Forced to Forget_Blackmailing the Billionaire Series

by Tasha Fawkes

  I head downstairs to do just that. Halfway down the stairwell, the phone in my pocket vibrates. I pull it out, my heart leaping with excitement, but dulling when I don't recognize the number. Not Daniel. I’ve been getting barraged by telemarketers lately, and at that instant, annoyed that Daniel is keeping me waiting, a relatively rare but ferocious streak of misguided revenge burgeons. While I usually ignore any call I don't recognize, I decide to answer this one. I'll remain silent, which often serves to annoy the hell out of the telemarketer after they go through their spiel.

  I answer this call, ready to give the silent treatment, prepared for the instant rapid-fire promotion on the other end. I get nothing. Silence. I frown, glance down at the screen, and see that the call is still connected. Finally, a male voice speaks.

  "Hello? Ashley?"

  Oh my God, it’s Daniel. I cringe. "Hi, Daniel," I say innocently, as if nothing happened. "How are you?"

  There’s a brief moment of hesitation before he speaks. "Can you meet me at the hotel today?"

  I pause, halfway down the steps, my heart leaping with excitement, anticipation, and a surge of desire. "Sure, I'd love to. When?"

  "Now."

  I freeze. I took a shower this morning but didn’t shave. Crap. I have laundry to deal with, and then changing clothes… all of which will take about an hour. I don't want to keep him waiting. Still…

  "Have you changed your mind?"

  I hear the change in his tone. Quiet. Firm. His "boss" voice.

  "No, no I haven't," I say. "I just have to change real quick, but I can be there in about… twenty minutes?" I cringe again. What am I thinking?

  "I'll meet you in the bar downstairs."

  The call disconnects. I stare down at the screen, cursing myself, and then bolt down the stairs and into the laundry room. The wash cycle is complete, but I don't have time to wait for the clothes to dry. Yanking the damp clothes out of the washing machine, I smash them into the laundry basket, turn around, and race back upstairs. No help for that. I’ll just have to wash them again later.

  I quickly disrobe and rush into the bathroom, grabbing my can of raspberry-scented shaving cream from the edge of the bathtub. I quickly shave my legs, trim up my pussy hair, and quickly swipe the blade under my arms. I complete my ablutions in about three minutes. Dashing back into the bedroom, I open my closet door, nibbling on a fingernail as I try to decide what to wear. I finally groan, realizing it doesn't matter what I wear. Chances are I’m not going to be wearing those clothes very long anyway.

  My breasts tingling with excitement, and my pussy offering throbs of anticipation, I quickly throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. No bra, no panties. Simple. This is me.

  In less than ten minutes I’m out of the apartment, my heart pounding. Downstairs I push open the door of the lobby and step outside onto the sidewalk, wincing at the bitterly cold air that threatens to suck the air out of my chest. Thank goodness it isn't very busy. Being the day after Christmas with most businesses still closed for the holidays, I manage to hail a taxi in under a minute. I climb in, give the driver the address of the hotel and sit back, hands clasped in my lap to still my trembling.

  By the time I enter the bar located on the west side of the hotel lobby of the Westin, I’m ready for just about anything. I think. I can't deny my nervous apprehension, coupled with expectation. It’s kind of like opening a very special present on your birthday; not exactly sure what you’re going to get but knowing that it’s going to be good.

  As I walk into the bar, I see Daniel sitting at the bar. It looks like he’s nursing scotch. He isn't smiling. My heart skips a beat. Did I keep him waiting too long? Did he change his mind?

  He turns and looks at me for several moments, gazing from my hair, which I pulled into a ponytail, to my sweatshirt, down to my jeans, and then my tennis shoes, sans socks. I stare back, waiting for him to laugh, to tell me to get lost, something, but after several moments, he merely grins. I allow myself a mental sigh of relief.

  "You want a drink?”

  He probably thinks I need to calm my nerves, but I don't need liquid courage. I need, want, to experience what he has to offer. I’m ready to open the door and experience the world that I’ve only read about. Do I need a drink for that?

  "No thank you, I'm good."

  He grins and downs the rest of his drink. "You ready?" He glances down at a small gym bag at the base of his stool.

  I follow his gaze, briefly wondering what he has in there. In a matter of moments, I’ll probably find out. In spite of my anxiety, I’m also more than turned on. This kind of attention, not to mention his charisma and his good looks, and the memory of his hard body, has my heart trip-hammering. I’ve only experienced a minute portion of his sexual prowess, I’m sure.

  "Well?"

  "I'm ready," I nod.

  He abruptly places his glass on the bar, reaches into his shirt pocket and removed a twenty-dollar bill and places it on the bar. Without a word, he leaves the stool, reaches down to pick up the gym bag, and with his other, grasps my hand.

  We walk out of the bar and into the lobby, heading for the bank of elevators. Once inside, the door dings shut and the car begins its upward journey. I imagine we’re heading to the penthouse suite, where we enjoyed our previous liaison. What if—

  "Today, we're going to focus on one of the scenes in your book. It has a few inaccuracies."

  I glance up at him. "It does? Where?"

  "The foundation of a beneficial relationship between a Dom and a sub is not just about control of the submissive," he begins.

  His eyes lock on to mine, and I feel trapped there. Not literally, but inside, I feel like I’m melting. Those eyes of his are so damn captivating, I want to stare at them all day.

  "It's also about control of the Dom. Respect goes both ways in this kind of a relationship. It's not about fear, nor fear of punishment. Punishment should never be done in anger."

  I think back to the multiple scenes riddling my book, but can't remember where I made such a mistake.

  "Just remember, Ashley. Punishment doesn't equate to pain."

  I don't know exactly what he’s implying, nor the specific incident in my book to which he refers, but I’m grasping one concept. I want to learn. I want to learn from him. No matter what, I’m willing to try just about anything. I want to please him, not just sexually, but as his sub. As his partner, as his lover…

  Chapter 10

  Ashley

  As he takes me up to the hotel room, I can't stop my brain from going into overdrive. What if I discover I don't like it? Daniel promised that nothing would change, but it will. Everything will. How could it not?

  If, after my first foray into this world, I decide I don't like it after all, what then? He will look at me differently. I will look at him differently. By the time I actually step into the hotel room, I’m close to freaking. Why am I flip-flopping all of a sudden? Why am I doubting myself? Why am I doubting Daniel?

  And then he smiles at me. That's all it takes. A simple, encouraging smile. He points to a box. Not a large box, not one of those big, square moving boxes, but bigger than a box that stored file folders like you can get at your local office supply store. This box looks like the boxes we use to store a lot of the manuscripts that arrive at Pen & Quill that end up in the maybe slush pile. We hang onto them for awhile before either sending them back to the authors for more work or taking them down to the basement incinerator. And yes, the building is that old. It has an incinerator.

  The box is set on the floor catty corner between the edge of the coffee table and the end of the sofa. What is inside that box? I know. It’s a box of secrets, of sex. Can I deal with what’s inside? I don't have any sexual hang-ups, but it’s not like I often venture beyond the realm of what I call ordinary sex. Stewart isn’t particularly imaginative nor have any of our sexual encounters gone beyond the norm. And by that, I mean, although not cruelly, the wham, bam, thank you ma'am, kind of sex. A few minutes of
foreplay and then typically the traditional missionary position, and once or twice, oral, but still, very straightforward, very ordinary, almost… almost clinical in nature. I feel the heat of a flush warm my cheeks. What—

  "Go ahead, open it," he says.

  The box isn't taped, but the four flaps of its lid are folded in on themselves. One by one I pull the flaps open and then peer down into the box. My immediate impression? I don't see any handcuffs, and I realize that my conception and impression of bondage hovers on the naïve side. I cringe inwardly, realizing that in one of my scenes in my manuscript, I had the woman handcuffed to a bed frame with metal handcuffs. Maybe that's what Daniel was talking about when he said he found some mistakes in my book.

  I glance up at him, and he nods with encouragement. I begin to finger some of the items. I’m not surprised to find different gadgets of all sizes and textures. There are different types of rope, straps, and, much to my dismay, small link lengths of chain. I try to still my racing heart as I touch the items, but I don't remove them from the box.

  "What are you thinking, Ashley?"

  "I… I'm not sure," I admit. My fingers slide along the surface of a leather collar. It looks exactly like a dog collar.

  "It's custom-made. Those metal rings are where rope can be secured or even attach a chain to it."

  He speaks matter-of-factly. He speaks from experience. He does know this world. It isn't just talk. I don't want to look at him, don't want him to see my nervousness. Nevertheless, his voice compels me to.

  "Most people use ropes, or rope-like devices, for their bondage encounters. That doesn't always mean a literal rope, like you had in another scene in your book. It can be anything such as a scarf, a belt, or even a necktie. Bondage is designed to restrict movement, actually. It's not meant nor intended to be a form of torture."

  I don't have any torture scenes in my manuscript, so why would he say that? Then I remember. Another scene does have—

  "It's not about rape, or even one-sided sex."

  He sits down on the couch next to me, so close that his arm brushes against mine. I feel the heat of his body and inhale the scent of his cologne.

  "Regardless of the tool of bondage, it's important to be very careful. It doesn't take much to cause rope burns or to cut off someone's circulation."

  I glance at him, eyes wide. "I used rope in one of my scenes."

  "Yes, you did," he nods. "And it was thick and rough. You described the kind of rope that they use in old Westerns to hang people or rope cattle with, didn't you?"

  I feel like an idiot, but nod.

  "If rope is used, it's most commonly a nautical type of rope made of nylon. Nautical rope. You know what I'm referring to? The white, soft, pliable ropes of different thicknesses?"

  Again, I nod, absorbing his lesson.

  "That type of rope is softer. When used in a bondage scene, nautical rope with a thicker diameter, not like the kind of rope you described, is preferred."

  He pauses, looks down at the box, and then reaches into it. He extracts a two-foot length of white, nylon nautical rope, nearly an inch thick. He extends it toward me.

  "Feel it. Run your fingers along the surface."

  I swallow, but obey. I wrap my palm around the rope. It’s sturdy, pliable, yet soft to the touch.

  "Close your eyes. Imagine me tying you up with this. You're bound to something with this kind of rope. What would it feel like?"

  My pussy clenches as I imagine it.

  "You can use this type of binding in any number of ways. You can tie someone's hands to the bedpost, like you did in your book, or you can be a little more creative."

  I look at him. Creative? He stares back at me, a slight smile curving the corner of his lips. My nipples harden. Is he going to use this rope on me? Today? In a few minutes? As if reading my thoughts, he shakes his head.

  "Rope is not used when a Dom and a sub are getting to know one another. The use of rope implies complete trust. Complete comfort with one another."

  He takes the rope from my hands, his gaze not breaking mine.

  "Always remember, Ashley, that allowing yourself to be bound is an act of complete submission. Whether with me or someone else, when you allow yourself to be bound, you're trusting the Dom."

  He frowns and tosses the rope back into the box. "What is it?" Did I say something, imply something with a look? He looks at me, and for a moment I don't think he’s going to answer.

  "I knew a couple, not that long ago. She was accidentally killed by her Dom—"

  I can't help the gasp that escapes my throat. I stare in dismay.

  "They had been drinking. Oh, what they did for their scene wasn't unusual. He bound her wrists and then, using another rope, bound her to a large hook screwed into the ceiling."

  I imagine that, a woman, naked, arms raised over her head, totally at the mercy of her partner. "What happened?"

  "They indulged, but because he was drunk, he more than likely missed the cues that she gave him." He looks out the window. "Remember the safeword I told you about?"

  I nod.

  "No one really knows for sure what happened. Even the guy couldn't completely recall the course of events. Anyway, the autopsy determined that she had been bound too long. She was inebriated, too. Rule number one: You don't do scenes when you're drunk."

  He looks at me again, pointedly, and I nod. I feel like a bobble head.

  "Her position decreased oxygen intake, and she had difficulty breathing. She didn't use her safeword, and if she did, she didn't say it loud enough or he wasn't listening. The strain on her lungs also placed a strain on her heart. She died."

  How awful! How could something like that happen? Why didn't the guy follow the rules—

  "They'd been married for ten years. They had two kids. CPS took the kids, and he's in jail for manslaughter."

  I swallow a hardened lump in my throat. How horrible—

  "I'm telling you this because the rules have to be followed. If they're not, bad things can happen." He sighs. "Most of the people in this world that I know are businessmen and women; they have careers, families, and children. You wouldn't know what they do behind closed doors just by looking at them."

  I understand what he’s trying to say. I watch him for several moments, contemplating his somber expression. He isn't looking at me anymore, but into his memories. I pull my gaze away from him, allowing him this moment of… of grieving? I glance back at the box. Okay, so ropes are out for now, especially ropes suspended from ceilings.

  I see a metal contraption. It looks like a bar, maybe a foot long and an inch round. Holes are drilled into each end of the bar. An S hook feeds through those holes and connects to a couple of large leather cuffs, padded on the inside with sheepskin-like material.

  "What's that?" He glances down to what I point out and smiles as he lifts the bar from the box. Watching me. As if to gauge my reaction.

  "This is a spreader bar. They're usually two or three feet long, although of course, size and construction varies. It's intended to separate extremities." His grin broadens. "For example, I could place the cuffs around your wrists, or around your ankles, keeping your legs spread. Easy access."

  The heat of a flush travels all the way from my chest upward into my face. Stop that! I imagine myself lying on the bed in the other room, naked, my ankles cuffed, the bar spreading my legs while he—

  "Want to give some of this a try?"

  An equal surge of heat builds in my groin, causing internal contractions and a surge of wetness. After only a few seconds of thought, I nod. This is what I want, isn't it? An adventure? A teacher?

  "But not here," he says.

  I’m confused. Why did he bring me up here again? Were we going to have another round of what I consider vanilla sex? He sees my consternation and chuckles.

  "We can't use most of that stuff in here. I brought you up here, Ashley, so that you could look at some of the tools used in bondage without being overwhelmed or…"


  "Chickening out?" I glance down at the gadgets in the box. He chuckles once more, sending a jolt of anticipation through my body.

  "If you're ready, we'll go to a home I own, not far from here. It's private and secluded."

  I lift an eyebrow. "You have a house, here in the city, in addition to your penthouse apartment?" I grimace. I just committed a faux pas. I’m not supposed to know that my boss has a penthouse apartment, am I? Any more than he should care where I live.

  He merely grins. "Yes, in addition to my penthouse apartment, and equipped with a basement that I've converted into what I call my playground."

  He studies every nuance of my expression. I get it. He can't be seen taking women into his penthouse apartment, risk anybody hearing them—

  "Your playground," I murmur. What other gadgets does he have in this playground of his? I can only imagine—no, not imagine. Experience. He’s inviting me to his playroom.

  I don't know if he’s daring me or expecting me to back out or what, but I accept his challenge.

  "Lead the way," I say, hoping that my voice expresses more bravado that I feel at that moment. I can't back out now. I want to learn. I want to know everything there is to know about this world that Daniel seems to enjoy so much.

  Chapter 11

  Daniel

  She’s game. I have to give her that. Despite the content of her manuscript, which only skims the surface of the bondage world and is riddled with a number of errors that only a true Dom or sub would recognize, I also know that she has zero experience with the real thing. Not really. But reading about something and doing it are two different things. Night and day. The look on her face when she gazed down into my little box of tricks was unmistakable. She might've seen pictures of some of that stuff online, but there’s no way she has ever seen any of it for real.