by Christy Poff
"What?"
"Your training's been shot to hell. I want you as my slave, my lover and my master. I want to possess your body and I want you at my beck and call."
"Anything. I want you, too,” he said, continuing his powerful siege on her body.
"You don't understand. I want you to be there when I want to be fucked. It's selfish but if I could out-and-out buy you, I would in order to accomplish this and satisfy this unforgiving craving I have for you."
"I'm yours. I don't want to be away from you any more than I have to."
"Brett..."
Brett fell to her side, releasing her hands while taking her nipple and suckling it.
"I don't know what happened to you but if I find the asshole who did this to you, I will kill him."
Chapter 5
"I have an emergency back east I have to take care of. I need a few days, maybe a week ... My notes on the report are on my desk. Sam can finish it up and have it ready for the final run through ... Thanks."
"You just lied to your boss,” Anya accused, amusement in her voice.
"Then punish me for it,” he said. “Just have some mercy."
"I don't know. You've made me sore in places new to me."
"My desire to obey you,” Brett said, then kissed her hair.
"Ainsley."
"What?"
"My real name is Ainsley Reynolds."
"I think Ainsley's gorgeous,” Brett said, pulling her close, her back fused to his chest. They'd finally made it across her hotel room to the bed before spending hours in sexual bliss. She'd given him commands, ones Brett eagerly embraced and obeyed.
Brett began to trace her neck with his tongue. He gently rolled her to her stomach and continued down her back. She held her breath, waiting to see what he would do next. Erotic sensations went through her as he traced the scars on her sensitive skin, giving her the answer she'd hoped for.
The combination of the cool breeze blowing in the window and his hot breath on her skin plus the dampness from his tongue caused her body to tremble.
"You don't have to tell me until you are ready."
"It's why I am here. I went to see a plastic surgeon yesterday and he's supposed to operate in a few days."
"I'll go with you."
"I can't ask you to..."
"Last night, you told me how you wanted me in your life. Has that changed?"
"No, I swear it hasn't. It's just..."
"I'll go with you,” he repeated.
Ainsley looked at him, amazed by his loyalty to her, especially considering their tenuous start.
"Brett, I..."
"I want to be there—end of story."
* * * *
Over brunch, they talked and got to know each other more. She explained a little more about what she would expect from him.
"Some relationships can go as far as the Dom completely controlling the sub's life. I've known some slaves who gave up everything to be with their masters on a constant basis."
"You're kidding—right?"
She looked at him, disbelief on her face.
"No, I'm not. I did."
"But you're so strong. You are not my idea of a submissive personality."
"I haven't always been. My master took charge of my entire being. Going to work became impossible. When he died, I went into a tailspin—my love for and dependence on him that deep and strong."
"What did you do?"
"It took a while but I pulled myself out of it. My master left me everything and financially set for life."
"And now?"
"I've had subs and I like to submit."
"I see."
"You scare me."
"Why?"
"My body feels that emptiness when you're away from me. If we get that close and I lose you, I don't know what I would do or if I could handle the devastation again."
Brett knelt in front of her, her nudity sending heat surging through his body. His cock throbbed, begging for her attention.
"You won't lose me. I've never felt what I do at this moment with any other woman. When you told me you wanted me with you all the time, my body rejoiced. Ainsley, I need you in my life. You've changed me and I love it. I love you and if I have to marry you in order to be with you, I will."
"What?"
"I love you, Mistress Anya."
"Stand up, hands behind you."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Close your eyes,” she commanded, Brett obeying without a thought.
"When I'm done with you, I will have done things to you that will make you crave more. If you think you're in need now, I'll make it worse."
"Your wish, Mistress."
While she spoke to him, she lightly ran her fingertips over his hard body. His breath caught when she nipped his nipples. The moment she stepped back a little, she saw his reaction. Smiling, she knelt in front of him.
His jump when she blew over the head of his cock pleased her. His body trembled while he fought to hold her closer.
Slowly, she drew his cock into her mouth, deep into her throat. She languished in the sensation of his cock swelling between her lips. With one hand on his firm ass, her other held his balls, torturing him. Torturously slow, she drew back.
"Not one word,” she said. “Do not move."
She took him in again, going down on his cock at a furious pace. Ainsley could tell he held back desperately trying to behave. She drew back, holding the very tip of his cock between her teeth, her tongue teasing his slit.
"Feed me, slave,” she quietly commanded.
Brett cried out when his release exploded in her mouth. She smiled when she saw him quivering. Ainsley massaged his balls wanting it all. After he'd given it to her, filling her with his amazing heat, she crept up his body feathering kisses over him.
"You are delicious and you behaved. I'm impressed."
"Thank you, ma'am,” he croaked.
"Very good,” she complimented. She pulled him closer, her lips brushing his. She kissed him, their tongues dancing while exploring each other.
"Play with me, slave,” she whispered. Moments later, she jolted from his firm yet gentle squeeze on her breasts. “Mmm.... “she moaned.
"Mistress?"
"Tell me what you feel."
"I'm holding the most perfect tits I've ever..."
"What else?"
"I want to bury myself inside your hot pussy."
She turned to the table, moving the dishes to the side. She leaned over it, her hands seeking something to hold onto.
"Do it and it had better be forceful."
"Yes, ma'am."
* * * *
When he learned about the plastic surgeon, Brett called his boss to request an extended leave of absence. He didn't know the reason she needed the procedure and hoped one day she'd tell him but he knew one thing—he couldn't leave her. He realized not asking questions went against everything he worked his entire life to obtain but Ainsley came first—his one and only priority.
They went to the private clinic, meeting with her doctor.
"This is Brett Quincannon. He's my support right now."
"Good, you'll need it,” he said, shaking Brett's hand.
"Doctor,” Brett said.
"I prefer my patients having someone here when they come out of anesthesia."
"I'll be here."
"Good,” Doctor Emile Cosby acknowledged. “By the way, Diego had to go back to take care of something at the club—nothing serious, just needs his attention. He sends his love."
"Thank you,” she said, quietly hoping it had nothing to do with Holmes and her attack. How the hell do I tell Brett?
"I'll be right back then we'll get started."
"Thank you,” she said.
"Are you all right?” Brett asked after the doctor left them alone. “You're shaking like a leaf."
"I'm like this all the time. I had this done about a year ago and did the same thing."
"You had it done here?"
; "No, in Chicago."
"Oh,” he said, brushing her hair from her face. “One question—who is Diego?"
"My Dominant when I want one. We've been friends for years."
"And?"
"You have nothing to worry about. If I need domination, I'll have my slave take care of it."
"How?"
"If I—as your Dom—tell you to be my master, you have no choice but to obey me."
"I think I'm going to like this."
"Good, because I picture you in restraints."
"God, woman,” he groaned, pulling her against him. She could feel his reaction.
"Brett, I love you, too. You're one hell of a slave and I am not giving up on you without a fight."
"Only for you,” he said, overstepping by taking her into a deeply passionate kiss. “I want to fuck you right now so much, I can't see straight,” he whispered.
"I should punish you for this."
"Do your worst but, right now, I can't help it."
"Anya, I'm ready for you. Mister Quincannon, my assistant will take you to the waiting area. If you need anything, she's the one to ask."
"Thanks,” he said. He kissed Ainsley once more, taking in everything he could about her. He trembled, dreading something could go wrong, but then again, he hated hospitals of any kind. Ainsley followed Cosby, stopping when Brett refused to let go of her.
"I'll be here when you wake up then I'll take you back to the hotel and pamper the hell out of you."
"I like the way you think,” she said, smiling.
Ainsley disappeared into the rear of the clinic, Brett feeling queasy already. Please, come back to me...
* * * *
Cosby explained everything about the procedure again after Ainsley changed into a hospital gown. He told her to lie on her stomach then rest her face in the specially designed cushion. Shaped like the ones on the ends of massage tables, it eased some of the awkwardness of her situation and kept her neck in line with her back. He put her arm out to the side, resting it on a cushion attachment to the table. His anesthetist started her IV after taping her arm in place once she got comfortable.
Over the next several hours, he repaired the damage to his patient's back. He'd seen markings like this before but never two nearly identical sets like she had. What the hell did he do to you and why?
* * * *
While he waited, Brett Quincannon stretched out on the couch and took a good look at his life. Successful at what he did professionally, he'd risen to network status at one of the larger newsrooms in the mass-market system. He'd met many people—some famous, others up-and-coming. He had traveled the world, enjoying life. Financially well off, he invested wisely and always made money. He wanted for absolutely nothing—if he saw something he wanted, he got it.
The only thing he hadn't been good at was interacting with the opposite sex. He'd grown up with the idea of male dominance—in and out of the bedroom—but found it didn't always work like that. The mere thought of a take-charge woman in his bed angered him and turned him off. Then Ainsley came into his life.
Ainsley Reynolds—tall, blonde and gorgeous—not only tugged at his heart, she took it as hers. She commanded him and he obeyed—willingly and craving more. Am I truly a submissive? The answer—yes and I love it!
"God, the old man would be having fits if he knew this."
"Are you all right, sir?” Cosby's assistant asked.
Startled then realizing where he was, Brett reddened a little.
"I'm fine,” he answered.
"Let me know if you need anything."
"Thanks.” What I need is Ainsley in my arms.
He felt the hardness of his cock straining against the firm denim of his jeans. The mere thought of Ainsley sent him into complete arousal—a feeling quickly becoming a constant in his life.
Closing his eyes, he saw her. She wore black lace, her gorgeous curves highlighted by the tight black body-hugging outfit. She wore black stilettos giving her already tall body more height. My God, her legs are magnificent.
He wanted to touch her but couldn't, her soft laugh sending heat through him. Brett saw she'd shackled him between two posts, Brett unable to do anything but watch. He fought but she laughed, running her long red fingertips over his skin making the sweet torture worse.
She seduced him, his body crying out for her while he dutifully held his reaction to please her.
"Very good, slave,” she complimented. “I want to see how long it will be before you disobey me. Stamina is important and so far, you are doing extremely well."
"Thank you, Mistress,” he groaned.
She walked behind him out of sight, a feeling of loss tightening in his gut. He felt a snap on his hip, the shock of the flogger's touch bringing him down to earth right before he felt the second one, only this time he didn't have the reaction he expected. Instead, he enjoyed it, surprising himself.
"I see you enjoy my flogger."
"Thank you, ma'am, may I have more?"
"As you wish."
Brett opened his eyes. Beads of sweat covered his forehead. He checked the room finding he'd been left alone. He felt his cock aching for Ainsley's touch. My God, I've got it bad...
Sitting up, he picked up a copy of a Boston newspaper someone had left a few days earlier. He read through it scanning the headlines. One item caught his attention. It reported that the daughter of one of the city's officials had been found in the Boston Common, cause of death not announced, though the article did mention several sets of lash marks on her back and torso. The one point catching his attention—the original set had been figured to be at least twelve to eighteen months old.
Brett's investigative mind went into overdrive. He reread that one sentence over and over, comparing his image to Ainsley's back. Then his next thought hit him like a ton of bricks.
"Can I use my cell phone in here?"
"Not really, the terrace is fine though,” the assistant answered.
"Thank you.” He went outside, hit a number in his speed dial and paced waiting for his old friend to answer.
"Jim Pearson."
"Jim, it's me. I need to ask you some questions."
"Shoot."
"Remember that Central Park murder we went to near Strawberry Fields?"
"Yes."
"What did they determine as COD?"
"Blunt force trauma—why?"
"What did the ME say about her back?"
"New lash marks about an hour old..."
"Were there others?"
"Wait a minute. I'll check,” he said. “What do you have?"
"I'm not sure, which is why I called you."
"Okay, here it is. The victim had scars determined to be twelve to near eighteen months old."
"Shit!"
"What?” Pearson asked, knowing his friend was onto something.
"I think there's a serial killer on the loose."
"Brett, you..."
"Check Boston—one of their city official's daughters showed up the same way."
"Two does not a serial killer make."
"Three."
"What?"
"Trust me on this. Send me what you can. I need a picture of the lash marks on the vic and a photo of the girl."
"Why?"
"I think they are the common link."
"If it was anyone else..."
"I know,” Brett said. “Can you get me the Boston info, too?"
"Sure,” Pearson said, relieved for the break in the case but concerned about the possibilities. “What can you tell me about the third?"
"She's alive."
"What?"
"I'll tell you when I know more."
* * * *
"Sweetheart, if you can hear me, you're done. The procedure went without a hitch.” Emile Cosby spoke to Ainsley hoping to get the good news through to her. It had been his experience in the past that doing this helped not only recovery but the initial fears his patients had when coming out of the effects of the anesthesia
. Studies had been done on the effects of the subconscious world and Cosby used the theories in his work.
"Alice, keep an eye on her and let me know when she starts coming back to us. I'm going to make a phone call and then speak to the man waiting for her."
"Yes, Doctor."
He went to his office, made some notes to be placed with his patient's chart and entered more information into her file on the computer. After he printed out instructions for her outpatient care, he called Diego to tell him how everything went. After hanging up with him, Cosby went to find Brett Quincannon.
As soon as he walked into the room, Cosby realized why Brett Quincannon bothered him. He'd seen Brett's report on immigration and the one that skyrocketed his career to the national desk. The last thing Ainsley Reynolds needed was a reporter in her life.
"Doctor, how's Ainsley?” Brett asked, jumping up to meet him.
"She's perfect,” Cosby stated. “Why don't we walk?"
"Sure,” Brett said, obviously unsure of what would happen next.
Once outside on the terrace, Cosby took a deep breath and chose his words carefully.
"I saw your piece on immigration a few weeks ago."
"Shit!” Brett cursed.
"I take it she doesn't know."
"No, she knows me as Brett Quincannon, not Brett Cannon, the reporter."
"I see,” Cosby said, “I hope you don't intend to expose her to the world like you did the so-called orgy life in New York. She's not like that and I know she won't handle your betrayal well."
"I don't intend to do that. In fact, I want to pull the story back by doing another piece setting the record straight. I do not intend to involve her at all. I love her too damn much to hurt her in that way."
"I will hold you to that. My patient's welfare is my chief concern."
"And mine. Tell me something,” Brett began, “how did her back..."
"She didn't tell you?"
"No."
"You must ask her. I can't talk about it."
Brett nodded, figuring he'd get the answer Cosby gave him. One thing he tried to follow on some cases—never ask a question unless you know the answer. He'd learned it from his defense attorney years before when he had to defend an article he'd written after one of the subjects sued him and the station for defamation of character.
"When can I see her?'
"She's still in recovery. When I'm sure she's out of the anesthesia with no side effects, I'll come get you."