My back is killing me because of this fucking chair. “Go on. Show me,” I command. The headquarters of my Southern California production company is expansive and beautiful. You’d think we’d have nicer chairs. “Buy better chairs,” I say before the thought gets away. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Is this shit made in China?” I stand and toss the light piece of junk across the room. It slams into the glass wall and falls onto its side. The sight pleases me. I smile, cock my head to the side, and turn to face my minions. They can’t expect a man of my size and caliber to sit in a swiveling fucking office chair. Give me a leather wrapped bench coated in plastic. That’s where I make the fucking magic happen.
Several employees around the table widen their eyes and flinch, but they’re used to my aggressive nature by now. I’ve merely startled them. “Yes, sir. Of course. I’ll do that today,” my producer, Laurel, says, dimming the lights in the conference room. She hits the play button and the first contestant flashes on the floor-to-ceiling screen. Her white teeth flawless, her nose a touch crooked, and her plain brown hair mousy. She introduces herself meekly, the way any good submissive would, and tells the camera a little bit about herself.
By the time she says where she’s from I’ve already lost interest. They’re mostly the same. Some are more beautiful than others, but sometimes you find a gem. She’ll have a hint of something in her eyes to let you know she’s not at all what she seems. I need that if I’m going to select a submissive to share my life with. I’ve been through six within the past year and frankly, it’s getting old. Typically the women want more than what I’m offering, or they just use me for money and take off before emotions get mixed up. Emotions are a bitter bitch. It’s best to keep them out of everything involving sex. If you can remove them completely, you’re left with two satisfied humans who reach orgasm. What is better than a wet pussy and a hard cock? Not much, that’s what. Especially if it’s my cock. Right now my cock demands something different.
I groan and yell, “Next.” Tapping my fingers in front of me, I lean over the table, keeping my gaze focused on the screen. Others take notes around me, scribbling on little pads or tapping on their tablets and cell phones. “I told you I wanted different girls this year. Not the run-of-the-mill you’ve selected for the Doms in the past. These are women for me. Me,” I say, palming my broad, muscular chest. “I need more than Marley Sue sucky sucky long time. Show me something different. Are you people competent enough to do that?” I let my fist bang down on the table harder than I should. The worker bees startle and avoid eye contact with me at all costs. I don’t hire these people. I hire my producers, and they’re in charge of hiring out the rest of the positions at Reed Studios.
Laurel, bless her, looks at me in that uninterested way she always does. “It’s hard to find submissives that aren’t like this,” she says, pointing at the screen. “It sounds like what you really want, Dominic, is a girlfriend. Not a sub.” She has big balls. It’s why I like her. You need one honest, ballsy person on your side.
I raise one brow. “Bite your tongue,” I say, walking toward my haughty, naughty Laurel. I round the side of the table, stalking slowly to the front of the room. You could hear a fucking pin drop right now. This exchange is typical, but I imagine how it looks to the worker bees. Scary.
Laurel clears her throat and palms the sides of her drab, wool skirt. “Dominic, sir, I’m merely stating the obvious. If you don’t want the typical submissive personality, then what you’re seeking may not be this,” she explains, waving a slight arm to her colleagues. Their responsibility is finding me quality women to fuck—women who will obey me in all things—women who want to be pleasured and punished in equal measure. Well, almost equal. Not many would prefer a spanking over having a mind-bending orgasm around my ten-inch, throbbing cock.
“The Doms in past seasons sought this.” I wave a hand at the mousy girl on the screen. “Give me a woman who is a sub with a hint of fire. This season needs to be the most spectacular one yet. Not just because I’m the one on screen.” I started this show about five years ago when I had several million dollars burning a hole in my pocket. I was deep into the BDSM lifestyle and saw the gap in movies and television. The world needed dominating. I concocted the show, bought the property to film it, and hand selected the Dominants every year. This year I am the Dom. None of the women know this, of course. I made sure it would be a tightly held secret that they would be competing for this highly regarded honor.
“Because I want the ratings to be so high that non-cable networks want to air my show. I want world domination, Laurel. You’re going to give it to me. Aren’t you?” It has little to do with money. I have enough of that to build my own country and fuck whoever I want, however I want. It’s about proving to my oil tycoon father that I don’t need him to be successful. Let him roll his eyes anytime he hears of The Dom Games. I won’t stop until he’s watching my show, hooked like a junkie like the rest of America. I have visions of him calling me from his mansion in Colorado, a cigar barely hanging on from his lips, and he’ll tell me that he understands. That’s all I want. The family business was of no interest to me.
Laurel shakes her head but returns her gaze to her computer. “I’ll show you one of the women who didn’t make the cut. Let you see for yourself what your options are.” She slams her pointer finger down on the play button and a new face appears on the screen. “Tell me if this looks like ratings gold to you.”
My lips twitch to the side. This one has wide, innocent, green eyes, brown hair, and a tight smirk. “Play it,” I order, studying the screen.
Laurel huffs but hits the button to start it. “My name is Kayla Parchet. I’m twenty-two years old. I live in sunny California. Ummm…” The woman pauses, bites her bottom lip, and leans to the side, ostensibly to peek around the camera. She needs to be prompted to talk about herself. Is this a joke? She’s obviously not serious about this.
A producer encourages, “Tell us about your experience as a sub, Kayla. Talk about what you enjoy. Why should the Dom select you?”
Kayla rolls her eyes and leans back to look at the camera. I want to spank her ass right now—watch the skin go from a petal pink to a scorching red. She sighs, and I think that’s it. I don’t care what she says next, I need to have her and her sarcasm laced persona to punish thoroughly. “I like to be collared,” she says, turning her eyes to the ceiling. “And spanking is so my thing.” Her eyes twinkle with mischief. I’d collar her and make her stay behind me on a leash for hours if that’s her thing. My cock hardens even though it’s obvious she’s fucking clueless. Maybe that’s the draw?
“Is this woman serious?” I ask, my voice booming, eyes narrowed. This must be a joke. It has to be. She either knows nothing about the sub/Dom relationship or she’s playing dumb as a ploy to get attention. The prospect of showing her the ropes, while pretending I think she’s a sub is enough to excite me. It adds another veil to the twisted game.
“Unfortunately, she is,” Laurel says. “It’s why she didn’t make the cut. She is the most condescending woman we’ve interviewed. Her video submission was just as bad. She has no idea about your culture. She’s one of them,” Laurel explains, pausing the video. She’s one of those vultures who will do anything for money and fame, including being introduced to a lifestyle that is foreign to them on television, naked and vulnerable. It’s Laurel’s job to weed them out. They usually aren’t this obvious.
“No, keep it on,” I say, holding out a hand. I hear pens scratching across notepads on the table behind me, more notes being taken for fuck knows what. Laurel uses her pointer finger to move her glasses up her face. She’s irritated. “How tall is she?” I ask, keeping my eyes glued to the screen.
“She’s five foot four,” someone says from behind me.
“One hundred and twenty pounds,” says another.
“I didn’t ask for her weight,” I snap back. The assistant’s voice interrupts the video and it irritates me. I silence the room with a
flick of my hand. I do have a preference when it comes to height. Short. Petite. Fun sized.
Kayla keeps talking to the producers instead of the camera, like the disobedient girl she is. “I’m pretty sure you’ll never meet a sub like me. That’s why the Dom should pick me. What’s his name? Does he have a name? Calling him Dom or Sir seems kind of presumptuous if he hasn’t picked me yet.” My producers explain that they aren’t revealing that information, and Kayla rolls her eyes again. Not really a full, scorned teenager roll, but the half roll of an inconvenienced waitress. Then she rambles on about her college education and her desires to go to graduate school.
“Her. Yes,” I command. Fucking ratings gold. “She’s one of my subs.”
“She will stir up trouble at the sub house, that’s for sure. Her personality is so brash…and alpha, that there will be constant turmoil between the women. Is that what you want? It’s usually always about the Dom. Not the women. She’s going to stand out,” Laurel explains. She’s beautiful enough to stand out anyways, but this will make it even more so. Viewers want to look at beautiful women. Kayla may very well be the prettiest in my harem this far.
This woman will challenge my ways. She will stumble through scenes. She won’t know what to expect or even what to do next. Rubbing the stubble on my chin, I think about what scene I’d want to play with her in. Tease and denial? Hogtie? Waxplay? Yes. All of these. She will submit to me in all ways. Not only that, after a crash course introduction she’ll be begging for my touch.
I realize all of the annoying pens have stopped moving. The room is silent, still, waiting for me to give the approval. They have no idea I’ve sealed the fucking deal in my mind. Laurel knows better than to question my decisions. She nods, shakes her head, and raises her chin at the army behind me.
She says, “Kayla Parchet, submissive, season six. Call her to let her know she’s one of the selected. She arrives at the sub house next week.” The mere mention of the house has my mind racing. Sex—so much sex that the scent fills the air and never goes away—pussy, come, and expensive leather warping my world and causing a riot of emotions.
There are at least fifteen rooms for different role-playing scenes. The sub house is attached to the studio and so is the Dom Lair on the opposite end. Soon it will be my lair—the place I retreat to after I dominate my harem, to rest, to compose myself—to find the person I am when I’m not called Sir. It’s a fine line between my two personalities. I think that’s why I’ve avoided going on the show thus far. What if I lose myself completely? What if I can’t separate the two people and I become this dark lord master who has the inability to function in the real world? My father would love that. I’m ready for The Dom Games. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ll dominate them.
I take one more look at the oversized screen, at Kayla, before Laurel wraps the meeting. I find my chest rising and falling at a more harried pace. My pulse is pounding in my ears, and my dick wants to come out and fuck, but not before punishing this tan, beautiful, smart-mouthed Kayla Parchet. She has a target on her back, and her ass, and her tits and pussy, and she doesn’t even know it yet.
She just may be the hint of fire I desire.
What do you know? I made a rhyme. Laurel picks up the wayward chair and straightens it before she leaves the room.
Chapter Three
“Sheep and shit”
Kayla
My research wasn’t as thorough as I surmised. Actually, that’s putting it mildly. I know jack shit compared to the other women. Jason didn’t help me at all, and I’m pretty much a sheep among a pride of lions. That’s saying something as I’m comparing subs to lions. I flew on a commercial flight to the studio and then took a shuttle to The Dom Games compound at Reed Studios. This place is magnificent and sprawling. It reminds me of Hollywood. A few of the other subs were on my bus. They look similar to one another, with slim frames, minimal makeup and plain, modest clothing. I feel like they’ve thrown me into a zoo exhibit. Exhibit A: see the real life sub in street clothing. See her talk, walk, move. See her act how you are supposed to. Exhibit B: see Kayla. Everything that is not exhibit A. Fuck.
The thought makes my palms sweat and my hairline drip with perspiration. My stomach is twisting and turning with knots and anticipation. Merely listening to the subs talk is enough to bring to light my unpreparedness. They throw around terms I’ve only read about and talk in hushed, polite whispers. Even nervous, I’m the loud, obnoxious cousin who trails along like a puppy dog, making rude jokes and laughing at the wrong times. What the fuck am I thinking? You were thinking you want to be set up for the rest of your life. You were thinking you want to snag your dream job. I tell myself these things over and over. I think them so much that I’ll probably end up saying them out loud. Not something that will help my case.
As we exit the bus, a woman with a monotone voice and bad pants introduces herself and unlocks the door to a massive building. She leads the three of us inside. I lag behind, hoping to hide my brash attitude and brightly-colored clothing. The neon pink shirt I’m wearing looked awesome this morning when I put it on in my bedroom. Right now as I’m hit with my new surroundings, I realize how juvenile and out of place the bubble gum pink, ‘80s workout top makes me seem. Not only is my confidence wavering, I feel as if I’m losing myself piece by piece with every step forward I take.
We’re led past massive wooden doors with key holes the size of my fist. My eyes flare with curiosity. I’ve seen the show, but being here, in this hallway with the rooms surrounding me, makes it real. Too real. My hands start shaking, and I have to readjust my grip on my rolling suitcase. Overweight stage hands bustle about. The men look at us curiously and thoroughly. They’ll be seeing us naked soon enough. Another shiver shoots from the top of my head to the tip of my toes.
Our guide points to the left. “That way is the Dom’s lair. You won’t be entering that hallway for any reason. I’m only telling you so you know to steer clear.” The corridor is gray, cobbled brick, and it actually resembles a fucking dungeon. Where people go to get tortured before they die a horrible death. By orgasms.
I clear my throat and direct my gaze forward. The subs turn around to look at me. I smile awkwardly and do my best to keep my composure. I throw a hand up to wave, but they’re unimpressed by my friendliness. One of the women quirks an eyebrow and the other doesn’t dignify me with any response. Ouch. So it’s going to be like that, I think.
I have a million questions to ask, but the others aren’t saying or asking anything. In an effort to blend in, I keep my pie hole shut and die a little inside. We keep walking. More locked doors trail behind us, and my question bank reaches max capacity. I won’t be able to control it for much longer. The woman pushes her glasses up her weathered face with one finger. “This is the sub house. You each have a room and a bathroom. The doors are marked with your name. It’s your safe place here at the compound. You may go to it anytime you’re feeling that you need a breather or time to yourself. Cameras will only enter with your express permission, and you need to grant it each and every time. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say.
The other two women merely nod. I’ve fucked up again.
The door, much like the others, is pushed open and the opulence surrounding me as I walk through is so extreme that I have to check my fucking pulse. A chandelier the size of my entire apartment glistens gold overhead. The twinkling crystal flashes light to the spiraling staircase that branches off in three directions—one to the left and right and one straight staircase directly in the middle. There is a large stone table in the center of the foyer with envelopes laid out in a neat, straight row. I’m sure there’s one for each of us, but I can’t see past the elegance surrounding me.
The floor is a shiny gold. It almost looks like flaked gold, but it’s hard like marble. I bet after a few drinks you can’t look at it without getting dizzy. Everywhere I look I’m gobsmacked with something new and ornate, something I’ve never been exposed to in my twe
nty-two years of life. How will I adjust to this? Easily, I think. The air smells of fresh flowers and a hint of perfume. Soft music billows around us, immediately setting my mind at ease. I’ll be okay. This is remarkable. I can do this. Think about the money. Focus on your future.
The woman, who looks even more drab under these lights and standing in this magnificence, points at the stone table. “The contracts have your names on them. Find yours and go over it well. There are fifteen pages and a section for hard and soft limits. Sign the bottom of each page and return them to me tonight at dinner. Dinner will be served in the main hall,” she explains, pointing in the general direction of the dining area and then continues, “If you are using a pseudonym, there is a page for that. If you wish to tell the Dom anything specific, there is a page for that. There is an entire page of what you can expect from him. Read every single word. If you need help going over anything, don’t hesitate to call. You dial 1 for the main office. Someone will answer twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Any need or want you have, please don’t hesitate. We want to make your time here as pleasant as possible,” she explains.
I run my hands through my tangled hair. “Will he be at dinner?”
She smiles, tells us her name is Laurel again, which is good because I’d forgotten, and then she points us in the direction of our rooms without answering my fucking question.
From my peripheral I see a couple lingering women at the top of the right staircase—more of my competition. My skin prickles because for the first time, I think about the actual competition—exactly what I’ll be doing in the near future. So much for the tranquility of the mansion. That’s down the tubes. The blood red carpet in the hallway leads me to another hallway and then finally I see a room at the very end. There aren’t any other rooms by me and the realization makes me nervous.
In years past, some of the Doms would visit subs in their rooms, but it was infrequent, and I pray to God that whoever my Dom is, will stay the fuck away from me when we’re not filming a scene. Maybe I can write that into my hard limits? Limits are something I have definitely researched and know exactly what I want and don’t want. I printed a limit list off the Internet that matched my desires and intentions. I didn’t need to change a word.
The Dom Games Page 2