Surrender Boxed Set (Surrender Series Volume 1 - 7. BDSM romance with man love, bad boys, and billionaires.)

by Anita Lawless

  Downstairs is done up in a dark cherry wood with silver trim. We enter a large, round room where various toys, paddles, whips, collars, leashes, and other implements of pleasure / pain hang from silver hooks. There is a rack made from polished cherry wood with gleaming chains ready to bind wrists and ankles. A spanking bench made from black walnut with a crimson cushions on top.

  “Where do you want me, Mistress?” He gives me a wicked grin full of lecherous intent.

  I take my time choosing my methods of torture. Finally I select a whip from a silver hook and point to the rack.

  He climbs onto the shimmering wood and asks, “Front or back?”

  “Hmmm?” I blink at him.

  His grin widens. “Would you like to torture my ass or my cock? All up to you. I’m the submissive tonight. Remember, I really like pain.”

  I swallow and try not to cough. My face heats again and this time the blush creeps to my ears. But the offer is quite literally on the table, and I’m not about to pass up an opportunity like this.

  “Front,” I say, giving him a smile to match his own. “Your ass is lovely, but I’m much rather play with your cock tonight.”

  He chuckles at my boldness and looks suitably impressed as well as turned on. “Whatever you want, Mistress.”

  He quickly sheds his clothes and sprawls out on the rack. With the whip, I trace the contours of his body, telling him not to move or make a sound as I tease him. He can’t come until I tell him he can. I secure his ankles first, skimming the whip up his legs after I do, tickling his balls and his growing erection, flicking the single thong over his glans. Then I move higher, tickling his stomach with the tether, swirling it around his nipples.

  After I secure his wrists, I suck and lick his fingers before I feather light kisses down his arm, moving toward his nipples. Once at this dark, pink bud, I take it in my mouth and bite, not too hard but hard enough to make him hiss air through his teeth. His hips jut up from the rack and I stop, deciding it’s time for a punishment.

  “No reactions yet, sub.” I slap his cock with the tail of the whip. “If you’re a bad boy, you won’t get to cum.”

  He bites his lip and stares at me with eyes darkened by lust.

  I decide it’s time to go back to his toy selection and add to the torture.

  I asked Sasha to help me “study” for this flogging play date, and she suggested a cock ring to keep Damien from cuming. It won’t allow him to get off until I take it off, so I select one from among his assortment of erotic playthings and slide it on his slick, purple-pink erection. I see him biting back a moan as I do so. To torment him further, I tongue beneath his glans and slurp up his pre-cum. I hear his breathing grow ragged and shallow from the challenge.

  We discussed what he likes on our way over, since I’m new to the dom roll and have never played with his submissive side. While he can use a safe word just as I could, I want to please him just the same, want him to enjoy tonight as much as I do. All thoughts of revenge have taken a back seat. All I really want is to make him writhe in ecstasy.

  I approach a tall candelabra filled with crème colored tapers. After selecting one, I light a match and approach my bound submissive. He licks his lips and the orange flame flickers in his eyes as I draw near. Once some wax pools in the top of the candle, I tip it over his chest and let a small stream of this liquid trickle over his nipples, across his pecs, in a line down to his belly button.

  He writhes now and clenches his teeth, huffing air through them as he strains in his bonds.

  “Do you want me to continue, sub?” I ask, worried he’s in the wrong kind of pain.

  “Yes,” he manages. “Please. More.”

  “Are you sure?”

  His steely eyes lock onto mine. “Yes.”

  So I dribble wax across his lower abdomen, then skim close to his cock, letting some drip down his scrotum. He lets out a loud sigh but I don’t punish him this time. I suppose I’m too lenient a dom, but I figure he’s been tortured enough. Yet he doesn’t seem to mind at all and seems to relish in the challenge and ecstasy this pleasure / pain combination brings him.

  His chains rattle as he pulls them taut in his struggle to overcome the stimuli assault, to internalize his bliss and obey my commands.

  I finish up with the candle and then tease the wax away from his skin with the whip, flicking the hardened strips off with the frayed tail. His skin is red in places and I kiss and lick these fiery patches, soothing them with lips and tongue. He bucks up to meet my mouth and hisses from the contact.

  “I should punish you again,” I purr, “but I’m getting impatient to fuck you.”

  He grins that Cheshire grin. “May I speak, Mistress?”

  I nod.

  “Fuck me now. Let me cum. Come with me, please?”

  I consider this as I draw the whip back up his torso. “Where are your condoms?”

  He indicates a dark walnut bureau just behind me. I find them in the top right drawer and grab a foil wrapper from inside. After removing the cock ring, I open the wrapper and take my time sliding the condom on, just to add some last minute torment.

  “I’m a terrible dom,” I say. “I shouldn’t give in to you so easily.”

  I climb on top of the rack, my pussy now throbbing like mad and so wet my juices make my labia slick. After I straddle him, I tease him still, rubbing the head of his cock between my sleek lips, grinding it into my swollen clit. I moan and shudder as a ripple of pleasure moves through me.

  “Please, Mistress,” his voice sounds pained now. “Fuck me. I need to be inside of you now.”

  His cock juts up, edging closer to my sex, but I hold him off still, teasing him just a bit more before I finally give in and let his penis sink deep into my pussy. I sigh as I take all of him and my cunt stretches to accommodate his girth. He’s not too long but his shaft is thick and curved. So he hits my g-spot perfectly as I ride him.

  “Play with yourself for me,” he whispers as I rock back and forth.

  “I thought I was the dom tonight?” I taunt him.

  He growls and begs me again. So I let my hands slip down my body, tweaking my nipples before I move lower, over my stomach and then down into the trimmed nest of hair between my legs. I pull the hood of my clit back and rub the exposed bead of flesh with two fingers. More intense pleasure rockets through me, making me ride his cock faster.

  Soon we’re a writhing mass atop the rack. His hands strain at his chains as he obviously goes mad with the need to touch me. He thrusts his hips up, impaling me deeper still, making the pressure in my g-spot throb stronger. When an orgasm rockets through me, I have to lean forward and brace myself on his thickly muscled chest. The force of it makes me tremble all over and I let out a loud cry as juices gush out of me.

  He thrusts deep inside me once, twice, and empties his cock inside me. When we’re done coming, I collapse on top of him, kissing the dark curls that pepper his chest before I lay my face against his pecs.

  After we catch our breath, he says, “You should spend the weekend here. I could give you dominatrix lessons.”

  I look up at him. “So I am a terrible dom?”

  He laughs. “Not at all. But it’s a great excuse to keep you here and make love to you for two days.”

  I smile. “Consider your offer accepted.” Then I shimmy up his body and capture his lips for another kiss before I let him free.

  ***

  Bonus Story: The Executive’s New Clothes

  50 Shades of Fairy Tales

  By Roxxy Meyer

  Ethan snuggled up behind me and we spooned after our usual dynamite sex. He kissed my ear and I shivered, smiling sleepily as I nestled my head deeper into the pillow. I was warm and comfortable, and in a perfect world I’d never have to move.

  But this isn’t a perfect world, and my cell phone picked that moment to trill its Donna Summer ringtone—She Works Hard for the Money.

  Ethan groaned, and I wiggled my bare butt against his growing erection.r />
  “Hey.” He swatted my thigh. “Not fair. You’ll end up answering that, and—”

  “I don’t have to.” I turned in his arms and swept my fingers down his lightly haired chest, smiled up at his boyish Jude Law face.

  He stopped my hand just before it curled around his hard on. “But you will.” He smiled, and I tried not to see the disappointment in his expression. “You’re Katey Kitteridge, fashion designer and creative director extraordinaire. It’ll kill you to let it go.”

  I kissed the tip of his nose, ruefully edged away from his irresistible, lithe body and warmth. “Just ten minutes,” I told him as I bent to grab my cell from my pants pocket.

  “Right.” He grinned. “And pigs will fly this Tuesday, or so I’ve heard.”

  I shook my head and threw a stray sock at him before I punched TALK. “Hello?”

  “Katey, I need you at the office STAT.” My no nonsense boss and longtime friend, Lynette Perkins, had just ruined my morning quickie.

  “What’s up?” I asked her, casting an apologetic look at my best friend and amazing photographer, Ethan Whittaker.

  Ethan nodded knowingly and got out of bed. My gaze followed him to the bathroom door, not missing the guilt-tripping pout he sent my way before he disappeared inside. Before he did, I mouthed, “I’m sorry,” again.

  Lynette cut through my guilt, giving me details that had my heart racing and my anger climbing. “Blaine Devereux wants to personally commission you to make a suit for him,” she said in a rush, her usual calm, cool voice rising with excitement. “This is big, Katey. Real big. This could put us in the ranks with brands like Gucci, or at least get us rubbing elbows with them on a more frequent basis. This will make your name as a designer. You could open up your own house.”

  I tried to quell the anger rising in my gut. Lynette and her husband Jake were not only my bosses, they were my best friends. We’d worked together in the fashion industry from day one, and we’d gone to college together. People called us the three musketeers. I knew this was big—Blaine wasn’t someone you said no to, but I truly detested the man, solely based on reputation alone, and I had no desire to work with him.

  “Blaine Devereux,” I simply said, trying not to give the depth of my loathing away. “But he hates women.”

  Ethan emerged from the bathroom and raised an eyebrow at the name. He looked delicious, his lean chest still sprinkled with shower droplets, his golden blond hair wet and slicked back. Once more I regretted having to leave.

  “He doesn’t hate women.” Lynette snorted, bringing me back to the present conversation once more. “You can’t believe everything you hear from models and read in gossip rags.”

  “Well, I won’t pretend I’m happy to work with him, but I’ll do it.” I let out an annoyed sigh. “It’ll help me, it’ll help Well Dressed Man. We can’t say no.” I could almost see Lynette’s corporate shark smile when I agreed. One of the reasons I loved the woman. She was ruthless, but she also had an ethical compass. Like me.

  “That’s my girl,” she said. “I knew you wouldn’t wimp out. Oh, there’s one more thing.”

  “What’s that?” I asked as I fished a silver hoop earring out of my Brazillian thong.

  She cleared her throat, and I knew something I wouldn’t like was about to spill through the phone. “He wants you to live with him until the suit is finished.”

  I dropped the earring and nearly dropped the phone. “Say that again?”

  ***

  Well Dressed Man International is a business suit brand that my friend’s Lynette and Jake Perkins own, and I’m their creative director for it and Well Dressed Woman International, our partner company. We launched the brands five years ago, and in that time we’ve won awards for our innovative designs. We’ve been profiled for Apparel magazine and our fashions are often found in Vogue.

  But as I took the elevator up to our studio and offices, I didn’t feel the usual joy I did when coming to work. Instead I simmered at the thought of having to do business with an egotistical ass like Blaine, but this was about more than just me, and I wouldn’t run away and be completely unprofessional. That just wasn’t my style. Still, asking me to live with him while I designed the suit was completely unacceptable, and I planned on telling him just that. After my meeting with Lynette, I’d march right over to Devereux & Parker and tell him he could have the suit, but he couldn’t have me.

  However, when I entered Lynette’s office, I found I wouldn’t have to wait that long. Blaine was sitting in one of the two ergonomic office chairs in front of my friend’s thin, transparent modern desk.

  He turned his smoky grey eyes on me, tented his long, thick fingers in front of his square jaw. “Ms. Kitteridge. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  I put a hand on my hip, wrinkled my nose, and blurted, “I wish I could say the same.”

  Lynette went into ‘smooth the tension and save the deal’ mode. “How about we take some coffee into the studio? I’m sure Katey would like to show you some design samples.”

  “No,” I retorted. The man instantly rankled me, and I couldn’t stop myself. “I have something to discuss with Mr. Devereux first.” I turned my focus on him, taking in that sensuous, pouty mouth, large eyes, cheek bones that weren’t too sharp but nicely defined. Steeling my resolve against his immaculate beauty, I continued. “I’ll design your suit, but there’s no way I’m going to live with you.”

  Not missing a beat, he slid from the chair like a sinuous snake and flashed an innocent look at Lynette, then at me. “But wouldn’t it make the haute couture so much easier? I can pay you all very well for the time, I assure you.”

  He was on his best behavior today, and it was unnerving. The Blaine I had heard about from many a source, jilted and otherwise, was never accommodating or compromising. When you had his kind of money, you didn’t need to be.

  I shook my head emphatically. “No way. I’m not living with you under any circumstances.”

  Lynette gave me that look that was part begging, part demanding. The woman knew how to persuade. She did what I thought of as her ‘faux pee dance.’ A shifting of hips back and forth that made it seem like she had to go to the bathroom, but really she was stressing the outcome and trying desperately to sway me.

  “Fine.” I huffed a defeated breath. “It shouldn’t take long to finish the job. I’ll stay with you until it’s complete.” When he smiled, letting the mask slip so I caught a glimpse of the predator beneath, I laid a firm hand on his equally firm chest and made him keep his distance. “But there will be rules, Mr. Devereux.”

  His wolf smile grew wider still, and the mask fell off. He took the hand from his chest and kissed it. “Of course, Ms. Kitteridge.”

  ***

  In the limo, three days later, on the ride to his country estate, he pinned me with those smoky eyes and said, “I get the distinct impression you don’t like me, Kitty, and yet we’ve never met.”

  I stared at his silk Armani tie rather than meeting those too penetrating eyes. “No one calls me Kitty.”

  He shrugged. “I do.”

  I crossed my arms over the polka-dot bodice of my spring dress. “That, right there, is why I don’t like you.”

  He quirked an eyebrow up. “You have a problem with self confidence?”

  “No,” I said. “But with dripping arrogance? Yeah, I’ve got a little problem with that.”

  He gave me a sideways smirk and chuckled. He leaned forward and put a hand on my knee. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that one, sweetie.”

  “Don’t call me sweetie, either,” I snapped, brushing his hand away.

  He held his palms up in a gesture of surrender that surprised me. “Is this about the hating women thing?”

  I felt my face heat, and I covered it with one hand. “Lynette told you that?”

  He plucked some ice from a round chest in a mini bar in the back of the limo, plopped it in a glass, and poured amber colored scotch over the clear cubes. All the while, he
smirked smugly at me. “You shouldn’t believe rumors and tabloid gossip columnists.” He took a sip.

  “Some of those rumors come from very good sources,” I countered, swatting an annoying strand of sable hair from my eyes

  “Still, there are three sides to every story,” he said, moving from his seat across to sit by me on the opposite side of the stretch luxury car. “Yours, mine, and the truth.”

  He had me there, I thought, as he trailed a finger up my slender arm. “Touche.” Then I plucked the finger away and returned his smarminess with some of my own. “Hey, I thought you were gay?”

  He gave me a disapproving look and turned the table on me. “Is there anything wrong with that?”

  “Of course not,” I sputtered. “My brother’s gay, thank you very much. And I love his partner more than him, but that’s another story.”

  “No, I’m not gay, and I don’t hate women.” He shook his head and narrowed his eyes as he studied my face. I could tell he was reading me, looking for something, and his blatant perusal unsettled me. I could smell a hint of scotch on his breath. “Let me tell you where the misogyny charge comes from. I have a problem with anyone—male or female—who enters a relationship on false pretenses. In short, I don’t like people who marry for money. Gold diggers, if you will, disgust me.”

  His lips were inches from mine now, and they were far too kissable for my safety. “Some people don’t marry for love.” I shrugged, then tried to casually put some space between him and I by placing my shoulder purse there and subtly inching back. “Some make deals. To some people, it’s still a contract. A more mutually beneficial one these day, but I get it.”

  He wore a scathing expression that made him look like he was smelling really bad cheese. “Would you do such a thing?”

  “No, I prefer to be self sufficient, and I work hard to stay that way.” I maintained eye contact, not wanting to back down to his intimidation. “I don’t like to let anyone have too much power over me.”

  He nodded and his eyes narrowed further. I felt like a dare passed between us, and he’d just accepted the challenge.