn’t a hunting trip, Kurt. I will fucking turn back around right now.”

Kurt’s laughter, strangely attenuated by the thick fog, rumbled across the driveway. “No hunting. But there might be some prey.”

“Whatever.” He was used to Kurt evasiveness, but this was getting ridiculous. “Where am I crashing?” Derek cocked a thumb. “The barn?”

“Smartass. You’re in the house with me.” Kurt turned, opening the front door, warm yellow light spilling across the porch. He craned his head back over his shoulder. “The barn’s occupied.”

* * *

 

“You remember what we went over, yes?”

Breanna turned toward the smooth voice, thick with the familiar Spanish accent. Lino

“Yes… “ She felt the weight of his hand on the chain attached to her collar. Expectant. “Sir.”

The chain jerked, a reprimand. Her hands twisted at her cuffs. If she could get free, she knew she’d go after the Spaniard.

But here she knew she’d never get free. Not for one second.

“You must be much quicker with the responses, Mrs. Erickson. Any hesitation will be… addressed.”

Insane laughter threatened to bubble out of her at the word. Addressed.

Yes, addressed with the end of a leather whip searing her flesh, extracting tearful apologies, frantic supplications.

“Yes, Lino.” She could feel the flush beneath the cool fabric of the blindfold. “Sir.”

A rough hand glided along her cheek, then the door to the tiny space slammed shut, plunging her into silence once more. Alone.

The straw of the stall (she still couldn’t believe it) poked at her bare legs, itching, bordering on burning. She especially resented Lino for making her strip off her stockings, nice warm woolen ones, and forcing her to kneel in that freezing straw. At least he’d let her keep her skirt and blouse ― she knew she could thank the seasons for that. Were it summer, she’d be ensconced in that stall clothed in nothing but the blindfold, the rope, and her shame.

As if she were some dumb animal, and not a modern woman with a PhD in English Lit. Sure a doctorate in criminal psychology might have helped her suss out earlier the web of cruelty, lust, and fear her husband soon had her enmeshed within, but part of her, that small part she still wasn’t comfortable letting all the way out into the light wouldn’t change it. Not one thing.

You’re insane, Breanna. Truly.

She wasn’t crazy for kneeling, bound, blindfolded alone in a cold, silent stall. Okay, that was a little … out there, but it could be accepted. She had no choice in the matter, therefore, she knelt as she was told. Waiting.

No, what was certifiably batshit nuts was the fact that this had happened before.

She turned her head toward the distant sound of a hinge creaking. It was probably nothing. The fucking barn shifted and snapped and groaned all night long, almost as if it were a living thing.

Then two thumps, followed by the faint murmuring of voices could be heard.

“Well, guess it’s not the building”, Breanna muttered, her heart beating faster now. She tried the cuffs again, but they wouldn’t budge. Lino had bound her wrists together, the heavy leather cuffs themselves attached by a short, stout length of chain affixed to a ring bolt embedded in the floorboards beneath the straw. She couldn’t raise her hands from her lap — defenseless.

Not that it mattered really, considering how effective the tight blindfold was. Only a faint sliver of light could be discerned from the bottom of the blindfold, otherwise her visual world existed in purest black.

But the sounds, Lino had left those to her. To wonder, to anticipate — and to fear.

The sounds, two distinct voices were much louder now, the murmured, low speech punctuated by heavy footfalls on the floorboards, and another set of lighter, more frequent, irregular footsteps.

“Hello?” Breanna knew speech was prohibited unless directly spoken to, but kneeling in her stall, invisible to anyone passing by unless the draped their arms over the top of her lonely enclosure, she had the overwhelming urge to talk to someone, anyone, to stave off the boredom — and the sense that she’d been forgotten.

Stupid girl. You’re going to wish you WERE forgotten in an hour or two.

Was that true though? Sure, when she and Kurt arrived, things had gone almost exactly as they had her first time up here. The silent walk from the truck, Kurt’s hand clasping hers in a firm grip, not saying a word, not even looking at her. Kurt’s quick gesture with his hand, not even making eye contact with her, expecting obedience.

Of course, she had obeyed, kneeling on the hard-packed earth, irritated that her new woolen stockings were likely to be stained. Still, she’d felt the cold seep through the fabric, and was thankful for even that modest protection.

There’d been the quick conversation above her bowed head. Kurt’s list of instructions for the groom, Breanna’s face blushing deeply as her husband’s orders became increasingly strict, even severe. Then a quick touch of his big hand to her cheek, and he was gone, the stocky form of Lino standing over her. She’d looked up at the tanned, weathered face, the eyes almost black. He’d smiled at her, his teeth bright against his copper skin, he pulled her to her feet with deceptive gentleness. That had been quickly dispelled when he’d clasped her neck in the collar. Following the tug of the leash, she followed him silently inside the barn

“Which one did Lino say we needed to use?” The man’s voice held a hint of tension, perhaps nervousness?

“Stall two.” A different, deeper voice said. The accent was something she couldn’t place. Almost like a submerged Australian with a hint of something Germanic. “Ah, here we are. Two”

They must have been right outside her stall. Breanna’s heart pounded, and she tried to hunch over, make herself smaller, but the tight chain affixed to her collar prevented her from leaning forward much at all.

Bastard Lino.

One of her husband’s instructions to the groom was to ensure that Breanna couldn’t hide, specifically that she couldn’t hide her breasts. At first, she’d been relieved, fearing she’d have to kneel there in her own little world, her trembling breasts bare for all the world to see.

This was only slightly better, bound so tightly she could neither rise nor lie down, stuck in her kneeling posture. On display like some animal.

“Where should we put her?” Mr. Nervous asked. A note of eagerness had crept into that voice. Anticipation. “That bench?”

“Bend her over it,” the deeper voice said. “There, like that. Spread your legs, girl.” There was a metallic sound of chains. “Yes … there should be one on the other side too. See?”

“Got it,” Mr. Nervous said, grunting.

There were several thunks from the stall next door, the sound vibrating the floorboards under Breanna’s partially numb knees. She wondered how much longer she’d be left in that position, her lower legs threatening to fall asleep soon.

Breanna heard a soft whimper. A female? She heard it again, louder, but she couldn’t make out any words. Another woman! She wouldn’t be alone here after all. It was cold comfort, kneeling there in the straw, but just knowing she wouldn’t be the only woman there this weekend meant she wouldn’t be the sole focus of attention.

Unlike last time.

She shuddered, squeezing her thighs shut at the treacherous tingling in her pussy at the dark memories of her inaugural visit to this place.

Breanna froze at the sound of something metal banging against the wood wall of her enclosure, the air pressure changing ever so slightly.

“Who do we have here?” The deep voice intoned, obviously looking at Breanna. She swallowed, her throat suddenly parched. She stayed very still, the instinct to freeze strong, as if by freezing she could blend into her surroundings, hide from the predators.

“I’m not sure. Tits look to be almost as big as Simona’s.”

“These are bigger,” Deep Voice said. “Simona’s shorter, makes them look bigger. This lecker here’s a tall one, she is.”

Lecker? Breanna struggled to remember. It was familiar — very familiar. Then she had it.

It was a slang term, something she remembered hearing on a travel show on the radio a few days ago. Lecker meant luscious or wonderful. It was South African. Now she could place that accent!

Way to go, genius. You’re still bound here like a prize turkey. Figuring out someone’s accent doesn’t solve the problem at hand, does it?

“Wonder why they’ve got her clothes still on her?” Mr. Nervous. Chatty motherfucker. Breanna wanted to kick him in the nuts.

“Doesn’t matter,” the South African said, his voice turning away and back into their stall. “We’ll all get a look at what she’s hiding soon enough.”

“Oh? How?” Mr.Nervous’s voice turned away too, and Breanna let out a breath, tension ratcheting down ever so slightly.

The thought of these strange faceless men … touching her, was disturbing — but not nearly as much as she thought it should be.

“How does this even come off?” Nervous man was no longer so nervous, his voice thick. “Does this ever come off, Johan?”

A name! Breanna almost exclaimed it aloud. She committed it to memory, knowing she’d likely have little chance to confirm the information. Tightly blindfolded nearly that entire inaugural weekend, there were several nameless men who’d been privy to rather … intimate knowledge of Breanna’s person. The only things she knew of them were the cruel hands, the gruff, demanding voices, and the relentless pounding of their hard cocks.

South African chuckled. “It does, when I wish it.”

“How often do you … wish it?”

“You ask lotta questions, man.”

Two steps, and something rustled. Fabric? Clothing?

“Sorry Johan, I’ve just … I’ve never seen a belt like that.”

“It’s okay, Kearney.” A pause. “She gets out every couple weeks or so. If she’s good.”

Breanna caught her breath. Did they mean?

Tell me they do not keep her in one of those …

“Couple of weeks? Jesus…” She couldn’t tell if it was horror or mere curiosity in Kearney’s voice.

There was the sound of a hand clapping someone’s back. “Relax about it, Kearney. It’s what she needs. You want …?”

There was a snap of leather, and the sound of a buckle rattling. “No, I can try.”

“Yeah, man. Pull off all the snaps. They’re tight — yeah, you see how they slide through?”

“Oh, yes I see,” Kearney said, his voice strained. “Let’s — Jesus, damned tight!”

There was a low moan.

“Shh, stay there, Simona.” There was a fondness in Johan’s deep voice. “Be good now.”

Another thunk, and a step. “How does?”

“Reach between her legs, Kearney. There — right, the buckle.”

“Got it,” Kearney grunted. “This is a bitch.”

“She’s well—looked after,” Johan said. “You should think about one of your own. Nothing like it.”

There was a dismissive snort. “Too much work. I like borrowing yours.”

“Selfish bastard,” Johan muttered.

Breanna inhaled sharply, suddenly remembering she needed to breathe. She felt sorry for the girl, but it was impossible not to listen. They were ten feet away!

“Unh, unnnh!” The soft voice was strained, lost. Gagged?

“There, slow. Slow, Kearney.” Another clink of a buckle. “Here give it to me.”

“She’s soaked … “

Breanna could hear the girl breathing like a bellows. Was that arousal she could smell on the air too? She wasn’t sure if it was hers (her pussy clenched at each tortured moan from the stall next door) or the girl’s.

“No — that smaller strap too,” Johan said. “You’re not done.”

“Here?”

“Unsnaps from the main belt, and just pull it back through … now, you’ve got it.”

“Unnh! UNNNH!” There was a harsh slap, the sound echoing in the stall.

“Keep quiet, Simona. Let him learn.”

“Christ Johan … it’s fucking huge.”

The South African’s deep laughter rumbled. “Impressive, ya? She needs it though. Keeps her in line like nothing else, man. Ready?”

“Guess so. Will this hurt her?”

“Of course — but not as much as it did going in. Don’t be a girl, Kearney. Get on with it.”

“UNNNH AH AHHHH!” Feet stamped the boards, hard.

“Slow and steady, Kearney. That’s right.” There was the sound of a hand patting bare flesh. “Relax and push out, girl.”

The pitch of the girl’s whimpering descended from frantic to exhausted, her breathing labored. Breanna couldn’t help but wince in sympathy.

“Look at that … “

“Quite a gape, yes?” The pride was clear in Johan’s voice. “Took us a long while to get up to that size. But she manages regularly now.”

“How? That thing barely fits.”

“I didn’t say she manages easily, Kearney. She manages though because I make her. She gave up any choice in the matter long ago.”

A sliding sound, and leather striking wood. “Here, use this first,” Johan said. “I’ll help you.”

Breanna jerked at the first blow, the flogger startlingly loud in the enclosure. The girl grunted in surprise, rather than pain.

“Harder, man. It sounds worse than it is.”

“You sure?”

“Haven’t you flogged an ass before, Kearney?”

“Well, sure. I mean … “

Johan’s laughter rolled through the otherwise quiet space. “Oh, you’ve been thrown in the deep end here, yah?”

Breanna listened in tense silence as the flogging continued, each blow harder than the last, the deep voice of the South African exhorting his inexperienced companion to hit her harder, sweep upward, catch the thighs. Soon, the girl was keening steadily behind her gag, the flogger coming down on her with a harsh SHLACK, over and over.

“There that’s enough now.” Johan’s voice strained. “Have a feel, then we need to …”

“Burning!” There was wonder in Kearney’s voice.

“Great coloring too, yes? Nothing like a hard flogging to bring it out. You left some good marks on her thighs too. Really laid into her.”

“Ah shit, Johan. I’m sorry—”

“Nonsense. She’s tough.” There was wet slap, and a mewling sound. “Look at that cunt. Tells you all you need to know about whether or not she liked her little whipping.”

Breanna thought she could actually hear zippers lowering, then definitely could hear the crinkling sound of condoms being unwrapped. “No, use her cunt. You can have her ass another time when it’s not so sore. She still has to have that thing put back in when you’re done She’s not out of the woods quite yet, mate.”

The girl sighed, chains rattling against wood. “Christ, she’s hot!” Kearney hissed.

Then rhythmic slaps of flesh on flesh soon filled the quiet building the girl’s moaning quavering as her body shook under the assault.

“That’s right. Don’t hold it back now. Give it to her hard. She doesn’t know any other way.

Breanna’s pussy clenched in anticipation of what she hoped would come. But if her last visit was anything to go by, she knew if might be a very long weekend indeed for her lonely, bereft pussy.

The sounds of flesh smacking flesh grew louder. A sharp slap and a growled oath had the girl mewling again.

“Get deep, man. Her cervix is sensitive, don’t forget it too.”

“Unnh Ahh! Ahh!”

Kearney groaned, chains rattling and feet stomping the floor.

“Be careful, man. Come out slowly. She’s really close.”

A ragged sigh, followed by another harsh slap, making her whine.

Breanna wanted to see, yet she wanted to do anything but. To witness the poor woman’s defilement, nothing more than a receptacle for the mens’ animal lusts. She felt sympathy, and at the same time … envy. Her cunt was being pounded, her ass smacked. Attention, even of the degrading, cruel sort was preferable to her lonely stall. The sounds from the other side of the partition: South African man telling Kearney to pull out the next largest size from the case, only further inflamed Breanna’s lust. Her clit throbbed, seeming to swell larger with each heartbeat. Her nipples tented the fine silk of her blouse, the throb of her clit seemingly directly linked to the impossibly hard tips of her swollen breasts.

“Now, you’re going to need her help for this.” Johan said. “Yes, just undo the cuffs, the chains will keep them there.”

“This is … there’s no way, Johan. It won’t fit.”

Johan’s low laugh rumbled. “She’ll take it. We’ve done bigger before. Grab that lube, there.”

Breanna could hear the wet sounds of lubrication being applied.

“Not too much, man,” Johan’s voice gentled, redirecting. “We want you to feel this, don’t we girl? A little slickness now to get it started, but nothing should be easy for you should it? Exactly the way you need it.”

A defeated murmur sounded from the girl, followed by another light slap. “Okay, let’s get moving, Kearney.”

“Jesus, Johan this is going to tear her.”

“Nonsense. Trust me.”

There was another rattle of chains, the girl’s rapid breathing clearly audible.

“Here, try this.” Johan’s voice lowered, stern. “You know you’re to help him. What is this now? There, better, but you’re too slow to obey—”

“Johan, no it’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. She’s been trained better than this.” Two loud slaps. “Get them back there, slut! Wide! Wider than that.”

“That’s more than I need. You’re sure this won’t hurt her?”

“Who said anything about it not hurting? I won’t tear her — if you’re careful — but it’s going to hurt her all right. That’s the point, Kearney. She needs this, the pain — she responds to it. Just wait, you’ll see.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, and a skirring of chains.

“She’s tightening,” Kearney said, irritation in his voice.

“Just keep steady pressure. It’ll give way. Just be patient.”

A wild mewling sounded, along with a frustrated sigh. “See, this isn’t working, Johan.”

“Need to talk her through it. She’s skittish because it’s you, I think.” There was a soft thud, and a clear gasp.

“Can you talk, girl? Move your jaw, now. There, better? Well, I asked you a question, Simona.”

“Sorry Master,” Simona’s soft voice rasped. “I—It is too big. I will tear. Please—”

“You had this very plug in your ass last week. Don’t lie to me.”

“We could use the next size down, Johan.”

“Absolutely not, Kearney.” Johan’s tone coarsened, irritation plain now. “She’s taking this one. If we have to wait all night. She’s not leaving without that plug in her ass. That one.”

Breanna’s body trembled, sympathetic to Simona’s plight, yet insane as it was, she envied her just a bit as well.

Two men, working on the helpless woman. Though it was something she’d never had the strength to admit in so many words, what was happening on the other side of that partition was straight out of the darkest depths of her own fantasies.

Somehow Kurt had known what she wanted — what her body needed.

And now, as she knelt there listening to the defilement of Simona, she was getting it.

“There, girl. Much better.”

“Thank you … Master.” Her breathless voice dropped to a moan again, whether of pain or pleasure Breanna couldn’t determine. Did it even matter in this place?

A higher pitched moan, then the sound of breath rasping from her lungs.

“Got it,” Kearney said. “I … can’t believe it.”

“Wait till you see her between the shafts, man. Make this look like child’s play.”

“Now?”

“Later.” There was the sound of snaps being fastened, and a sharp intake of breath. “She needs to rest a little while, yeah?”

“What do I do with … this?”

Johan’s laughter boomed once more. “Just set it down next to her. No, where she can see it. I want her to think about what’s coming next, man.”

“Are there more?”

“Girls?” She could hear the smile in Johan’s voice. “Sure — there’s usually at least a few more at the auctions. I’ve seen more than ten, occasionally. Depends on the bidders and … the selection.”

Auctions?

Breanna’s mouth went dry. She needed Kurt. Now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Book III

 

 

 

 

Expecting Surrender

 

 

Trent Evans

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Prologue

 

THWICK

God, he’s not warming up this time.

Not that she was surprised. Gentle and merciful were not qualities she’d usually ascribe to her beloved husband. But this is what they’d both agreed she needed.

“I’m waiting, Kirsten.” His voice was a soft rumble behind her.

“One, Sir,” she said, gasping as the stroke blazed fire across her bottom.

“Good girl.”

He tapped the cane lower, directly across the tender junction of her thighs and buttocks. She hated the cane there, which was precisely why he liked it there.

“Now, more quickly this time, or we’ll need to repeat the stroke.”

So reasonable, so matter of fact.

Another stroke landed, right on that spot. She jerked, her stocking-clad thighs whispering together as the pain rose again.

“Two, Sir,” she said, quickly.

She wanted to jump up and down, to shake the sting out of her tender cheeks.

“That’s better, Kirsten.”

The warning tap of the cane made her still once more. Waiting.

The stroke sliced in almost directly atop the previous one. She whined through clenched teeth as she called out the third cut of the cane, her bound hands clenched into fists at the small of her back. The heaviness underlying the burn of the stroke told her the tram-line was developing. Probably just a ghost under her pale skin now, but in a few minutes, she knew it would be a swollen violet. Just the way her husband liked.

The fourth stroke landed, burning like fire across the center of both globes. She rose up on her toes, her calves knotting.

Jesus! How many this time...

“What did we talk about?” His voice was deceptively gentle. “Heels back on the floor. No fidgeting.”

Kirsten exhaled a ragged breath, willing herself to relax. She knew he wouldn’t continue until she did, so she lowered back to the floor, her legs taut as bowstrings.

“Very good.” His fingers traced the swelling weals.

Kirsten groaned as the next stroke whipped in, blessedly higher, but still burning miserably. She knew he was watching, enjoying the movement of her hips as she twisted and swayed them to try to deal with the hurt.

“That’s enough, dear,” he said, patting her hip. “You don’t want to upset my aim, do you?”

She wanted nothing else but to do just that, but she knew better.

“Yes, K— Sir. I’m sorry.”

Her breasts throbbed insistently underneath her, their pale curves pressed firmly into the bed. He had considerately laid a thick terry cloth bath towel on the mattress before cuffing her wrists behind her back and ordering her over for her visit with the cane.

She wanted to believe the gesture was for her comfort, but she rather thought it was just to keep her from staining the expensive sheets.

Her swollen breasts were the reason why the cane was currently slicing into her vulnerable cheeks in the first place.

It had started when she’d decided to call him at the office...

* * *

 

“Keihl Warren, what can I do for you?”

“Hi, Keihl. Do — you have a minute to talk?”

“Kirsten? You okay?”

“Yes — I mean no. Are you alone?”

Keihl sighed. “Dear, you called me at the office in the middle of the day.”

She gulped. Anytime she heard that deceptive calmness sneak into his voice, the use of words such as ‘dear’, it meant she was moving into potentially dangerous waters.

“Maybe I can just call back when you can get away—”

“Kirsten, what is it?”

“Is anyone around you? Can they hear?”

She could hear voices in the background on Keihl’s end. They sounded close.

“You should have thought about that before calling me, dear. Spill it.”

She could feel the flush creeping up her neck, but there was nothing for it.

“I was thinking. Do you think we could... stop them?”

“Them? What are you talking about?”

“Keihl,” she breathed. “You know...”

“Oh.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “Let me think about it. For now, let’s keep going.”

So nonchalant!

It was if he were considering whether or not to continue a gym membership or something.

“Keihl. It’s been almost a year.”

“That’s all? I’m just getting used to it.”

She sighed. “Please, Keihl. They hurt.”

His low chuckle rumbled over the line. “We all have to sacrifice for love, my dear.”

Yeah, right. She had to sacrifice. He got to benefit.

“Besides”, he said. “It’s been great. I love them.”

To be fair it wasn’t all sacrifice on her part. He’d been an animal since they’d agreed to keep them going. Well, he’d agreed, really. She just did as she was told.

“At least let me take care of them while you’re gone during the day. It’s so hard.”

“I know it is. You should see it right now, as I picture them. Nice and sore, aren’t they? I’m glad I’m sitting down.”

“Keihl, please—

There was a loud jostling on Keihl’s end, and she heard his voice say: “I’ll take a look at it in a sec, Dave”, then “Yeah, it’s Kirsten.”

“Honey, we’ll talk about this when I get home,” he said, his voice deepening another octave. “I think we’ll need to talk about what reasons are good ones for calling me at the office. Telling me your boobs are full and achy is not one of them. You had me concerned that you were hurt or in danger.”

Please God, tell me Dave didn’t hear him say that.

She felt like sinking into the floor.

“Keihl, they’re killing me. Can I at least take care of them once before you get home?”

“I’ll take care of them when I get there, Kirsten. Just like we agreed. Unfortunately, you’re probably going to have more than sore tits after we talk. See you tonight, honey.”

He hung up.

Hanging her head, her heart racing, she dreaded her husband’s arrival as much as she looked forward to it.

Relief from her pain would come — but with a price.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

18 Months Earlier

 

“Stan, you’ve gotta work with me here. Three months will never fly.”

Keihl tucked the phone’s receiver between neck and shoulder, and picked up the steaming mug of coffee on his desk. He hissed as some of the hot liquid sloshed out onto his wrist.

“The initial EIS won’t even be done by then. Give me six and we can do it.”

Stan’s voice was silent a moment. “Six months? Keihl, you can do better than that. My investors need a quick turn on this development. Six months is not acceptable.”

Keihl winced, dropping his head back. “Okay, five months, with overtime.”

The prospect of putting in extra time on this job was slightly less appealing than a root canal.

“I don’t care about cost. My investors don’t either. Time is what they care about.”

“Four and a half months is the absolute best I can do. It’s gonna cost you though. That gives me maybe two weeks after the EIS comes in.”

Stan sighed. “Deal. Look, just get it done, and there’ll be a nice thank you with our final payment. I gotta go.”

The line went dead before Keihl could protest further.

“Did I hear you say overtime?”

His admin assistant, Ella, leaned a shoulder against the doorway to his office. Her dark hair was pulled back, the glasses she favored not quite hiding the beauty of her face. The way her navy blue sweater and matching skirt clung to her buxom frame didn’t do anything to hide her beauty either.

“Was the call that loud?”

“Not really. I was eavesdropping.”

“At least you’re honest.” Keihl leaned back in his chair, the squeak in one of the wheels getting worse. “Stan Broughton wants us to review, and draw up a formal response to the environmental impact statement for the Coal Creek development.”

He fished around through the stacks of documents on his desk until he found the latest package of plans. He tossed them to Ella, who caught the file without batting an eye. She opened it, her keen eyes scanning it quickly.

“Oh, this should be interesting,” she said. “There’s a wetland adjacent to the southeast corner, right?”

Keihl scratched his chin. “Try the entire south side.”

Ella looked up. “Um, that’s a cow pasture.”

“It was a cow pasture. Look at the appendix. Somebody at state ecology just had it reclassified as a wetland too.”

“Sucks to be that farmer.” She set the file back down on his desk, her pink painted nails tapping the paper. “Where’s he gonna feed ol’ Betsy now?”

“I’d kill to have his problems.” Keihl snatched up the file and slipped it into his laptop case. He looked up at Ella. “Stan wants the response in eighteen weeks.”

She whistled. “Good thing I don’t have a boyfriend. Looks like I’m gonna be living here for the next few months.”

“This job is your boyfriend.”

Ella frowned, turning for the door. “Don’t remind me.”

“Come on, you love it here.”

“I’m leaving, boss.”

Keihl laughed as the door closed behind her.

He’d signed up for this, of course. Having a real estate development consortium as a client had its upsides, of course. Pay rate for the firm was great, and other than the sorts of calls he’d just had to endure, he really didn’t have a particularly difficult client. Most of the time they were completely hands-off. But the work was never-ending, and every time it felt like he’d caught up, another huge development would get cranked up, and the senior partners would shunt it off to the junior associate — who happened to be him. He wasn’t the only environmental lawyer at the firm, but he was the best — and his bosses knew it. Which was why the work kept pouring in.

No good deed goes unpunished, right Keihl?

He looked over at the picture of Kirsten, his fingers stroking the caramel wood frame. Her long dark hair was whipping in the wind in the photo, her pretty eyes squinting a little against the sun. It looked like he’d be seeing even less of his gorgeous wife in the coming days — by far the worst part of this job.

“Shit.”

Turning back to his desk, he brought up the plat for the development on his monitor, already mentally counting the hours until he might be able to get out of the fucking office.

As he worked, he wondered if she’d make another of her… requests. He’d come to look forward to them, even if they still surprised him. Maybe it was better if she didn’t, since it appeared he was going to be chained to his desk for another eighteen weeks.

A faint buzz sounded from his coat hanging from the back of his chair. He plucked his phone from the pocket. A text from Kirsten.

He opened it, and groaned, putting the heel of his hand to his mouth.

A picture was included, showing Kirsten in a faded, worn white t-shirt. She’d had the day off today, and sent him off to the office that morning with a sleepy, but lingering, kiss. She’d been wearing that same shirt and a pair of his pajama bottoms. In the picture, the shirt had been pulled taut against her breasts, the points of her very hard nipples prominently displayed.

He smiled as he hit send, his cock already hard at the thought of taking those nipples of hers in his fingers, her cries of pain gasped into his mouth as he kissed her.

Kirsten’s reply came back in seconds.

<They’re out right now. Waiting for you.>

This had started a month ago, when, out of the clear blue, Kirsten had texted him at work. What had begun with racy texts, became racy photos, and eventually a few actual calls. She’d said it was somehow easier to do that way, to be more honest about what she wanted, when he was away. He didn’t question it — because he felt the same way. How absurd was it that two married people needed that “arm’s length” separation to really get honest about what they wanted? It didn’t matter though. What mattered was that it was happening. Sure it was baby steps now, but he looked forward to what might come next, because recently they’d embarked on something he’d dubbed “The Game”. Little more than a series of little tasks, at first — one night she does anything her husband asks; another morning she agrees to wear whatever he’s picked out for her — that escalated slowly, but surely. Over time The Game had… evolved. What began as something playful had become something ever more serious — and kinky.

And it was the most fun he’d ever had playing any game.

<Put that shirt back on. I don’t want you giving a show to the neighbors. Not unless I’m there to watch too.>

His mouth went dry, and for the thousandth time, he wished he could be home with her, to give her more than she’d bargained for.

He wasn’t sure if he’d crossed the line with that one, but his throbbing erection sure didn’t care. He smiled as her response — another picture — flashed on the screen.

She’d put the shirt back on, the upper swells of her breasts quite visible as she stretched the neckline down for him.

Keihl groaned, dropping the phone on his desk and adjusting his aching erection.

Watching that clock was going to kill him.

* * *

 

He found her in the living room, curled up on the couch under a splash of warm yellow lamplight, a book in one hand, her long delicate fingers of the other playing with a glass of white wine. The TV was off, moody classical music playing.

“Is that Wagner?” He laid his coat over the arm of the couch.

“Try Strauss, dear.”

He bent over the back of the couch, and she lifted her face for his kiss.

“You’re lucky I can even pronounce Wagner.”

He moved past, dropping into the recliner across the living room from her.

“Do the senior partners know you’re working until eleven at night?” She gave him a frown. “Please tell me this is worth it.”

Keihl shrugged. “I’m not sure much of anything is noticed up in that ivory tower. But there’s one thing they do notice. Results.”

“You sound like my sales director.”

“As long as the junior associate gets the shit done, said junior associate stays in the good graces.” He lifted a finger toward her. “Good graces mean said junior associate is on the radar.”

“Staying in their good graces is hell on our sex life.”

Keihl winced. “I’m sorry. I know this… sucks. But it’ll pay off.”

She closed her book, her eyes assessing as she sipped from her wine. “I hope so. With the hours you’re keeping, we’re going to go into debt paying off my battery bills.”

“I can’t believe you just said that. Joely’s rubbing off on you.”

“Not yet,” she said, giving him a warm smile. “But I’m starting to consider her tactics. Or at least her coping skills.”

“Come here, Kirsten.”

“It’s time for bed—”

“Come. Here.”

Kirsten gazed at him a moment, then rose, dropping the paperback on the seat next to her, her wine glass dangling from two fingers. She walked slowly over to him, her see-through tee shirt long ago changed out for a cream colored knit top, her long skirt wrinkled on one hip from sitting — and waiting — for far too long. She stood before him, a hand on her hip. He could just make out her enticing perfume, the one she put on only for him.

“The Game?”

She sighed, her tongue between her perfect white teeth. “What about it?”

“Did you do it?”

“I suppose if you’d come home earlier you’d have found out.”

Tonight had been one of the nights where he’d decided to up the ante on The Game. But he still wasn’t sure she’d actually done it. Especially when he’d rolled in practically in the middle of the night.

“Answer me, Kirsten,” he said, his voice lowering to a rumble. His cock stirred at the defiance he saw flash in her eyes.

Or maybe she’s just pissed at you.

“I did it.” She gave him a little quirk of her lips. “I just wish a certain someone had been here to appreciate it.”

“But I do appreciate it — and I’m here now.”

“You’re too late,” she said, bending to kiss him on the cheek, then moving around the chair toward the hallway.

He caught her arm fast, stopping her in her tracks. She looked back at him, color in her cheeks.

“Show me.” He pulled at her arm, and she walked backward until she stood before him again, her eyes bright, the wine glass shaking in her fingers.

“I said you’re too late, Keihl.”

Pushing? This is new.

And he liked it.

He’d always liked a little defiance — something his strong wife possessed in spades anyway. As part of The Game though? This was a first.

“Show me.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, glaring up at her. “I think you know what’ll happen if I don’t get my way, don’t you?”

Her breath quickened, her little nostrils flaring.

“Why?”

“I want to see if you did as you were instructed. Now, show me.”

She handed him her wine, giving him a little smile. He downed the contents in one gulp, setting the glass on the floor.

Her fingers gathered up the fabric of the dark skirt, exposing the long legs he’d been thinking about while neck deep in reports and state statutes.

When the hem made it to mid-thigh, she stopped, giving him another flash of her eyes. “Satisfied?”

“Not even close.” He reached out, stroking the smoky stockings encasing her thigh, his fingertips easing under the hem. “All the way.”

She gave him a roll of her eyes.

“Next time you do that, you’re going over my knee.”

Her sharp intake of breath told him he’d gotten her attention.

Apparently it was his turn to try something new. He’d only spanked her once before, shortly after The Game had started. It had been a clumsy, awkward affair that left them both laughing, despite his hard cock and her wet pussy. It had been a start anyway.

The skirt continued its slow march upward until the garters came into view. He looked up at her.

“Good girl.”

Her blush made his cock come fully to throbbing attention, and he spread his legs, adjusting his slacks. Her eyes darted down to it before meeting his gaze.

“Now, can I go?”

“You’re not done yet, and you know it.” He lifted a finger slowly, giving her a cool look.

She gathered the skirt until it bunched in her fists at her waist. The spicy scent of a very naked, and very wet pussy filled his nostrils, his mouth watering. The black lace of the garter belt and the suspenders perfectly framed the nest of dense sable curls tucked between her thighs. He ran his fingers through the silky hair, watching her bite her lip as he gently tugged at it.

“Love these curls,” he said, staring at them, stroking the hair up, then down with the flat of his hand, noting the peek of her bright pink inner lips as they engorged between her plump outer labia. “I don’t understand why so many men like a shaved pussy.”

“I can take a few guesses,” she murmured.

He glanced up at her, winking. “You obeyed me.”

“You didn’t think I would?”

“As late as I was?” He gave her a sheepish grin. “I was expecting a frying pan to come flying at me.”

“The thought”—she caught her breath as his fingers slicked back her hood, revealing a very red, very erect clit— “the thought might’ve crossed my mind.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

“Mrs. Warren, are you okay?” Bill Stewart arched an eyebrow at her. “Can you go over the proposal for us? Just need the highlights.”

Clearing her throat, she gave her boss a quick smile. “Thanks, Bill.”

“Gentlemen, you’ve got the packets in front of you, it’s all there.” She looked at the three men from Wasco County Power seated on the other side of the deep cherry wood of the conference room table. “But I’m not going to bore you with all the details today — I encourage you to read at your leisure, and check our numbers. Strict DOE specs on the design, but feel free to confirm it with them. What I want to go over today is how much we think this turbine system is going to save you — starting year one.”

Kirsten stood, plucking the projector controller from the table, and began her presentation, the same one she’d done before, and the same one she knew was calibrated perfectly to get attention. She’d worn the same fitted dark suit Bill called her “killer suit”. The man was not one to shy away from commenting on it, but she never took it as harassment or sexism. It just wasn’t how he thought. The man believed in results, and he didn’t care if Kirsten had to use her gift of gab, her brains, or her sex appeal to get them. As far as that man was concerned, they were all weapons in her arsenal, and he didn’t give a rat’s ass how she deployed them.

The words flowed, the clients were definitely interested — and not just in her boobs — but Kirsten’s mind wasn’t on the presentation. She was elsewhere — because of what she’d discovered that morning.

Kirsten still didn’t really believe it was true.

The presentation concluded, the hands shaken, the offers of dinner she politely declined, Kirsten made her way back to her hotel, navigating her rented Ford Edge through the seemingly meandering maze of freeways that crisscrossed through the beautiful green country west of Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina. She finally made her way back, dropping to the cool sheets in her darkened hotel room.

She sat up, stripping off her suit coat, and unbuttoning her blouse. She fished her phone from her coat as she kicked off the tall heels that never failed to hurt her toes even as she loved the way it made her legs look. The sacrifice was so worth it — if they won the project.

Traveling away from her husband had never been easy. She hated being away from him even more than when he was the one traveling. For some reason, it was just easier to be the one waiting at home for him, rather than the other way around. She’d never admit to anyone that when Keihl was on one of his trips, she’d occasionally found herself over on his side of the walk-in closet, inhaling deeply of the scent of his clothes.

Kirsten looked at her phone, squinting against the brightness of the screen in the dark room. There was a text from Keihl.

<Hey, beautiful. Call me when you get in. You can regale me with tales of winning yet another project. Hot shot.>

She smiled. Wonderful man.

Hitting his number, she got up and put on some coffee, silently cheering that it was a blend she happened to love. He picked up as she undid the last button of her blouse.

“It’s early, so I’m going to assume you’re not at a smoky bar shamelessly flirting with rich men.”

“Not yet anyway,” she said, giving her voice an exaggerated huskiness. “Zee night iss young.”

“Oh shit, I’m buyin’ a plane ticket. When the German accent comes out, someone’s getting laid. I better fly out there and make sure it’s me.”

Kirsten laughed. “My God. You men — one track minds.”

“Hey, it’s biology, honey.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “Why fight it?”

Tell him, Kirsten.

She inhaled deeply. “Something you probably should know. I’m late.”

Keihl was quiet for only a moment, but it was enough. She’d gotten his attention. “Not the first time you’ve been late, right? How late?”

“Over a week now.”

“Hmm, well, anything make you think there’s something to it?”

“No, which is why it’s probably nothing.”

There hadn’t been either. No nausea after eating, no pain, no sore boobs. Nothing she’d been told were the tell-tale signs of a baby on the way. Still, something seemed… off.

“I took a test though,” she continued. “Just wanted not to worry about it.”

“And?” A tense note had crept into his voice.

“Positive.” She had to remember to breathe, to stay calm, excitement and terror warring within her. “But I’ve had a positive once before. You remember after the honeymoon?”

“Yeah I do. I was shitting myself.”

Kirsten laughed, trying not to sound as nervous as she felt. “My OB said a few people throw false positives. Maybe I’m one of them?”

Yes, Kirsten, despite the astronomical odds against it being a false positive this time.

“What do you think though? Do you really think you are?”

Kirsten wasn’t sure what she thought. Did she want to be? Well, in one sense, yes. She wanted to have Keihl’s babies — and she’d known that from practically the first minute she’d met the beautiful man. But was it the right time for them? For their careers? If not, when would it be?

And what about this discovery, this new world of their sexual lives they’d just begun to explore? How would this affect that? She feared she already knew the answer to that, but wasn’t yet ready to come to terms with it.

“I really don’t know. No.”

“Better get you checked out then when you get back. Just to be sure.” The mirth was back in his voice. “Guess those horny CEOs are out of luck tonight.”

“Can I at least flirt a little?”

Keihl’s chuckle was low, gravelly, the sound earthing in her clit. “No way. I want you in bed at eight, bad girl.”

Her breath caught at his words, her nipples tightening against the lace of her bra. She looked over at his open suitcase, thinking of the small discrete bag, what she’d packed along with her clothes. Her friend Joely liked to call it vibratory diversion.

As if Keihl had read her mind. “And don’t even think about touching that pussy. That’s my job — when you get back.”

“Damn you.”

“Sleep fast, wifey.”

The following morning, still not quite awake even after three cups of coffee, Kirsten found her seat on yet another packed plane, dawn sunlight just beginning to pour through the windows. She reached over to buckle her belt, grimacing at a pinch at her brassiere. As she adjusted it, she frowned.

Her breasts were sore.

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