Valley of Surrender Series - Vol.1

by Trent Evans

  He often punished her in the evenings, whether she’d done anything to warrant it or not. She knew well that, despite her obedience, and indeed her increasing craving of his approval, Ford believed there didn’t need to be a reason for a spanking — it could be delivered simply because he enjoyed it.

  And he did.

  What disturbed her though was how much she’d come to enjoy it too. The fact was that she needed him, in every way.

  She needed his indulgence — and his rules. She needed his kindness — and his cruelty.

  Each night as he tucked her in, often fondling her naked charms for long minutes beforehand, stirring her lust up yet again, he ended with a simple question:

  “Who is your source?”

  Of course, she refused to tell him, and indeed, he always seemed to ask the question with a smile, or a sly wink, as if he never expected her to divulge the information, but simply enjoyed the symbolic jousting, the drawing out of the last bit of defiance she still felt. Still he tried, and she came to see it as a routine, and something she actually enjoyed, a tiny hint of the playfulness he indulged with her only rarely.

  But those kisses to her forehead, those were the sweetest of all. No words, not even words, just the gentle press of his too soft lips to her skin. Then he would leave her to herself, her thoughts, her desires, and her fears warring within her in the darkness, before sleep finally claimed her.

  How could this go on? How could she endure this? Fulfill her agreement, when with every passing day she feared losing much more to this man, this town, than some big scoop.

  There were things much more dear to her than that.

  Soon, it became evident that she wasn’t the only one struggling with it, with the evolution of what their dynamic had become. One day a small, neat bed had appeared in her cell, Ford muttering that he knew the pillows, luxurious as they were could eventually be bad for her back.

  The nights he’d taken her into his bed rather than make her sleep in her cell were more precious to her than anything, and as time went on they became the rule rather than the exception. Though she was still punished, often quite cruelly, he rarely left her alone in her cell anymore, her nights no longer her own, just as her body was no longer her own.

  He took her twice as often, the daytime no longer the only time he might demand the surrendering of her body to him. The long hours of darkness were often punctuated with her breathless, exhausted pleas for mercy as he brought her to yet another mind-blowing pinnacle of ecstasy, her bottom as hot, throbbing and well-used as her pussy.

  She knew he was breaking her down, disarming every defense she had, exposing her innermost desires and needs. He’d reached her, there was no doubt about that, her surrender nearly complete. But one question remained.

  In her heart, she knew she’d helped him discover something within himself that he truly needed too.

  Was Ford Mathis ready to admit it?

  Chapter 18

  The bright moonlight filled the bedroom, the picture window affording a dramatic view of the night sky across the river. On his bed, in silence, Ford and Falon shared that night with the moon.

  She lay in his arms, her thigh crossed over his, the heavy, wet weight of his genitals against her leg. Their naked bodies only now started to cool from making love, the sweat pooling at her lower back as his big hand stroked her.

  Falon laid her head on his broad chest, her fingers combing through the dark hair there, the strong, reassuring thump of his heart loud against her ear.

  She wasn’t sure if it was Stockholm syndrome or simply too many orgasms frying her brain, but she knew then that she needed this man, that her body craved him, her heart yearning for more of those gorgeous smiles he doled out so sparingly, more of the warmth — and the strictness — that called to her in equal measure.

  Still she wondered how he really felt. Could he really engage in all that sweaty, rough sex, the intense psychological games, beating the daylights out of her ass, and not somehow feel something deeper for her?

  Fearing she was starting to become unmoored from the very reason she came to this place, her story seemed less and less important by the day. It was as if with each screaming orgasm, with each searing spanking or paddling or caning — and the cathartic tears and tender aftercare that followed — the reasons for opposing this place, for fighting this amazing, terrifying man were evaporating.

  The experience, the dark magic of this place — and the way her subjugation to his will spoke to a hidden, forbidden part of her heart — shook her, making her question even her more basic motivations. It was the need she felt to submit to this gruff man, to give him everything, that seemed to overpower all other considerations, all other conflict about what was right and what was wrong.

  That need to submit… it just was.

  If only he’d give her his heart in return.

  His fingers stroked a strand of hair off her cheek, his palm caressing the line of her jaw, his callused skin rough against her soft flesh.

  His chest expanded as he took a deep breath, the sound of it making her sigh.

  “I know it probably makes no sense to you, considering where you come from, but I love this place. This town. I always have.”

  “I… it doesn’t surprise me.” She kissed his chest. “Seems to suit a man like you.”

  He chuckled at that. “Watch that now.”

  “Sorry, sir.” But she smiled nonetheless.

  “White Valley has given me so much. It’s given me everything. Every person who lives here, they feel that same gratitude, that same sense of home, of being where they belong.”

  “Not everyone gets that opportunity, to find somewhere they can really call home.

  Her heart twisted at the words, that vague sense of drifting, the one she’d always had since leaving for college, had never quite left her. It had been a whisper, a murmur, telling her she hadn’t found what she was looking for, that her search had to go on. It wasn’t until she heard him say those words that she realized something though.

  She no longer heard that whisper.

  “Why are you telling me this, sir?”

  “Because… something feels off. In this town that I love, I know… something’s wrong.” He shifted beneath her, his breath against her hair at the crown of her head, his arm drawing her tighter to him. She eased her leg against him ever so slightly, his cock beginning to stir again. He’d be ready again soon, heat just starting to bloom between her thighs.

  Ford held her that way for long minutes, until his cock engorged once again, hot and pulsing against her thigh. He lifted her leg, whispering to her to move her hips.

  As he slid slowly into her, his thick length seeking her core, the pleasure of her stretched tissues threatening to drive her mad, she surrendered to it, letting him in finally, truly, her last defenses shattered. The name was upon her lips as she gasped, whispering it against his skin as he began to thrust within her.

  “Keenan Wingate.”

  Chapter 19

  Ford knocked on Keenan’s front door, the air starting to get warm enough outside that he had to unbutton his jacket, a bead of sweat running down his chest under his shirt. Amy’s beamer was in the driveway so it looked like both of them were home. Not the best, but it would have to do.

  No one answered the door though, so he jammed a finger against the pale illuminated disc of the doorbell, shaking his head. It was compelling evidence that brought Ford there, yes, but all of it still, somehow, failed to add up in his mind. Keenan Wingate was perhaps one of the most dedicated men in White Valley when it came to defending, promoting, and advocating for their particular way of life. There had even been rumors of him being offered a Council seat, but Ford knew the man would never take it. Keenan rarely even left his house. Semi-hermit tendencies didn’t mesh well with the front-and-center nature of being on the Council.

  He pressed the doorbell again, wondering why Amy wasn’t answering. Keenan kept an extraordinarily tight leash on her — bo
th literally and figuratively — and it was unlike her not to be at the door greeting a visitor in about a half a second flat.

  The speaker above the doorbell crackled to life.

  “Wingates,” Keenan’s voice said, his normal smooth baritone now reduced to tinny faintness.

  “Keenan, it’s Ford. Need to talk to you about something. Where are ya?”

  “Ford! Come around back. Hanging out some laundry.”

  “Oh, I’ve gotta see this shit,” Ford muttered, following the concrete pavers laid out like a breadcrumb trail along the side of the house.

  He passed under the cool shade of the soaring fir trees flanking the house on both sides, emerging into the back yard, an intimate space bordered by a large trellis drowning in a sea of broad-leafed grape vines, and a closely packed copse of fruit trees. Keenan reclined in an Adirondack chair stained the color of milk chocolate. Though Ford had visited the Wingate residence several times in the past, he’d never seen the backyard before. Indeed, as Keenan had said, a simple clothesline had been set up, a tiny, plastic cord strung between two thick metal poles embedded in the lawn. Numerous sheets and towels hung on the line, their damp weight making it droop slightly, the kaleidoscope of colors slowly waving in the gentle breeze. The air smelled of evergreens and fresh detergent, a pleasant scent that brought back immediate, if vague, childhood memories.

  Keenan, dressed in a hunter green button-down and blue jeans, stood up from his chair, laying a thick paperback down on the broad arm. “Nice to see you, Sheriff.” He extended a hand and Ford shook it. “What brings you out here?”

  “I need to run a couple things by you. Working on a… case.” Ford stroked his chin, the flashing image of the beautiful, needy creature waiting for him at that very moment, bound, blindfolded in his basement, throwing him momentarily off balance.

  “I’m a shitty profiler, Ford,” Keenan said with a wink, sitting back down, waving Ford toward the chair next to him. Both faced the almost ghostly shapes of the laundry hanging as if weightless before them. “But I’m always happy to help the police, if I can.”

  A red plastic bucket, like one might see kids using for sandcastles on a beach, sat on the grass on the far side of Keenan’s chair. By the look of the mound of linens still piled in the basket of pale wicker at the author’s foot, it appeared the laundry was far from done being hung up.

  “Taking a break?”

  “Who me?” Keenan grinned. “Just supervising today, I’m afraid.”

  Ford looked behind him toward the house, not noting anyone else. “Amy?”

  “Right over there.”

  That’s when Ford saw the slender bare ankles, just beyond the fluttering fringe of a broad, white sheet. She was barefoot, something he wouldn’t have expected on a day this cool.

  “Hi, Ford. Sorry — I’m almost done.” Amy’s voice was cheerful, but held a strange note of tension too.

  “Just be a few minutes, Amy,” Ford said, raising his voice a little. “Sorry to interrupt you two.

  “It’s nothing.” Keenan lifted a finger toward his still concealed wife. “She’s not… unaccustomed to visitors.”

  Ford dropped his voice to a murmur. “Oh. Uh, think we can talk alone for a minute?”

  “I take it you don’t need to plumb the depths of my criminal imagination then?” Keenan’s grin faded a little. “She won’t eavesdrop, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He leaned over the side of his chair, his hand fishing for something in the bucket. “Come back over here, girl.”

  Ford’s mouth dropped open as Amy emerged from behind the hanging sheet. Clad in only a long white t-shirt — presumably one of Keenan’s — she padded her way over to her husband, her long auburn hair caught up in a haphazard bun, exposing the pale, slender neck. Her hard nipples stood up plain against the thin fabric, but they looked distorted somehow. The hem of the shirt rode up as she walked, hinting at the pink-lipped sex just peeking from a nest of russet curls.

  She stopped between them, at Keenan’s left, her bottom not a foot from Ford. She glanced over her shoulder at him, her big blue eyes liquid, not a little trepidation hinted at by the fetching line of her brow, and the way she nibbled at her lower lip. A quick smile was all she gave Ford before turning her attention back to her waiting husband.

  “Let’s have it up. You’ve got room for one more,” Keenan said, peering up at her.

  With a tiny murmur of protest, Amy hiked the shirt high, the fabric riding up and over her hips to the middle of her back, revealing the fetching twin dimples just above the round, pale perfection of Amy’s bottom, a backside Keenan was very generous with in showing off to his friends.

  Then Keenan’s hand emerged from within the bucket, a large, wooden clothespin in his fingers. Her husband brought it up, and despite Ford’s view being blocked, Amy’s pained gasp confirmed the peg had found good purchase.

  “There,” Keenan intoned. “Now, be a polite hostess and show him too.”

  Ford held up a hand. “No, that’s…”

  Amy spun around, her white-knuckled hands still hoisting the shirt up under chin, her cheeks blazing red. Both her pink nipples sported several clothespins, the left nipple with four of the evil pegs digging into the broad smooth areola. The right had two pegs clinging to the nipple, another pin — one that must have been truly uncomfortable — pinching the underside of her breast.

  “She complained about how slowly the new all-in-one washer completes loads, so I thought I’d remind her how hard people used to have it before washing machines.” Keenan stroked her thigh. “Plus, I just felt like sorting her out today. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Amy said in a tight voice, but still managing a wan smile.

  “Back to work,” Keenan said, smacking her ass, Amy wincing with the loud crack.

  Dropping her shirt, she retreated quickly to the concealment behind the waving sheets.

  “What do you have for me, Sheriff? I’m guessing you’re not here on a social call.”

  “Does the name Falon Moore mean anything to you?”

  “That’s the reporter, right?”

  Ford frowned. Maybe it really was true after all.

  “Yes. She disclosed something to me yesterday, and I need to follow up on it. It’s potentially… quite serious.”

  “Criminal?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” Ford looked over at Amy, her form just visible as a hint of a shadow on the other side of a billowing white sheet. “What do you know about her? Ms. Moore?”

  Please let this be a dead-end.

  “I know about as much as Von told me. Potential troublemaker like that reporter we had sniffing around last year?” Keenan lowered his voice. “Are you taking care of her? Making her feel… welcome?”

  You have no idea, Keenan.

  Was the brilliant author playing possum here, or did he really not know? Ford believed Falon, no matter how much he wished it weren’t someone like Keenan.

  Sighing, Ford leaned back. “Might be nothing…”

  Keenan was watching Amy’s form too, his avid gaze following her every move. How could he be so cool? He must know by now that the only reason Ford would be here was because Falon had disclosed her source. Was he so confident he could somehow wiggle out of this? If it really was him, a report to the Council was next.

  And God help Keenan Wingate after that.

  “Just, uh, one more question.” It was a long shot, in Ford’s estimation, but he had to be sure. Part of him was still in denial that it could be his friend. “Does the name Lucia Hernandez mean anything to you?”

  Keenan stroked his chin. “No… not ringing a bell. I feel like I should know that, but it’s not clicking. Who’s that?”

  “How about April Brock? Anything?”

  The breeze caught the sheet Amy was concealed behind, momentarily revealing her form stretched upward as she attached another wet towel with more pins. The position revealed the pleasing curve of an alabas
ter hip, her red hair whipping against her cheek. She continued working as if she hadn’t noticed they could see her, the scarlet staining her cheeks betraying her.

  Keenan snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Those missing girls. Two, three years ago?”

  “I was on the S&R team for both of them.”

  “Christ, I remember that. Those poor girls.” Keenan scowled, shaking his head. “I’ve never had a daughter, but… I can’t imagine their fathers. Thinking of their girls dying alone, in the forest?” Keenan’s voice was a whisper. “Ghastly.”

  Ford let out a long breath. “It was awful, wasn’t it? Losing them — two girls, their lives just barely begun. They were twenty.”

  “What made you ask that?”

  “Nothing… nothing. Just something I’m working on.” He offered his hand as he stood. “I’ve gotta head out, Keenan. Thanks for talking with me.”

  “Oh, sure.” The author shook Ford’s hand, making a pointed nod in Amy’s direction. “If you didn’t have to leave…”

  “Maybe next time,” Ford said.

  Even by the standards of the special place that was White Valley, Keenan Wingate was gloriously generous with his playthings.

  “Know your way back?”

  “Yeah, no problem. Take care of yourself, Keenan.”

  The enigmatic author was already looking toward his nubile wife once more. “Good seeing you, Sheriff.”

  When Ford slid into the driver’s seat of the Tahoe, closing the door behind him, he laid his head against the top of the cold steering wheel. His heartrate was a cross between frantic animal and jackhammer, the contradictory mix of profound relief and dread warring within him.

  It wasn’t Keenan.

  The man hadn’t lied about either Falon or the girls. Ford was certain of it. Falon’s source had specifically mentioned that the two college students were indeed very much alive — and no longer missing.