White tents have been erected to keep the rain off the inmates and their visitors in the outdoor area where the prison building meets the outside. My father hasn’t come to me yet, even though I’ve been signed in for thirty minutes. Time is running out, and I’m sure he knows that.
Obviously, he doesn’t want to face me. The last time we laid eyes on each other was when I drove him and Mom to the airport to leave on their trip to South Africa—a place Mom always wanted to go but never had. They’d seemed happy that day. There wasn’t one reason in the world for me to suspect that Dad was going to kill the woman he’d seemed to love more than life itself in a matter of a few days.
Mom had kissed me goodbye and given me a hug. Dad had shaken my hand and told me to take care of my younger brother and sisters while they were away. I assured them I would and told them to have a nice time.
A couple of years have passed since that fateful day. I know Dad might have a hard time seeing me. But he has to get over that some time, and this might as well be the time. I’m tired of waiting to find out why he killed my mother.
As I sit here at this picnic table, I have nothing else to do but think. I’m thinking about the club a few of my male friends and I have in the works.
We have talked in great detail about what we want. With money put into an account just for the club we’re planning, we’ve purchased a piece of land just outside the Portland city limits.
Nothing currently sits on it. It’s a flat piece of land, and we all decided that building underground will be the best thing to do. What we’re making is going to be on the taboo side of life, for most people.
The more hidden it is, the easier it will be to run it without interference from people who would tell us that what we’re doing is sinister.
Most people don’t want to have to explain the one room in their house that’s filled with things that most others would consider to be torture devices. Whips, chains, ropes hanging on the walls and bondage equipment filling the room—these could be a red flag to those moral people who think anyone who is into this sort of thing must be insane. Or morally bankrupt.
I’m neither, nor are the men who sought to partner with me to build us a playhouse of sorts. One where men and women will come willingly to participate in things that are better off kept hidden from polite society.
Lately, I’ve been reading things and making rules our members will have to abide by. So far, I’ve found the list to be getting longer with each article I read. But we’ll make sure our club is safe, sane, and consensual.
I’ve been watching an old man and his family talk while I’ve been waiting. They are an animated bunch, using their hands to say nearly every word. I think they must be a blast to sit and listen to. They all laugh a lot, including the inmate.
It’s funny to me how they can be so joyful when one of their own is trapped behind these tall fences with razor wire topping them. From the moment I drove up to the prison, I felt the heaviness in the air here. No one wants to be here—it’s a punishment. How can anyone be happy inside these fences?
My attention is drawn away from the happy group as someone catches my attention in my peripheral vision. An orange color moves and sits on the other side of the table. Turning my head, slowly, my eyes land on my father.
For the first time in a little over two years, I am looking into the glassy, pale blue eyes of my father. “You look terrible.”
He doesn’t say a word back to me. He looks right into my eyes, but he says nothing. The guard who has brought him does say something, though. “He doesn’t speak.”
I look at the guard as I nod. “I can see that.” Then I look back at the man who should be happy to see me. “How’s he getting along here?”
“No one bothers him,” the guard answers me. “He keeps to himself.”
“Do you know if he needs anything?” I ask, even though I have no intention of making his stay at the prison any better. He deserves to sit alone and sad for what he’s done to our family.
“If you ask me, then I’d say he could use some pencils and legal pads. He seems to think a lot. Maybe he could write down some of those things he’s thinking about.” The guard’s meaty hand clasps down on my father’s narrow shoulder. “He has a lot going on inside of him—a lot weighing on him. My heart aches for him sometimes. He sometimes has a look to him that’s heartbreaking.”
“Are you aware of why he’s here?” I ask the tall, muscular man who seems to have some empathy for the killer who sits in front of me.
“I am.” He clears his throat, making me look at him instead of the shell my father has become. “People do all kinds of crazy things we don’t all understand. This man is your father. You share blood, DNA, and history. You both love the same people. The rivers that connect you two run deep.”
“You make it sound romantic. Let me assure you, it’s not.” I look back at my father, who sits there stoically as we talk about him. “I don’t know the man who’s sitting in front of me. He’s not the man I took to the airport that day a couple of years ago. He’s a stranger to me now.”
“That man you knew is still inside of that body. Why not talk to him like you used to? Why not see if you can help him regain who he once was?” The guard steps back a few steps. “Ignore me, young man. Visit with your father.”
“So, you’re looking nothing like yourself,” I say as I look my father over and see only the slightest resemblance to the man I once knew. The man I trusted. The man who broke me. “And you’re a hell of a lot quieter than you were. I remember when I would come in late, after drinking and chasing women when I was far too young to be doing it. Boy, you’d lay into my ass—shouting, cursing, threatening to take my car away.”
I stop and wait to see if his expression will change. I want to see if anything changes in him. If the sound of my voice sparks something in him. If my reminder of how things were will shake his soul so he can finally tell me why he did what he did. Or maybe tell me he didn’t do anything.
Darkness is building inside me once more as my father says nothing, and I’m losing my grip. Shaking my head to push the anger back down, I find a lump lodged in my throat.
My mother’s voice is ringing inside of my head. “You have to help him,” it’s telling me.
I close my eyes and shake it off as I tell myself it’s not real. How do you help a man who’s not willing to help himself, anyway?
He moves a little, and I look at him. His eyes are on me, and a single tear falls down his cheek. I can’t take it anymore. Fury fills me as that tear trails down his wrinkled cheek. How could he do this to me?
Fighting my instincts to jump up and grab the man by his throat and end his useless life, I get up and walk away. I will not allow myself to feel sorry for the man.
My mother is dead. He won’t let us know what the fuck happened. He isn’t the one I want to feel sorry for. He is to blame. Mom’s death is on his shoulders. That’s it, end of story.
I make it five steps before I stop. Turning around, I see my father get up and walk to the guard, who’s looking at me with conviction in his brown eyes.
He holds my eyes as if by magic. I can’t look away even if I want to. I know it, and he knows it. “Wait.” The guard puts his hand on my father’s shoulder. “Do you want to talk to him anymore, Mr. Jamison?”
Without turning back to even look at me one last time, my father shakes his head and walks away from me. The guard turns to go with my dad.
I’m shaking with all kinds of emotions when I turn to leave. The man I knew is gone. I can’t see him ever coming back, and I don’t know if I’d be able to accept him if he did return to normal.
Walking to the parking lot, I open the door to my Jag. On the front seat, there’s a brand new box of pencils. Under that is a legal pad of yellow paper. I bought them to jot down notes for when I think of things that might be interesting for the new club.
The only thing on the pad of paper is the sketch I drew of a castle. I leave it on top
and take the things back to the prison, leaving them with a guard and asking if they could be taken to my father.
I leave once more, feeling empty and numb. Hating my father and the whole damn world, too.
Nothing makes any sense to me. My parents loved each other. How can a man who loves a woman take her life?
Will I ever understand?
Chapter 4
Grant
One year later
“You have a call on line one, Mr. Jamison,” my secretary tells me over the intercom.
Pushing my hand through my hair, I sigh as I pick up the phone. “Grant Jamison here.”
“Hi, Grant, it’s me, Jake.”
With a huff, I hang up the phone. My brother and sisters can all go to hell for all I care. They all have one thing in common. They all think our mother had more to do with her death than anyone knows about.
After seeing my father, I know he would’ve talked to me if he was innocent. He and I had been closer than he was to any of my siblings. I have the money to get him a barrage of lawyers and a trial. All he had to do was open his mouth and tell me he was innocent. But he’d kept his mouth shut. And the tear that he’d let fall free told me he’d done it. He’d killed the woman he’d loved.
There is nothing I want to hear from my brother and sisters. Until they stop trying to convince me that Dad is innocent, they are as dead to me as our mother and father are.
I have other things to take my mind off my family. Things I can escape to when the nagging thoughts try to fill my head. Thoughts about my younger brother and sisters and how things are going in their lives. Thoughts about my poor mother, wondering if she’d suffered when she died. Thoughts about my father and whether he’ll actually burn in hell for what he’s done to us.
Recently, my brother and sisters have gotten this idea that we should have our dead mother’s body exhumed and autopsied. Of course none of them can pay for all that, hence why they’re bothering me about it. I see no use in doing that. It’s obvious to everyone how she died, why do even more damage to her body?
My eyes go to the phone that’s sitting on top of my mahogany desk top. Jake’s call is bothering me for some reason. Maybe I shouldn’t have hung up on him.
My mother’s voice whispers in my head. “Call him back.”
I hate how my brain conjures up her voice. I hate how I think I see her sometimes. I hate it all.
There are those pesky thoughts again. Time to get rid of them. Picking up the phone once more, I make a call that will help put my mind at rest, at least for a while. “Isabel, meet me at home please.”
“Yes, Master. I will be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Good girl.” I hang up the phone and head out to do something to take my mind away from all that I can’t control.
Isabel Sanchez is our first hired employee, and I’m the man in charge of training her. The other owners of The Dungeon of Decorum will be taking on the training of the various men and women they hire to become trainers themselves.
Isabel has something about her that attracted me right from the start. I want to train her myself. She’ll be more than just a trainer though. Young, not quite finished college, and ready to try anything—she’s perfect for the job of managing new memberships.
She’ll be the first person anyone who comes to the club will interact with. Isabel will need to be highly informed about what kinds of things will happen in the club, which is only months away from opening.
We already have a bunch of men who want memberships. In order to keep our clientele above average, the yearly dues to join the club are a bit on the outrageous side. But we don’t want to worry about riff-raff. Men of great wealth live by another set of rules, anyway.
Consideration seems to be bred into most men with a knack for making money. Most are ready to help others who have money-making ideas by not only investing in the idea but helping the goal see the light of day. And when it comes to stepping on toes, they tend to tread lightly.
Most of them do, anyway.
Isabel and I will work out the kinks. She’ll set up auctions where willing women will come to the club so our members can bid on them. For a certain length of time they’ll get a contract, binding the woman to them. The woman will benefit by getting the majority of the money the man pays for her, not to mention the pleasure she’ll receive by his hand—or whip, more likely. It’s a win-win.
Since we’ll just be starting out, we need a woman who other women will feel comfortable talking to about what will be expected of them. Isabel needs to experience the acts, not just read about them.
I’ve made a room in my home to help educate her. It’s equipped with everything we’ll be supplying in the private rooms at the club. The entire room is a prototype for what we’re doing in the club.
Coming into my playroom, I find Isabel kneeling near the door. As instructed by me when we first discussed her training, she’s fashioned her hair in one long braid that hangs down her back. Her dark hair shines as she bows her head, waiting for further instruction.
I’ve given her a leather corset and matching panties to wear and nothing else. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in this outfit as this will be our first time in my playroom, and I already feel my cock reacting.
She’s been given reading material that I expect her to add to when making a manual for our new members and submissives. She has a lot on her narrow shoulders, but she’s being paid a lot to do it. I’ve told her about the way the BDSM lifestyle is practiced. Love doesn’t have to be a part of any of it—and it won’t be for us. We will exchange power, nothing more than that. And honesty is the top priority. Both parties have to be honest, or things won’t work to benefit either party.
I want Isabel to be the best sub in the whole club. I want her to be what other women strive to be. It’s going to take extensive training to make that happen. And she’s said she’s ready to learn.
Walking past her, I breathe in the smell of leather that hangs in the air. “Get up, sub.”
She rises but keeps her deep brown eyes down. “Yes, Master.”
“Good girl.” I take her by the chin to make her look at me. “We will start with the rack.” I point to the wooden device where her head and hands will soon be locked between pieces of wood. She will have to bend over to put them in there, and then I’ll lock her in so she can’t escape.
Walking over to the rack, Isabel waits for me to put her in the medieval device. I pull the top bar up, gesturing for her to position her head and hands accordingly. A small sigh comes out of her as she looks at the device and then at me. “And the safe-word is red?”
I give her one curt nod. “It is.”
Closing her eyes, she bends over and I lay the wooden bar over her head and hands, trapping them, then I click the lock shut on the end of the two pieces. “Comfy?” I joke with her.
“Not one bit,” she replies. “But I don’t think it’s supposed to be.”
“No, it’s not.” I walk around behind her and grab her ass with both hands. “And you’re very exposed to anything I want to do with this fine ass you have. I could spank you, flog you, paddle you, or simply fuck you.”
“What’s the fun in that?” she asks then laughs a bit. “Sorry, I’m not taking this very seriously, am I?”
“I think you and I can have a bit of fun with it. As long as you learn and are able to relay information about this type of thing—that is what’s important. You aren’t my actual sub.”
“Are you going to get one?” she asks, making me wonder if I will.
“There’s going to be a bevy of beauties strolling through the club, why would I settle for one-on-one with anyone?” I cock my head to the side as I look at her round ass, trying to decide what I want to do with it.
I’ve never had an ass just waiting there for me to do anything I want to it. It’s odd, really. I can literally do anything at all to her. She’s helpless to stop me. And we are in my home, not at the club where there would be people
to hear her scream.
It suddenly occurs to me that she’s put herself at great risk. “I should bring this up, since it came to my mind, Isabel. You shouldn’t do this with anyone, outside the safety of the club. It’s dangerous, you know?”
Her voice is sweet, reverent, sincere, “Thank you, Master, for looking out for my well-being. It’s appreciated.”
Walking over to the table with the assortment of devices on it, I pick up the paddle. I haven’t had much practice at this sort of thing—I’m still in the learning stage myself. But so far, what I have done, does it for me. It takes away all thoughts of anything other than what I’m doing.
I walk back to her and smack her on the left butt cheek with the paddle. It makes a thudding sound and I notice she doesn’t flinch at all. “Did that hurt?”
“Not really. Hit me harder.”
I give her another smack, a bit harder, and she yelps. “That one smarted, didn’t it?”
Her light laughter peels through the air. “No. I just wanted to see if I could make you think it did.”
I walk around her to chastise her face to face. Only her face is at the same level as my cock, and I realize this position will be great for oral sex, too. “This contraption has all kinds of uses,” I murmur as I squat down to get on her level. “Isabel, no trying to make me think something affects you if it doesn’t. Okay?”
“Sure, I’m sorry. I’ll keep quiet until it actually stings. You’re being too easy with it. I think you should either do it over and over, or once really hard.” She wears a serious expression.
I have to admit, I didn’t think she’d say such a thing. It intrigues me. “I like the over and over idea. Maybe throw in a few kisses between them. Get you good and heated up. The idea is for you to find it sexually stimulating after all.”
Isabel’s lips pull into a smile. “You know, this thing just might work for some of your less handsome men. If the girl is stuck like this and never gets to see him, then she can still be stimulated even if she isn’t attracted to him.”
For Love & Torture_A Submissives’ Secrets Novel Page 2