I looked to Ewan, alarm flashing through me, but he did not notice, his gaze intense and staring at the articulated device.
"Master...I can't. Not this time," I said. My tone was low, meant just for him, but he was uninterested.
He called out, "Strong Man! To me."
And the crowd rippled as the mountainous form of the man made his way among them.
I had already encountered him in Ewan's office and he was dressed in the same manner as then. He was enormous in every sense of the word. His height only diminished by his width, and his body sheathed in black leather leaving only his snarled crotch exposed.
He grunted as strode up to us, then turning to me, he picked me up as if I were but a doll, a trifle in his hands, and set me down into the nest of red velour.
Its color was that of blood swallowing me up and I screamed. I had been laid upon my back and I burst upward, my hands gripping the sides of what now felt like a coffin.
"No! No, no, no...."
Heavy hands forced me back down and then wooden doors began closing down upon me, locking me into place as surely as if I had been buried.
The last one was the one covering my face and it was Ewan who lowered it into place. His look was grim as I implored him through the slitted eyeholes of my silver mask, but without sympathy, he closed the lid, shutting me off from the world.
I was in muffled silence. I could not move.
I think that I became stark raving mad for several moments as panic slipped into the cracks of the box, wafting into my mind and sending me into blazing insanity as I convulsed in terror.
Rough hands found my breasts and I could feel them being pulled through holes. I screamed endlessly, sure that my throat was bleeding with the force of it. The horror of being enclosed with no means of escaping carried me down the fly blown alleys of insanity.
My legs were stretched wide apart until I though my hip bones would crack and burst through my overstretched skin and then I felt the beginning of what would soon become an endless procession of fingers, tongues, lips and cocks that prodded at me, nudging me, urging me to respond in kind....
Now available here
Other Fiction by Aimélie Aames
Her Billionaire, Her Wolf--A Paranormal BDSM Romance
Her Billionaire, Her Wolf: Part 1, His Every Desire
A billionaire story unlike any other--
She watches him every day.
For two months she has spent each lunch hour studying the enigmatic man in a restaurant always filled to overflowing; yet, for two months he is there each day in a booth all to himself.
Sara thinks she is safe as she drinks in every gorgeous detail reflected in the bar's back mirror. She asks herself who he could possibly be, convinced he would never notice her...convinced that no one ever does.
She could not have been more wrong.
Chance brings them together and animal lust is unleashed. But what she never could have imagined is far from being the strangest part of this tale. For there are shadowy figures holding the strings offstage and the manipulation of Sara Renardine has only just begun.
An excerpt:
There was a sound and then the elevator doors slid open revealing the silhouette of a man, his gaze downturned as he flipped stapled pages in his hands.
Without looking up, he stepped into the dimmed room and Sara marched directly into his path.
What was I thinking?
All thoughts of gratitude were gone. That he had come to her rescue in the restaurant, that he would make arrangements for her job...a new, exquisite silk shirt....None of it mattered any more as she stood in his way, burning with red rage.
"Who in the hell do you think you are?" she said, wishing she could have shouted the words loudly enough to shatter the windows.
Then, instead of raising her voice, her hand arced up in the shadows. It was slow, yet not, passing through the air as quick as an adder's strike, yet time had stilled in the near darkness and it was as though the air was as thick as syrup.
Instead of slapping him hard across the face, Sara felt her wrist entrapped in an iron fist.
And absurdly, she wondered what was written on the pages that drifted down to alight upon her feet while the shock of his viselike grip still vibrated down her arm.
The beautiful lanterns of his eyes locked on to her own as he said, "Do you not know? Do you really not know?"
His voice was calm, but his tone was glacial.
Careful...you're on thin ice.
"I have no idea who you are," she said, then bit back the rest of what she wanted to say as his eyes softened.
"Then look at me," he said, his voice as calm as ever, "Right now, look at me and tell me who you think I am. The truth. All of it."
Sara took a breath, then said, "You tell people what to do. You are so used to doing it, that you don't notice anymore."
He stepped closer to her and the hand holding her wrist did not let go.
"You're arrogant. You think you're entitled."
Another half step closer as he pulled her hand to his chest, forcing her palm against him. Forcing her to feel him.
There are cracks under your feet.
"You think you own people."
His other hand went to her shoulder and Sara could feel the strong beat of his heart under her palm.
"And, you are brave. You step in when you see someone in trouble."
Then he touched the side of her neck and Sara's breath came more deeply.
"You are a knight. You saved me...."
Pinned in the amber lights of his eyes, Sara knew that it was already too late, the uncertain footing she walked upon had turned to water as she felt herself drowning in his beautiful gaze.
He bent down to her, his lips soft against her own, searching for truths other than her words.
She pulled back from him, just enough to speak, her own lips brushing his as she said, "But, that doesn't give you the right."
His mouth captured hers once more. Warm and velvety. She felt the light rough of a day old beard rasp gently against her skin as she kissed him back.
"You don't own me," she said, breaking away only to sigh as his hands slid down her sides, then back up again as he cupped both breasts. Strong thumbs drifted across the nipples studding her blouse, swelling even more under his touch.
"I told you I would give you cause for regret. Now, I shall give you reason for pleasure."
His voice was delicious in her ears, like warm honey as he continued, "And I can promise you that it will not be the last time, not for one nor the other."
Hands that could have crushed the bones of her wrist to powder only seconds before roamed freely upon her body.
"Turn around...now...."
Available Now
Her Billionaire, Her Wolf: Part 2, Lust and Lies
He is a man with particular tastes.
Fine wines, private jets...a windswept château perched upon the French Atlantic coast....
And Brazier Abraxis is no less extravagant in the choice of his women. But just what quality he sees in her, Sara cannot fathom.
Murder and contracts written in blood lurk in the shadows as she is secreted out of the country and over the sea. Yet every time he turns his impenetrable gaze upon her, all resistance, all logic, slips through her fingers.
And as the supernatural world closes in, Sara Renardine is faced with a man tormented by his own dark secrets. Alone in a foreign land, she gives over all control but can she survive his beastly lessons of cruelty and affection?
An excerpt:
She slid herself backward then toward the head of the bed. The silk pillowed around her as she moved and she imagined it would be like lying upon a cloud.
Once squarely in the middle, she let herself lie back upon the luxurious coverlet. Despite their surroundings, surely somewhere deep beneath the seaside château, the scent of fresh, clean bed linens was reassuring.
Braze cast her an appraising look and nodded.
>
"That's better." His words were edgy as if seeing her in the middle of all that blood red silk whetted his appetite.
He stepped away from her, then Sara heard the sounds of chains clinking. She looked to the side to see Braze drawing a thick chain through a metal loop fastened directly to the stone wall running behind the bed. But what chilled her more than the chain itself was that it terminated in something that resembled a handcuff, only far more massive.
That's no handcuff...that's a manacle.
In an instant, he had joined her upon the bed, kneeling at her side. With exaggerated slowness, he took her wrist and lifted it into the air.
"Trust me, Sara...trust me so that I can trust you." His eyes implored her.
Instead of screaming for help that would never come, she nodded. There was the metallic sound of a latch closing, then the cold of the manacle embraced her arm in its rusted grasp.
Before she could change her mind, Braze walked quickly to the other side of the bed to where the twin of the first manacle and chain awaited. Its hold was just as frigid as it went round Sara's forearm, locking into place.
"Ok. Now Sara, I would like you to lift your arms straight out above you and hold them together, wrist to wrist."
The chains were heavier than she thought, but with some effort she brought her arms up, held straight above her chest.
Then, Braze pulled on a chain, drawing one arm away from the other still held straight out. When it reached a certain angle, he slipped an enormous bolt through a link in the chain, just behind the loop in the wall.
"You can rest that arm now."
He went to the other side to do the same, and even if it meant that Sara could no longer bring her arms together...
There's no way to fight him off now...so stupid...
...it was a relief to let her trembling arms fall to the mattress.
Braze stood still looking down at her for a long moment...long enough that it made Sara uncomfortable and she was forced to look away. Then, she heard his voice.
"You have a secret."
Sara's stomach lurched as she registered his words.
"There is a quality about you. Something that you think you've hidden deep inside, but despite your desire to set it apart it burns within you.
"Something of which you hope to never speak. Not out loud, not even to yourself."
The bed shook as she felt his weight upon the mattress. A strong arm planted itself before her face and she was forced to look up at the man looming over her.
"You have something to tell me, don't you, Sara?" His eyes burned in amber, a lava flow that threatened to immolate her from one moment to the next....
Available Now
Her Billionaire, Her Wolf: Part 3, Blood Will Tell
A brother, long believed dead, comes within a sword’s stroke of fratricide in a dark dungeon. He is a man driven by tragedy, yet family ties are not strong enough to sway him from his endless hunt.
A lonely woman learns what it is to truly submit to the will of her master. In faith and desperation, she gives of herself freely not knowing that a demon from her past has been resurrected and given the means to find her once again.
A wolf is forced to confront the curse that hounds him without ceasing night and day. In a voice of dust and ashes, the answer he is given is one of merciless, wicked betrayal.
And vampires flock to the call of a monster and its sinister machinations. Like a twisted puppet master, it shall decide the fates of one and all.
An excerpt:
The man stood there, his hands upon his hips, and watched as she swung slowly in the air.
Her feet did not quite reach to the straw covered floor, and he noticed with disgust that there was urine dripping from one of her big toes.
There was a large drop that slowly grew larger, pregnant even and faintly yellow, before the pendulum of the woman’s motion forced it to fall and lose itself among the floorboards sprinkled over with straw.
That had been his idea. A good idea. So much easier to clean up afterward.
And, even bloody straw burns with enough gasoline thrown on it. He supposed the same would hold true for pissed on straw, too.
The man lifted his arms only to feel his pants start to slip down. It was because he was no longer wearing his belt and the standard issue beige pants did not fit him the way they should have.
Nothing ever fit him the way it should have.
Not the boring job that droned on day after day, never anything worth noting in his little flip open notebook. Not in the long night hours when he patrolled from one end of the county to the other, always favoring desolate back roads.
One never knew when someone alone and in need of protection would present themselves.
Except that they never fit, either.
On a whim, his aimless wandering this past evening had taken him down the road running not far from a local bar…a sort of club. The kind of place kept to the boonies because town folk, respectable folk, would not have it in the city limits. Just close enough to keep it on the municipal tax registers, but far enough away to keep their consciences clear.
It had been very late, or very early, depending on how one looked at it, and the man had spied her stumbling, alone, along the shoulder of the road not far away.
Her skirt had been far too short. Her color far too high. And her confidence in a uniformed man far too trusting.
She had laughed at his pleasantries as they rolled through the night and it took her a long while to notice that he was not taking her into town.
It did not matter, though. She had trusted a familiar face. A good old, local boy that would see a lady home, safe and sound.
He chuckled, then stooped to retrieve his belt. It was lying at his feet and as he picked it up, he noticed that the buckle was strangely thicker than it should have been.
He turned it in the dim moonlight trying to get a better look.
It was crusted in blood, and in places, there was hair stuck to the heavy metal buckle.
But, he had given her a real lesson. That was for sure. Drunken slut had it coming.
It had only been a couple months since he had first taken it to the next level. And for that he blamed her. She had run off one evening while he was hard at work doing all he could to put bread on the table and keep the bill collectors away from their front door.
Miserable, ungrateful bitches. Every one of them.
Never a good fit for him.
That first time, he had been scared, real scared. It was only a few days after she up and took off before he found himself standing in exactly the same place, looking down at the exact same belt.
Then, he had remembered the old well back behind the barn. The one his father had forbidden him when he was just a kid. The well that had been the source of inspiration for a lesson directed at a seven year old who had dared to go look in that well anyway.
That particular lesson had kept him out of school for nearly a month before his father would let him go back. Before the black and blue welts had faded enough.
Now that old forbidden well was home to a few drunken sluts who had had their own lessons.
Hard lessons. But, necessary.
The man sighed. There was work to do before the night was over.
An old pair of overalls was tucked into a corner of the old barn and as he turned to get them, he heard a sound.
Someone was clapping their hands. Softly at first, then louder and louder. Until the racket of the sound must have left those hands burning like fire for as loud as the applause was.
He froze, listening, then began to easing down into a crouch. His service revolver was lying on the floor, in its holster, just beside where his belt had been.
Then, someone spoke.
“That…was…mahvelouuuus,” said the voice in a drawn out, exaggerated ringmaster’s way.
“No. Truly. Rarely have I been witness to such a spectacle.”
There was the sound of sliding steps co
ming toward him. Someone who sounded as though they were limping.
“In fact, you have given me such new hope in the potential of mankind, dear sir…”
Pinstriped pants shifted in the shadows and the man had his target. He just needed to get both hands on the holster and flip the leather safety strap clear.
“…that I can only applaud with the admiration I have for your work. Well done, sir…well done, indeed.”
Pale hands slipped in and out of a shaft of moonlight that filtered down through a roof in dire need of repair. They came together and clapped with a hollow, dead sound while the owner of the voice’s face remained hidden.
The holster was in his hands, forgotten, as he registered the words in the darkness.
Appreciation for his work….
The man cleared his throat and said, “And who in the hell are you?”
He hoped he sounded authoritative. He wanted to sound that way…very much.
There was faint laughter. Then, the voice said, “Why I am he who will point the way to your wayward girl, Deputy Woodard.”
Jackson’s throat went dry, but he managed to croak out, “What do you know about that?”
A derby hat appeared in the pale hands and began to twirl. The old fashioned thing spun between long fingered hands in a whirl that quickly became a dark blur. The movement was stunning and fascinating all at once and soon the man could not look away.
A Reluctant Witch in The Land of BDSM: Racked and Ravished Threeway Page 3