They were brothers through and through. They’d both deny it to anyone who’d ask, but that wouldn’t change the fact.
“It’s this—”
The front door opened, landing with such a loud bang against the wall that it riddled the liquor cabinet.
“Master,” Lauren purred, she was smart enough not to make eye contact. Her blonde hair was pulled back into two braided pigtails. “The time has come.”
What the hell was going on? His invasive friend for once knocked and his slave barged into his office like the queen she wasn’t?
He could feel a migraine jabbing his left eye. “Do you think I don’t know that?”
Master Trice snapped his finger.
Goosebumps erupted throughout Lauren’s body going from her toes all the way to her shoulders as she walked to him. “I’m sorry, Master. I didn’t—”
He yanked her hair hard, bringing her face centimeters from his. She stumbled on the tips of her toes in a way that made her knees buckle. But she held her ground, knowing if she moved without consent things were going to get worse.
Elliott’s obnoxious guffaw could be heard by any passerby who dared walk by Master Trice’s hall. Preston ignored his friend—he was good at that—and pierced deeply into Lauren’s eyes.
“On your knees.”
She complied in a second, working her jaw to adjust to his size. She unzipped him, taking out his semi-erect cock. As she worked him up and down with a flick of her warm tongue, his eyes landed on his computer screen.
He couldn’t help but become fully erect at the sight of Abigail Bennett walking his establishment in a set of lace panties and bra. Her eyes shone with fear and darkened with desire at the scenes playing before her. A pink tongue peeked to lick her full lips.
Master Trice closed his eyes and thrust deeply into Abigail’s mouth, enjoying the hotness of her tongue as it wrapped around the head of his cock.
Fear was a complex emotion. It overpowered thoughts, senses. It took control of lives. It either forbade you from doing or pushed you to do.
It was the vulnerability in a woman’s eyes that made Preston turn his switch. The fear that reflected in his slaves’ eyes as he promised to hurt and draw blood. That fear, that no one could ever put into words, pushed him over the edge. He found that fear in Abigail Bennett’s gray eyes.
With a soft groan that shook his body, he filled her mouth with his cum.
It was utterly disappointing to open his eyes to Lauren on her knees instead of Abigail.
Wasting no time, he zipped his pants and pushed her aside. Lauren landed on her ass as his orgasm hung on the side of her mouth.
“Can I have her now?” Elliott asked, desire dripped off his lips.
He looked at his slave with disgust and said, “Crawl. You better make it good for him or else.” And when Master Trice said or else, he didn’t mean it as a threat. It was a jurisdiction.
Lauren nodded and crawled to where Elliott was sitting.
Master Trice loved to share his slaves, but this time he didn’t stay to watch. He was tired of watching and was ready to act. The darkness inside him rose. It spewed like vapor out of a kettle’s nose as the beast he’d failed to domesticate ruggedly tugged at the cuffs and howled at the full moon.
He walked to the elevator with one purpose in mind.
Master Trice had too many blondes in his life, it was time to rectify that.
CHAPTER FIVE
BDSM stood for bondage, discipline/dominance, submission/sadism, and masochism. It involved a relationship between two consensual adults.
It wasn’t about sex—most of the scenes didn’t involve intercourse—as much as it was about relinquishing power or gaining control.
For a sadistic-dominant like Preston Trice, what excited him most was the fear he inflicted in his slaves. The color draining from their faces as they were suspended in the air upside down.
It was a torture device used by ancient Romans to crucify people, and it was one of Master Trice’s favorite tools.
Most of the time, he sat on his throne staring as little by little their bodies became as white as paper. As the blood rushed to their faces, eliciting tears to drip to the floor, he unzipped his pants and masturbated.
Part of the etiquette of BDSM was to take care of your possessions after each scene. It developed a sense of closure and built trust among the participants. It was the most intimate part of a scene and Master Trice never considerate it.
He took pleasure in seeing his slaves wounded and tortured without the ability to get up from the pain he’d extorted. Taking care of them, building them back up, wasn’t in his DNA, and defeated the purpose. He didn’t have an empathetic bone in his body to care for them or apologize for his kinks.
And that was the type of man a masochist-submissive such as Abigail Bennett desired. The state of no-mind where she didn’t have to think about anything because she didn’t have options.
Most women would slap a man who called them a whore. Most women would cry after being humiliated in front of an audience. Most women would cringe at the thought of being bonded.
Abigail found those scenarios rousing to the point where her panties turned into puddles of arousal.
There was a very thin line between pleasure and pain and if done properly, pain could make for the most intense orgasm a person could ever experience.
Preston and Abigail didn’t know it yet, but they were exactly what each other needed...as long as the thin line never blurred.
CHAPTER SIX
Aseductive tempo played across the burgundy room as Abigail stepped further inside.
There was no denying what the focus of the room was meant to be. The grandiose double staircase curved sultrily around black rims. Above it, hung a magnificent chandelier, casting cuts of crystals onto the cheeks of each guest. Once again, she wondered if the designer had done so on purpose.
But it was the rectangular stage that stood below it that made Abigail’s body tingle with anticipation.
She counted fifteen seats in front of it.
Abigail felt a set of eyes watching her. Had she been caught? She took a cautious glance, turning her head from east to west, searching for the stalker in the shadows.
She saw no one.
Most people had gone upstairs or saved a spot for the scene that was about to start. Not knowing what to do and too scared to head to the unknown upstairs, she took a seat on the last row in the array of chairs.
Waiters and waitresses dressed in black sheer jumpsuits walked around the room offering horns d’oeuvres and non-alcoholic beverages. With their hands bonded behind their backs, they could only balance the tray with the triangular chain that hung from the hoop of their collars.
Contemptuous men and women sat on the chairs facing the stage while their slaves knelt on the floor. A leather collar, similar to the one worn by the servants, fully wrapped around their necks.
Dominants took a bite of the bruschetta, not caring to leave some for their slaves. The submissives were fed half-eaten scraps of bread and patted on the head with a job well done. Except for one.
A red-headed sub sitting on the floor wrapped his tongue around the thumb and index finger of his Mistress. She slapped him firmly across the face. With a blushed cheek, he was tugged and dragged on the floor through the bumps of stairs. His owner couldn’t care less that her slave was having trouble breathing.
The perimeter of the stage flickered with LED lights, drawing Abigail’s eyes away from the redhead and the torture he’d no doubt endure.
A blanket of loneliness coated her shoulders as she noticed she was the only person without a Master or slave. No one to feed her. No one to drag her up the stairs. No one to torture her.
She looked around, searching for the dominatrix of nights past, but couldn’t find her.
Nonetheless, she focused on the positives and enjoyed the experience even if her desires wouldn’t be met tonight.
The lighted stage showed an e
mpty table with a barrel in front. The water inside it was almost overflowing. Abigail wondered what the scene would entail. She’d heard of rape-play, animal-play, daddy-play, baby-play, anal-play, but never water-play. The anticipation was making her itchy all over.
Seconds after Abigail wondered such thought, a man and woman stepped on stage. The man wore dark jeans and a naked chest that showcased a strong stomach and muscular arms. The woman, who stood with her face down staring at her toes, was fully clothed. Her black hair was pulled back into a French braid.
“Undress,” the man demanded with an annoyed flick to her dress.
The brunette unbuttoned her dress to reveal full breasts and a shaved pussy. Her master inhaled a breath, seeming satisfied with what he saw. He walked toward her and cupped her sex. “Did you do this for me?”
“Yes, Master John.” Her body shook as he inserted a finger inside her.
“This won’t save you from what I’m going to do to you, but because you’ve pleased me, I’ll make it hurt less.” The woman nodded, not daring to meet his eyes. “Get on the table.”
She did as her master commanded. With her belly resting on the wooden table, her head was only centimeters from the barrel.
From his back pocket, the man retrieved a yellow rope. Drawing her arms back, he tied her wrists, doing the same to her ankles. He brought her legs up so that her ankles touched her wrists and tied them together.
The woman was constricted. It was impossible for her to move.
Master John stood back to admire his work. He walked in front of the woman and, grabbing her head, pushed her face underwater. He did this more than a few times, each time the bulge in his pants grew bigger and more prominent.
He unbuttoned his pants and walked behind his slave as the woman took shallowed breaths. “No. No more, Master. Please.”
Abigail’s own breath caught as the man entered her with a single thrust. God, she must’ve been so wet. The woman bit her mouth with each brutal thrust. A drop of blood lingered on her bottom lip.
His large hand caressed her ass with a loud smack that made her head fall inside the barrel. He pushed her head down as deep as he could, pounding his cock even harder inside her. His sub resisted to no avail. Her master was stronger than her and the fight excited him all the more.
Master John continued to thrust inside her, tugging on her braid to provide her with enough time to breathe. Just as the woman took a breath, he pushed her down again. She begged him to stop over and over each time she came up, but her pleads went unheeded.
The sub pushed her body back into her master’s cock, an orgasm ready to spew. He felt her clench around him, milking his own pleasure. One last time, he pushed her face down into the water, bubbles rushing to the surface as she screamed her release.
Abigail closed her eyes. It was she who was bounded. It was she who was being drowned. It was she the man was fucking. Her thighs clenched, wanting to relieve the itch on her clit. When was the last time she’d been this aroused? She couldn’t think of the answer.
“Are you the one being drowned or the one doing the drowning?” a smoky and mysterious voice asked.
Abigail opened her eyes in an instant. She breathed in, pleading with her heart to slow its pace.
The stranger was handsomely attractive in a clean-cut kind of way. His jaw was sharp, and his chin held an equal structure. There was nothing rough about him. Abigail could tell this man never had to lift a finger in his life. He got everything he wanted, and all signs pointed to her.
His black hair, the color of a panther’s fur, was swept back, revealing the sexiest widow’s peak she’d ever seen on a man. Her lips curled as she noticed he wasn’t naked. He didn’t wear leather or latex like most of the men. Instead, he wore a dark gray suit that elongated his already tall posture.
A renegade, she liked it.
She licked her lips, the taste of cranberry still lingered on them. Abigail focused on every little detail of the stranger’s face, but not once did she look into his eyes. Somehow, she knew she wasn’t deemed, just as she knew this man knew the answer to his question, so why did he ask?
“Don’t you already know? You’ve been watching me all this time.”
“I want validation. Now answer me.”
“I’m the woman being drowned and fucked in front of an audience,” she said breathlessly. Her bluntness encouraged her to look past his lips.
His eyes darkened. Was it due to anger or desire? Abigail hoped both.
“You’re new here.”
“Yes.”
“How did you find this place?” Why must everyone ask that? Did she stand out that much?
“I did my research.” She shrugged casually.
“We shouldn’t start this relationship on the basis of lies, Abigail.”
“What makes you—. How do you know my name?”
“I know everything about you.”
His cockiness made her giggle. “What is it you think you know?”
She fought the instinct to cover herself as the man eyed her up and down. His eyes settled on her ample chest. Though her underwear left little to the imagination, his scrutiny made her feel naked not just physically, but emotionally. This man excavated deep within her until he stole the chest that held all her hidden desires.
Human instinct overpowered her need to appear brazen. She wrapped both arms tightly around her breasts.
“There’s no need to be modest. We both know this night will end with me seeing them.”
Abigail hated how much his arrogance turned her on. How moisture was already pooling between her legs, drenching her with sinful want. She shouldn’t want a man like him, yet he was exactly who her body and mind desired.
The man leaned closer, his mouth a whisper from her ear. “I know that if I push this finger inside you, I’d find you soaked. I know you want me to own you. Isn’t that right, Abigail?”
She nodded, too stunned to speak, but the man didn’t advance a muscle, so she spoke, “Yes.”
“Two things you must learn about me, Abigail. One, you must speak. If you don’t, I’ll assume you agree with what I say. I can’t promise what I’ll do if I’m not stopped. Two—” he uncrossed her arms, “—do not hide from me. Ever. Understood?”
With a sigh, the man stood. He buttoned his suit jacket and adjusted his cufflinks. “Let’s take a tour.”
He turned on his heels and walked ahead, not waiting for her. Abigail quickly followed behind. He was almost at the top of the stairs when she finally caught up to him.
Man, those legs took long strides.
“Um, what’s your name?”
“You will call me Master Trice.” She loved how he demanded and didn’t ask. How he didn’t give her any other option but to do as he said. Yet, she was so confused. “But you’re not my master.”
Didn’t they have to sign a contract or talk about their hard and soft limits? She knew nothing of his sexual history, either. There needed to be a bond before they performed any scenes.
He stopped mid-step. His shoulders went rigid as a vein on his neck uprooted. She was sure it’d burst.
“We’ll have to rectify that, won’t we?”
“How?” She could tell his patience was growing thin, but she needed answers.
Master Trice pushed her against the wall. Abigail stumbled to a lower step, but Master Trice picked her up with a squeeze of her neck. She didn’t have time to gasp. Her eyes widened.
“Dare ask me one more foolish question again and I swear to the Greek Gods, I’ll make you bleed without a consent form. Do. You. Fucking. Understand?”
She nodded, wanting his words to be a promise, not a threat. Jesus, she was so fucked up.
“Use your words, Abigail,” he snarled, loosening the grip on her neck.
“Yes, Master Trice.” Something flickered in his eyes. It happened so quickly, she wasn’t sure it’d happened at all. But when he stepped back and let out a heavy breath, she was sure what she’d seen was e
xhilaration. It pleased him to hear her say Yes, Master Trice. It pleased her, too.
Abigail deflated against the wall, her heart thudding loudly, her desire so intense, it dripped down her thighs. Her heart sank at the loss of contact, and she wished she’d say something to raddle him further, so she’d inhale his scent again.
No man had ever squeezed her neck with such tenacity. No man had ever squeezed her neck period. It was as if he wanted to choke her, not for sexual pleasure but because he wanted to see her lose all the color from her face.
The men she’d been with had only had her missionary style and whenever they felt “frisky”, they moved to the illicit doggy style.
Master Trice, Abigail was slowly finding out, was nothing like those men. He was intense. He was furious. He was mean and held no empathy. His anger didn’t just control his actions, it controlled his entire being. It controlled her.
What would that anger do in the bedroom? She gnawed her bottom lip at the possibilities.
“Walk with me, Abigail.” It lit a fire inside her when he said her name.
Master Trice took the last flight of stairs. Abigail was sure the distance was a failed attempt to keep his cool.
When she stepped into the foyer of the stairs, the hallway split like an insect expanding its legs. The ceilings were high and painted gold with black geometric shapes. The floor’s rotunda was covered in traditional tiles that added to the Ancient Greek design of the palace.
That’s what it was—a grandiose residence fit for very important people with their very important fantasies.
“Some hallways are divided into play preferences. Others are named after Gods or Goddesses,” Master Trice said, walking a good length ahead of her.
They proceeded into a hall with the name Therianthropy. Abigail thought of the college course she took a few years back on Mythology and Folklore. For once she was able to use the knowledge she’d gained in that class.
“The metamorphosis from human to animal,” she whispered under her breath. The floor and walls in this hall depicted an array of mosaic humans transforming into animals. She was walking into animal-play territory.
Collared (Masters of Desires Book 1) Page 3