There were some books on the bottom shelf she wanted to get a look at. Really, Andrew was worse than she was when it came to collecting books. Curious, she bent to see what had been relegated to the guestroom closet.
There were only a handful of books there. Room for some of hers, at any rate. She glanced at a few titles. What was this? Bound in Love: A Guide to Erotic Submission. She read the other titles—Bound for Bondage, A Dominant’s Training Manual, Submissive Secrets, Story of O.
Intrigued she sat down on the little woven rug in front of the closet and picked up the one entitled Submissive Secrets. She had only meant to skim but quickly found herself engrossed. The back cover promised a novel about a young woman who was just learning about her own sexuality. Kind of like me, Ashley thought, smiling to herself. The book opened with the young woman confessing her secret submissive yearnings to a girlfriend over lunch at a restaurant.
Ashley was intrigued and read on, getting involved in the story, which followed the woman’s experimentations in bondage and discipline, first via the Internet and meeting a few duds, and finally when she meets “the man of her submissive dreams”.
Ashley’s legs had fallen asleep as she sat cross-legged on the floor by the shelf, but the story kept her glued to the spot. She was deep into the book, having followed this young woman’s explorations until she had met her true love and was now completely “enslaved”, but in a lovely, romantic way.
This wasn’t much different from any romance novel, Ashley decided, except for the explicit sex and the fact that whips and chains had entered the equation. Whips and chains. Ashley had heard of this stuff, of course, and had even felt a certain fascination with the whole idea, but had certainly never explored her own potential feelings in the matter.
Her hand dropped idly to her pussy, exposed in the open robe. She rubbed herself, feeling her hot, swollen wetness as she read. This stuff was definitely turning her on. The way it was written didn’t seem dirty or perverted, just sexy.
She read on, her mouth partially open as if she could drink in the words.
His voice was low and commanding in my cell phone earpiece as I drove along the interstate. “Slave, here are your instructions.”
Just the word—slave—was enough to change me from busy executive to his adoring slut girl. I could feel the change, as if I were dropping one skin and assuming another. A lovely sensual languor dropped over me like a net. At the same time, I felt all my senses heighten as I listened intently for his orders.
“Park in the garage, and then strip. Everything except stockings, garters and shoes. Go into the kitchen. You’ll find what you need on the table. When you’re ready I want you in the hall, whip between your teeth. Understand, slave girl?”
“Yes, David.” My ‘s’ was sibilant with desire—with need that always bubbled up in me the moment I heard his sexy voice.
Home at last, I pulled the car into the garage and killed the engine. It was mid-November and I shivered as I hurried out of my things and folded them over the car seat. My panties were already soaking and I could smell the faint sweet aroma of sex.
Entering the kitchen, I saw what he had left for me on the table. Resting on the smooth polished wood were a pair of nipple clamps, a heavy flogger, a satin blindfold and leather wrist cuffs with clips.
I knew what to do. Opening the little clamps I attached each one to a nipple, now erect and hard to my touch. The instant pain shifted almost at once to heat in the core of me. The very words “pain” and “pleasure” held no meaning for me as separate ideas. They were one perfect meld of submissive passion.
Carefully, I clipped a well-worn cuff to each wrist, leaving the clips dangling. Taking the whip and blindfold I walked to the front hall where he had instructed me to wait.
Kneeling on the polished marble floor I shivered a moment, an image of myself wrapped in a fleece robe sipping a hot toddy by the fire suddenly offering itself to me. But no, it was my lot to kneel naked on the cold floor, a silver chain dangling provocatively between my breasts. There was no place I would rather be.
I covered my eyes with the black satin. Feeling for the whip, I lifted it to my mouth and bit down on the handle. It was heavy and I knew my jaw would soon tire. I would have to trust that he would be home when he promised.
Now the most difficult part—reaching behind me, I managed to pull open the little clips on my wrist cuffs and connect them together, thereby effectively binding my own wrists behind my back.
That’s how he found me some minutes later. The haughty executive by day was now naked save for stockings, garters and heels, kneeling bound and blindfolded with a whip dangling from my teeth.
Ashley jumped and snapped the book shut as she heard the back door open. Was it evening already? She looked out the bedroom window but the sun was still high in the sky. So why was Andrew home so soon?
Maybe it wasn’t Andrew. Ashley’s heart caught in her throat suddenly. Was she always going to be afraid? She clutched the book to her chest and stood, calling out tremulously, “Andrew?”
“Hi, sweetheart.” His voice was loud and happy. “They cancelled court. I have the whole afternoon. I know I should be doing my briefs, but I wanted to see you. I brought the work home so I could be near you. Where are you?”
“In the guest bedroom.”
She was going to hide the book, but he got there so quickly she was still clutching it to her chest when he stopped and said, “Oh. You found them. The books.” He looked a little embarrassed, no doubt unsure how she would react.
“Yeah, this is really something,” Ashley, too, was unsure what to say, what to reveal.
“Well, what are you reading? Oh, I see. Submissive Secrets. That was my ex-wife’s. It’s kind of corny, but it does have some sexy passages as I recall.”
“Your ex-wife’s? So she was into this stuff? This BDSM stuff?” Ashley felt curiously let down. She realized with a little jolt she had been hoping it was Andrew who was “into this stuff”. She wanted to explore her own strong reactions to the genre with someone who would understand, who could relate.
“Well, yes. We both were, uh, are. That is, the rest of those are mine. I go in more for the nonfiction, I guess. So you’ve been reading it, huh? You look kind of flustered. Are you okay with it?”
“Andrew, I don’t know. I’m not sure what I am. This book is something else, I must say. I couldn’t put it down.” Andrew looked at the well-thumbed paperback she was holding clutched in front of her. Her robe was open and her lithe, naked body was revealed beneath.
“Jesus,” he murmured appreciatively. “You’re gorgeous.” He came over to her, taking her in his arms. His hand dropped to her bared sex, which he touched, slipping a finger into her entrance. He stepped back and exclaimed with mock surprise, “Why, Ashley, you’re soaking wet. What’s turning you on so much, eh, little girl? Is it just my handsome presence? Or is this book you’re reading…” He took the paperback she still held in her hand and tossed it toward the bed. “…giving you ideas, my little slave girl?”
Ashley laughed, but couldn’t quite cover the little shiver of desire that surged through her at his use of the term “slave girl”. What was going on? Was she submissive and only this moment discovering it? And Andrew—was he a Dom? The word was new, she having just read it in Submissive Secrets, but the concept was not.
Wasn’t she painfully aware that men liked to dominate women? To control their every move, their very lives? Hadn’t she just escaped a man like that? And before him, a father who thought he owned her as well? Yet, how could she square that image of a Dom with Andrew, who admitted he was into it? And herself, newly liberated and vowing to be her own woman, was her body betraying her in its arousal? How could she feel at once empowered and submissive?
These questions were somehow playing themselves over her face because Andrew dropped his bantering tone and said seriously, “What, honey? What is it? Talk to me. You can tell me.”
She walked to the bed a
nd sat slowly down, drawing her satin robe around herself protectively. Hesitantly at first, then with more confidence as Andrew listened attentively, Ashley asked the questions roiling in her mind, trying to reconcile her feelings with what her head told her “should” be. As she spoke, Andrew began to smile.
“What?” Ashley demanded. “What’s so funny?” She looked hurt.
“No, I’m not laughing at you, sweetie. I’m smiling because these are the same issues my ex and many others have grappled with. You are a strong, sexy woman who knows what she wants, and yet you find yourself responding on a gut level to these ideas of submission and masochism. Especially for you, I would imagine, this would be troubling, because of your past and motherfuckers like Greg who prey on some women’s natural submissive tendencies, abusing and twisting what should be something lovely into something horrible and nonconsensual.”
“So you’re saying it’s okay I got all hot reading that stuff? And you, what about you? Do you, did you do stuff like that to Janet, like what David does to Laura in the book? Did you train her and punish her and all that stuff?”
Even saying these words out loud made Ashley blush and she turned away, feeling the heat in her face.
“Well, yes, since you ask so bluntly. Yes. Although Janet wasn’t really submissive. She was more what I would call a masochistic slut.” As Ashley raised her eyebrows, he elaborated. “She liked to be whipped and spanked. Tied down and taken ‘by force’, but she did not like to serve. You would never catch her kneeling at the door like Laura there in the book, eager to serve her master’s every whim. No, she liked to tell me what to do. ‘Tie my hands and fuck me. Blindfold me and spank my naughty bottom.’”
Ashley’s eyes were wide. “And did you? Did you do those things to her?”
“Sure, why not? It got her hot, and it was sexy. But she was fooling herself if she thought she was submissive. She certainly didn’t fool me.” He laughed, but then sobered and added, “I’ve always dreamed of finding someone truly submissive, someone to complement my sexually dominant nature, but I’ve never really looked for it. Somehow it didn’t seem attainable.”
Until now?
The words were left unspoken in the air, but Ashley fancied she almost heard them, though she wasn’t sure whose voice was saying them, hers or his.
~*~
Things were going according to plan, Belinda thought. What a stone-cold creep this guy was. They had never arrested the pimp who had killed her baby sister, but she would nail this guy’s ass if she could. Turning toward him now with a big smile she said, “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who could be my, uh, protector, would you?”
Greg slid closer to the young woman, pressing his thigh now firmly against hers. “Let’s get out of here, babe. Let’s go somewhere we can talk.” He slapped a ten-dollar bill conspicuously on the bar and stood up. A big spender, paying for her drink. Belinda made a conscious effort not to roll her eyes.
She stood too, smoothing down her skintight miniskirt. As she followed the stocky man from the room, she made a signal with her hand behind her back, which was noted by the two plainclothes cops sitting in one of the booths. After a moment, they stood and followed. They made sure to give the pair plenty of time so they wouldn’t be noticed. After all, they knew where Greg Mundy lived.
Greg opened the door to his home, gesturing Belinda in as if it were the Taj Mahal instead of a lower middle-class ranch with cheap furniture that looked dusty and little used. Glancing around with a cop’s practiced eye, Belinda scoped out the place. She took in the computer and the papers strewn around it. There were cups and plates piled here and there near it. Clearly, the center of his domain.
He walked into the living room and, seeing her looking at the computer, said, looking self-important, “I’m a trader. Day trader. I make a thousand bucks a day on a good day.”
Yeah, sure you do, she thought, that’s why you live in this mansion.
He pointed to a couch and said, “Sit down. Want some scotch?”
“No thanks.” He helped himself to the half-empty bottle on the coffee table, pouring a healthy dollop into a dirty glass. He settled himself uncomfortably close to Belinda, who resisted the urge to scoot away. Taking a swallow of the scotch, Greg licked his lips and said, “Now, doll, let’s talk business. I got a clientele, see. I can set you up sweet. I handle all the money, you just spread your legs and lie back and enjoy it.”
Too vague, she would need him to be more specific. She sat forward so her wire would pick up his words better. “So,” she said, enunciating. “You get me the men? You get the johns and I turn the tricks? I let these guys screw me, but you collect the money? And you protect me if they try to beat me up or something?”
“Yeah, that’s it. I protect you. I do better than that, though. I only deal with high-class guys. Rich old guys who like high-class girls. We could clean you up some and you could pass for refined. Get rid of your skank clothes and get your hair properly styled and colored.”
Self-consciously Belinda touched her hair. Bastard. Typical pimp, pulling down the girl, always hacking at their confidence as part of the control gig.
Greg went on. “Let’s see you naked. Don’t worry, I never touch the goods. I just want to make sure you’re passable. Stretch marks, birth marks, that kind of shit won’t fly with these guys. They’re used to the best. They demand perfection.” When Belinda failed to leap up and strip, he encouraged her, his voice still friendly. “Go ahead, stand up and show me what you got.”
When she still didn’t react, he added cruelly, “Come on, it’s not like you haven’t strutted it a thousand times before, whore. Don’t pretend you’re shy about it.”
Belinda took a deep breath. She’d rather die than strip for this creep, but there was more to it. If she took off her blouse, he’d see her wire and she’d be a dead woman. Asshole like him would know what he was seeing, she’d be willing to bet. She stalled, “Gosh, Greg, you’ve given me a lot to think about. How does the money-end work? What’s my take?”
“Well, my last girl was happy with tips. That and free room and board. I treated her like a fucking queen. Bought all her clothes, gave her regular trips to the salon and spa, she lived a life of total luxury, the bitch.”
“What happened to her?”
“Oh, she ran off. Just ran off after five good years. I never lifted a finger against her. Treated her like gold and that’s how she repaid me.”
Belinda’s eyes narrowed as she recalled Ashley’s harrowing descriptions of the beatings and of his constant verbal abuse. Of how he’d essentially kidnapped her and then conditioned her to such a degree that she didn’t realize she had any other options but to sell her body so he could sit on his ass at his computer all day, probably downloading porn more often than executing day trades.
But she said, her voice as sympathetic as she could make it, “Wow, that stinks. After all you did for her.”
Greg nodded. Crossing his legs and leaning back into his hands locked behind his head, he sighed dramatically, “Yeah, that’s how they repay you.” Leaning forward again, his focus now entirely on her, he said, “But I’ll tell you what, Belinda. You’re hot. Much hotter than she was. I’m willing to go in with you. Let’s deal. Eighty-twenty if you have your own place. If you live here, the same arrangements as she got. And you keep my house clean and cook for me too. That’s the deal and if you think it over, think about the cost of living, it’s a damn good deal. No other guy would do it, but I’m softhearted. I treat my girls like fine china.”
Belinda nodded, seething inside. Wonder where he keeps the rubber hose, the scum. Wonder when he’d decide it was time to use it on me?
At least she’d steered him away from taking her clothes off. As if reading her mind he said again, “So get up and show me the goods, babe.”
If she was going get him, she needed more than just a sentence on the digital recorder saying he was willing to trade in human flesh. She needed an actual transaction. Well, sh
e had known this wasn’t going to be an easy assignment. It wouldn’t kill her to show this prick her breasts. Give him a treat, the bastard.
Feigning a timid expression, she stood and said, “Gosh, Greg. I’m kinda shy about just plain ole stripping right in front of you. Guys kinda like it that I’m shy, but it really isn’t an act. Would you mind terribly if I undressed in the bathroom? And I could come out when I was ready? Would that be okay?” She batted her eyelashes at him, making herself sound as coy as she could.
Greg scowled. He wasn’t moved, she could see, but maybe since the relationship wasn’t yet sealed and he was hungry for the potential cash he said, “Okay. This one time. But hurry it up.”
She stood and walked toward the hall he pointed toward, finding the bathroom and quickly shutting the door behind her. Removing her blouse and bra, she carefully pulled the sticky tape that held the little microphone in place against her ribs and pulled the little digital recorder from the waistband of her skirt.
Hiding it under the little pile of her clothing, she stepped out into the hallway in just her panties, feeling extremely nervous. She was used to working undercover but not without any cover. You’re a cop, stupid. Stop acting like a kid. Do it for Rosie. Taking a deep breath, she walked back into the living room.
Where Ashley was long and lithe, Belinda was short and compact with large lush breasts and womanly hips. Where Ashley’s coloring was peaches and cream, Belinda’s was smooth olive. She wasn’t fat at all, but muscular while still being very feminine. In fact, she was more Greg’s type than the girlish Ashley, and he whistled his approval.
“You’ll do,” he said. “You almost make me want to change my policy of never touching the meat.”
Swallowing her urge to smash the smug bastard in his face, she simpered, “Thank you, sir. I’m glad you approve. I think we have ourselves a deal.”
“Which deal? Eighty-twenty or you live here?”
“Eighty-twenty. I’ve got a mom to take care of.”
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