SEAL'd Legacy (Brotherhood of SEAL'd Hearts)

by Gabi Moore

  DEAN:

  It was revenge that led me to her at first, I’ll admit it.

  I thought I had her pegged. I thought I knew what I was getting into. But I underestimated her.

  I’m a powerful man. Getting others to bend to my will is second nature to me. But something about her made me want to tear away at all that and see what was hiding underneath.

  But she had no idea who I could be, or how dark the truth really was...

  Cutting myself off from the Cane empire? Incurring the wrath of some of the most powerful men in the country?

  I could abandon her, let her take the fall and walk away from all of this. Or I could run with her now and do my best to protect her…

  Prologue

  You think that people like me can’t actually be real. You laugh nervously at the mention of my existence and quickly change the topic. That stuff’s just for other people, living other lives, right?

  But you’re wrong.

  I learned this lesson the hard way.

  You know all those things you think don’t apply to you? All those weirdos and perverts in the world doing shocking things you could never imagine yourself doing? Well, you’re more like them than you know. Believe me.

  The story I want to tell you is a story like all other good stories. It has good guys and bad guys, scary parts and naughty parts. And it has me, someone who thought they knew how the story would end, just like you think you do right now.

  This is a story about nakedness.

  As you read, I ask you to undress, with me. I’ll go first, if you like, but you must trust me and do as I say.

  Take everything off.

  Take off your clothing and your shoes and your underwear. Strip down to what you are underneath human decency. Underneath all your assumptions and habits. Come down deep with me, don’t be scared.

  Do you feel uncomfortable?

  Good.

  Let’s take off more.

  I want you to peel off all your doubts, all your expectations. Forget about who you think you are and who you tell yourself I am. Let’s be naked together – we can always come back to our costumes later, can’t we?

  Look at yourself now.

  Look at your flesh, and the way it breathes and pulses with the waves of sensation that pass over it. It has memories and desires, this flesh, but try to forget those now. Isn’t it interesting, how it swells and responds to touch? To pleasure? To pain? But let’s not linger here. Your bare flesh is lovely but it’s also a barrier to me, to our connecting, to all the dark and exquisite things I want to show you. Where we’re going, you won’t need your flesh. So take it off, too.

  Our game is played deeper down still, underneath the flesh. Will you go there with me? Your bones and organs are not needed here either. I am interested in what lies underneath even that; I want to flirt a little with the being wrapped all the way at the very core. Do you remember that being?

  I hope you have listened closely.

  Have you taken it all off?

  Look with me now, at what remains.

  Can you see it? Can you feel how delicious it is, to behold this raw, hot seed at the very center of you? How delicate, how strange this little kernel. We can’t stay here for long, but be brave. Hold on with me. Do you see it?

  I see it.

  I didn’t used to, but now I do.

  This is the story of how I learned to peel everything away. To be more naked than I had ever been before. If you’re ready, if you can let go of your fear, then come with me now, and I’ll show you exactly how it all happened…

  Chapter 1

  Myth: It’s all about sex

  Reality: It’s all about control

  Foreplay begins well before the client walks through my door. He only ever sees the end result: the perfect, total picture of everything he had until then only fantasized about.

  It’s overwhelming for many of them at first. They see their darkest, most disturbing fantasies come to life, and the squeaking PVC of her cat suit is more real than anything that’s happened to him in years. Her scent is so intoxicating he can almost taste it at the back of his throat.

  My clients pay a lot… because they get a lot.

  I’m an artist, and the first brush strokes I lay down are some of the most important. I spend at least 30 minutes primping my outfit before anyone steps a foot into my dungeon. I wouldn’t want a wayward eyebrow hair or a rough hangnail to destroy the illusion, would I?

  Around two thirds of all the men I see are roughly identical: they all have the same haircuts, the same pale indents on their ring fingers, the same nervous hunger in their eyes. They pay me upwards of $700 for a half hour of my precious time, and for the mind-blowing thrill of being told what disappointing little scum they are, and how if it pleases me I might decide to allow them to lick my boot.

  I’m not a prostitute. In fact, whatever the opposite of a prostitute is, that’s what I am. I make my own rules, do as I please and earn obscene amounts of money in the process. I am a “Pro Domme” to use the lingo, but I’m more than that. For me, it’s not much of an illusion at all. I’ve already played at being weak and helpless in this life, and I like my current game much, much more.

  I spend hours getting dressed, grooming, painting my face. When I look on as men spill all those despicable desires that the world out there likes to pretend doesn’t exist, I make sure I’m looking my absolute best.

  For most people, my occupation seems cheap and dirty. A little alarming. But that only tells you about them, not me. And if anyone wanted to take any of it away from me, they’d have to claw it from my cold dead hands. I’m a connoisseur and a “dominatrix.” I’m classy, refined, and demanding. But really, none of those labels matter at all.

  What’s really important is that I’m the one choosing those labels, and at every step, I am in perfect, complete control. Always.

  In the upstairs bathroom, I take my time smoothing down my blunt-cut Cleopatra hair, admiring its blue-black shine and how perfectly cliché it looks against my plasticky red lips and pale skin. Thank God for clichés, though – they’re what let me communicate with a client. And take his money.

  I shift my ribcage a little in my corset and make sure all of me is squeezed, zipped and tied in tightly. With such gorgeous supporting tension all the way up my spine, my bare shoulders can rest easy on top, the shoulder blades pulled back into a practiced pose that tells men who they’re dealing with before I’ve even spoken a word. I seldom wear black. My hair and sinister expression are dark enough. Wearing white PVC and leather makes me seem all the more frightening, and is somewhat cooler in the more unbearable California summer months.

  I crack my knuckles; flash one last cold smile to the mirror and head into the bedroom to put on my heels – always the hardest part. Curling over crunches up the layers of leather and the steel corset boning and makes getting those stilettos on a real pain in the ass. But I remind myself to take my time. He can wait for me. In fact, I decide to let him get a really good look at the dungeon while he waits.

  He’s a new-ish client, but I know him inside out already. Early thirties, a finance sort with a bad gaming habit and more money than sense. He was tired of working. Tired of being a dog in a dog eat dog world, and most especially tired of all the quivering girlies who wanted an alpha male to make them feel like Cinderella.

  He didn’t want any of that. No, he had come to me for some discipline. For training. For a brief glimpse of what it might feel like to crumple to someone else’s will for a change.

  I told him if he behaved I’d take him on as a student, and if I felt like it, I’d give him a certificate to hand to any of his future mistresses who might like a boy who’s already broken in. Oh, he liked that. I know his type, of course. Spoilt. Scared. I’d enjoy being the first woman to truly tell him no.

  I made my way downstairs, heels snapping on the cool marble of my arcing staircase. My house was big. Maybe too big. But I liked having space between me and my li
ttle sex pigs. Even if it meant occasionally wobbling down three floors in six-inch heels.

  I reached the basement, took one last breath of the air on this side of the dungeon door and took a step inside. I exhaled. Bolted the door. I made sure that no matter what, it always creaked and moaned on its hinges, and banged shut loudly, just so.

  Like I said, I’m an artist.

  The dungeon was large – twice the size of a regular bedroom and deliberately kept a few degrees colder than the outside world. If my clients wanted to descend into forbidden realms with me, I wanted it to feel completely real. A bare lightbulb hung from a wire on the ceiling and dimly illuminated the concrete floor, the instruments of torture, the chains, the ropes, and the steel frames over which I had strung countless writhing, grateful bodies.

  My plaything had obeyed my instructions and was already sitting patiently on a stool, waiting for me, hooded, shirt removed, hands on his knees like a naughty schoolboy waiting to be caned. In a few moments, the whole sordid saga would begin.

  Every client is vetted rigorously before we get to this point. I had already given him a thorough interview about each and every dirty little element that was about to unfold in this room now. But it’s good practice to give them one last check-in anyway, before the masks are lowered and the game is officially on.

  “Mr. Lewis. Shall we begin?” I said coolly. He didn’t have to see me to know that I was standing before him; legs spread wide, arms on my hips.

  “Yes, Mistress,” he whispered.

  Good. I kicked aside a coiled chain on the floor and watched as he jumped at the sound.

  “Turn around, boy! I want to tie your hands.”

  When he swiveled on his chair and offered me his shaking hands, I could make out a thick, pulsing vein in his neck. I was going to be his first Domme. How sweet. I roughly tied his wrists, knotted the rope tight and tossed it to the side, before spinning him around again and yanking off the hood.

  “You’re not as muscular as my other toys,” I said nonchalantly, and eyed him up and down. His eyes fixed on my patent leather heels and I could tell he was wrestling internally on whether to risk glancing up at me. Now, before we continue, I should tell you: this whole business has nothing to do with sex.

  I paced a slow circle around him, rocking leisurely back and forward on my impossibly high heels. I glanced over at him again.

  “Well? Are you just going to sit there and waste my time, boy?”

  His eyes shot up to my face.

  “I’m a busy woman. And I’m a greedy woman. I won’t bother to train a fuck toy like yourself if I’m not convinced you’re worth the time, you see? I’ll--”

  “Mistress, I’m ready to do anything for you and--”

  In an instant I pulled back my arm and brought it down hard against his cheek, the slap against his face echoing in the dungeon. His eyes went wide. I cleared my throat and spoke carefully.

  “Boy, you seem to misunderstand something. You are not to speak unless spoken to. You are here to please and amuse me, nothing more. If I have to remind you of this twice, the second time will be a lot more painful for you.”

  He swallowed so hard I swear I could almost hear it. Then he nodded vigorously, the skin on his cheek turning a mottled pink. My own hand stung from the slap. I started to pace again but he was frowning and shaking his head.

  “Ok, pineapple” he said nervously. “Pineapple.”

  I raised my eyebrow at him. The safe word. Already?

  “What is it?” I said. I crouched onto my haunches and looked him square in the eye, the Mistress Morgan mask lifted for a moment.

  “I just …are you sure about this? That seemed so hard and I really don’t want you to hurt yourself. Is your hand OK? I just feel like…we’ve spent so much time making me comfortable here but what about you? Isn’t this weird for you?”

  I sighed.

  “Mr. Lewis, I’m a professional. I have been doing this for years. You’re in safe hands. And you don’t have to worry about me, ever. I promise.”

  He didn’t look convinced. It happened, sometimes. Social programming can run deep, I knew how it went. There was a savage deviant somewhere in Mr. Lewis, and I understood that he was squeamish about letting it out.

  “I keep thinking, though, do you really want to be doing this? Not just with me but in general. Is this kind of thing …I don’t know, doesn’t it bother you after a while?”

  I smiled at him slowly. He probably had daughters close to my age, poor bastard.

  “What about your emotions, you know? I was reading this article about how women get this surge of oxytocin after every sexual encounter, and it’s this hormone that makes them feel emotionally bonded to that person…” here he looked imploringly at me.

  I chuckled under my breath and gave him a wry smile.

  “Mr. Lewis, I can assure you, my hormones will not be interrupting our session today.”

  He squirmed in his seat.

  I was losing him.

  Newbies were fun but needed a delicate touch. Some needed to be pushed, some teased, and I had to make that decision now, and hope for the best. I stood tall and cracked my neck, first one side then the other, then gave him a hard look.

  “Can I tell you a secret, Mr. Lewis? I think what we’re about to do here is much, much more of a risk to you.” I pulled up a stool, sat down and dramatically crossed my legs, peering at him from behind my heavy black hair.

  I had his attention.

  “Let me tell you a story. Back in my old life, I remember being at a conference lunch with some businessmen, and we were all sitting at this big table, deep in conversation. I was the first to notice her – a beautiful young girl walking through the restaurant. Blonde. Gorgeous. Wearing next to nothing, you know the story. She waltzed through the place like she was on a catwalk. Anyway, I looked and then promptly forgot about her and carried on with my conversation. Except that everyone else at the table – all men – had turned to watch this woman walk by. Like synchronized swimmers, their heads turned, all at once. Now, I won’t say the word was ‘looked’ because it was more than that. They gawked. They were hypnotized. All conversation stopped during those thirty seconds and everyone forgot what they were doing, or why. It was like nothing else mattered for them in that moment, except that pretty girl.”

  I uncrossed and re-crossed my legs, with a carefully, cultivated expression of aloofness on my face.

  “You can imagine I was quite amused. I’ve seen some intriguing men in my life, Mr. Lewis, but I’ve never been so spellbound by one that I forgot myself like I saw those men forgetting themselves. And that’s when I realized: it’s men who are slaves to their biology, not women.”

  I exhaled loudly and made sure the breath lifted my breasts high in my tight corset. I made a mental note to punish him later for second-guessing me.

  “You talk about hormones and emotions. Well, Mr. Lewis, let me tell you, when it comes to emotions, it’s really men that I pity. They’re at the mercy of their baser instincts, and can’t help it. If you’re worried, be worried for yourself. After all, it’s your hormones that have led you to this dungeon, to be tied up and stripped down and who knows what else, by me, the weaker sex,” I said and finished my story with a playful wink.

  The look of relief and adoration that washed over his face was exactly what I was angling for. I could almost see his heart beating hard in his body.

  “Now, Mr. Lewis, I’ll ask you once more. Shall we begin?”

  He swallowed again. Hands pulled back, his toned chest was on full display. His eyes were calm and focused, but by now I knew that to really read a man, you need to look lower down. A woman keeps her feelings in her eyes, but a man? Look for that tell-tale tension in the jaw, those fleshy ropes in the neck that hint at some delicious torment going on beneath. Naturally, the fact that his cock looked ready to rip through his trousers was another clue.

  He nodded and hung his head slightly.

  “Good. Like I said,
I don’t usually take on a plaything if he’s as scrawny as you are, but on the upside, I won’t feel too guilty when I eventually break you,” I said and paced over to a steel tray laid out with whips, dildos and restraints. I wouldn’t use even half of this today, but I didn’t need to – the impact of him merely seeing them there was enough.

  I ran luxurious fingers over each tool and settled on a long, thin leather riding crop. I loathed going to fetish stores to buy gear like this, so it’s just as well that it turns out some of the best whips and crops come from actual equestrian stores. The woven leather handle felt firm and sane in my grip. I took some practice swings and sliced the air a few times, then raised a bored eyebrow as I examined the small tab of raw leather on the very end. Yes, it would do nicely. Soon this little flap of raw leather would go whistling through the air and bite brutally into my slave’s naked flesh. He’d have to be properly naked first, though.

  I extended my arm and used the tip of the crop to tap the belt loops of his trousers.

  “Take these off,” I barked.

  He scrambled to his feet and clumsily worked to pull them off, but his hands were still tied and he struggled to pull down the cotton boxer shorts underneath. I stood tall and looked on like a cat watching a wounded mouse flail around. Eventually the trousers came off but the boxers remained. He was decently sized, and the rod of his swollen cock lay neatly across the top of his leg.

  My file upstairs on Mr. Lewis listed, cock humiliation, worship, whipping, and org. denial in the activities box. There aren’t many women in this world who can look at a strong, imposing figure like Mr. Lewis and know that all he really wants is to be laughed at and teased. But then, I’m not just any old woman.

  I took two menacing steps towards him and nestled the tip of the crop into the waistband of his boxers, then pulled down, revealing a tightly coiled mass of hair at the base of a well-defined V on his abdomen.