There were fifteen rooms in the hall. Some of the rooms were made out of glass. One could see inside it with a simple peek. Some were normal doors with a green or red button over the top that allowed or denied access from outsiders.
Through a glass door, Abigail witnessed as a woman dressed in a pig harness was fucked in the ass by a man wearing a similar costume. Out of all her dirty fantasies, she’d never once had had a desire for animal-play, but the scene happening before her was making her rethink her desires.
Master Trice was showing Abigail the reality that lived beyond the books she’d read, walking her in and out of hallways. Each had the same number of rooms with mosaic tiles and wall murals hinting at what each hall entailed. If one didn’t know anything about Greek Mythology, all they had to do was look at the drawings in the rooms to inform them of where they were.
Hermes, the God known for his trickery ways, was the perfect name for those who had fetishes. The hall Abigail and Master Trice visited next was all about role-play—doctors, teachers, incest, autonepiophilia.
They stepped into a room designed to look like the inside of a Catholic church. A confessional booth stood on the far left along with pews and the image of the Virgin Mary with a collection of candles paying tribute.
A man wearing a clerical suit whipped a woman tied to a St. Andrew’s Cross. It was an erotic scene to watch, one she’d read and seen many times. But the hypocrisy behind the corrupt act had never been done in costumes. This authenticated it.
Abigail was so hypnotized by the scene, Master Trice had to tug hard on her arm to get her attention.
“Something you’d like to try,” he said.
Although he said it as a matter of fact, she felt the need to profess, “Not with the clerical suit. Not my style.”
Master Trice nodded in acknowledgment as if taking note. He led her to the hallway belonging to Athena. Although she was mostly known as the Goddess of wisdom and reason, she was strategical when it came to handicrafts.
The mosaic in this hallway was of ropes, shackles, and humans suspended in the air. As they walked past a glass door, Abigail saw a woman battling with her toes as her arms were pulled above her head and a man fucked her from behind.
“The Japanese use bondage as art. They refer to it as Kinbaku-bi. The beauty of tight binding. One must be strategical, as Athena, to know just how tight to tie the knots so that if something went wrong, the dominant could easily free the slave. Safety is a must. We don’t let just anyone play here.”
The hallway of pain also known as Algea was all about flagellation—flogging, spanking, whipping, paddling. The men and women in this room exerted pleasure from being whipped or doing the whipping. Abigail wasn’t surprised as she peeked into a door to see mostly women doing the flogging while the men took the pain.
It was a known occurrence in the business world that men took great pleasure when being degraded to such acts as kissing a woman’s shoe. She didn’t judge, she had once had that same desire.
Master Trice took her to another hall named after the God of healing—Asclepius. This hall was all about masters taking care of their slaves. Bedrooms, bathrooms, saunas, and rooms that held oval steaming pools.
This was how a submissive knew their Master or Mistress cared about them. After their act, the dominant would heal the sub—put them back together. They’d discuss the scene and take care of each other. Mentally and physically. In and out of a scene.
It was something that rarely happened in vanilla relationships. Men would extract their pleasure and fall asleep right after, even if the woman wanted release. This never happened in a BDSM relationship.
Abigail thought she’d seen every hidden crevice in Master Trice’s palace, but he’d saved the best for last.
This hall was dark, darker than any of the other five. It was so dark, it was named after the God of the darkest part of the underworld—Tartarus.
The murals in this hall depicted blood, torture, and tears. This hall was all about edge-play. The scenes that if done wrong could result in death—electrostimulation, blood-play, asphyxiation, and plenty of acts Abigail hadn’t heard of before but knew she’d want to try.
Abigail turned to Master Trice as he opened another door.
She was shocked. Could it be possible Master Trice knew what she wanted—what she’d desired for so long? How? How did he know when he knew nothing about her?
She couldn’t help but ask, “How do you know?”
He stepped closer to her, so close, her chest brushed against his suit. “Because I own you.”
Simple as that.
Chills erupted all over her body, cooling when she stepped inside the room. Her hand came up to cover her mouth in an instant. She stumbled back on her heels as a gush of blood dropped on the floor and painted the walls crimson.
Screams threatened to shatter her eardrums.
Closing her eyes, Abigail breathed in the woman’s fear. Although the room trembled in panic, she didn’t utter her safeword and allowed her master to cut deeper into the soles of her feet.
What the man was doing wasn’t erotic, but pure torture. The fact it was consensual didn’t ease the tightness in the pit of Abigail’s stomach. She needed time to heal her eyes of the brutality she was witnessing, but she also wanted to stay and watch—switch places with the woman.
As Abigail walked backward, she felt something hard poking her tailbone. Reaching behind her, she tried to push the item away when she felt it grow erect.
“I’m sorry, Master Trice,” she begged for forgiveness. “I didn’t mean to...”
His eyes grew into angry slits. He wrapped a hand around her wrist and took her out of the room with a hard tug that made her twist on her heels.
“You’ve seen enough. It’s time to leave.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The hour Preston had spent being cordial with Abigail was the hardest hour he’d ever had to endure. But if she was going to be his submissive, he needed to show her the reality of BDSM as it was far more diverse than blindfolds and whips. He’d never given anyone a tour of his castle but by doing so with her, he’d been able to find her limits.
Her reaction to Liam and Scarlett’s scene wasn’t what Preston thought he’d see in Abigail. Yes, he saw fear and so much fucking desire. And that turned him on. What turned him off was the confusion that lingered in her gaze.
The whole premise of his club was to never judge, and she’d done so in one scene.
There was too much judgment in the world. That’s why he created a sanctuary for the people who were thought of less for having kinks. He allowed anyone—of all sexes, races, ethnicities, and sexual orientations to be free within his iron doors.
The people in his temple weren’t freaks. They weren’t dangerous or corrupted. Most of them had families or owned businesses. They were productive members of society, and they should be treated as such.
Abigail ruined his mission statement with one expression.
He’d been wrong about her.
He was never wrong.
It pissed him off.
“Stop!” She tugged on his arm, trying to get free.
Preston kept his steps long, the sobs and screams behind him, drew a sadistic smile on his face.
He dragged her down the hall with a hard grip on her upper arm. He needed to get her out of here. So why was he taking her to the elevator that only led to his office and den? He’d scare her shut, then she’d never come back again.
The elevator yawned as soon as Preston stood in front of it. When the doors closed, he pushed Abigail against the steel doors. He floated in the whimper it drew from her lips.
“I don’t want to leave. Not yet. Please, don’t make me leave,” she begged. And shit if Preston’s intentions went out the door and into the rabbit hole. He forgot he was there to shoo her away. He forgot she was too young for this. He forgot how to speak.
“This—” it was all he said before he went to her, caging her with his arms.
With his face only inches from hers, he could see the light freckles scattered across her nose and upper cheeks. Damn it, could she be any more beautiful?
And the fucking giggle she let out earlier was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. A close second to screams. Her lips were full and naturally rosy. Her eyes, big and innocent, begged to be stained with tears.
“Why are you here?” he wondered aloud, pressing his erection into her warmth, biting the thin layer of skin on her neck. She tasted like cotton candy—so addictive.
Abigail let out a soft gasp that went straight to Preston’s cock. “I—I want this.”
He wanted to break her and make her scream for having the audacity to speak back. But he knew better. Although this woman made it impossible, he needed to control his urges.
“What is it you want, Abigail?”
Abigail Bennett was a natural submissive who knew exactly what to say to please her master, so she licked her lips and slowly raised her eyes, “You, Master Trice.”
His name on her lips built an inferno that was impossible to extinguish.
Preston was thankful for the yawning of the elevator’s doors. He needed to distance himself from the woman who’d guide him to shipwreck.
When he was five years old, his father recounted plethoras of Greek mythology. The one that stood out to Preston the most due to the current circumstances was that of the Three Sirens, daughters of the river God, Achelous.
The three sisters were the most beautiful, talented nymphs of the Ancient Greek world. Despite what many believe, they weren’t mermaids, instead, half-human, half-bird. Thelxiepia, the oldest sister, had a charming voice. Pisinoe, the middle sister, played the lyre while Aglaope, the youngest sister, was skilled with the flute.
They were deviant, deceitful, nevertheless clever. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with. Their irresistible tunes promised a wild night of sexual pleasure, luring sailors to shipwreck on nearby reefs.
Could this be the reason Preston had never been in a serious relationship? Did he think all women would lead to his demise?
After much deliberate thought, he came up with an answer. Although it sounded silly, it was the only one that made any sense.
Abigail Bennett was a siren and she’d been trying to bewitch him.
He walked down the hall with purposeful strides. Although he’d love to take Abigail into his den, he needed to stay in control. No way was his dick doing the talking.
Once in his office, he poured himself a glass of scotch
What was this woman doing to him? There was something about her that captivated him. He knew he had to have her. But why? Why her? Why did he feel a pull toward her without even knowing her name?
Because she was a siren.
He hated her.
He fucking hated her with all his being.
At that moment, Preston made it his mission to make Abigail regret ever stepping foot in his palace.
“Um, Master Trice?” He heard her melodious voice from the outside of his office as she searched for him. He didn’t say a word, chugging down the rest of the drink and pouring himself another glass.
Not a minute later, she walked inside.
“Close the door. Lock it.”
Abigail’s throat moved with a frightful swallow.
Like a good submissive, she did as her master commanded. As the door clicked, Preston walked behind his desk and took a seat. With a grip around his scotch, he signaled a finger to the chair in front of him.
“Sit,” he ordered.
From a drawer, he pulled out a packet of twenty pages and laid it on top of the mahogany desk.
“This is an agreement between the master and his submissive. You’re to read the clauses, sign, and initial on the bottom of each page. You must understand what signing these documents entail. I will own you. Through and through. You will never question my decisions or choices. You will, however, always say Yes, Master Trice. Nothing more. Nothing less. Understood?”
Though her mouth remained closed, her eyes spoke volumes. Preston could tell she was overwhelmed by the entire night. She was confused. She was scared. She was aroused. She had so many questions—questions he was sure would yield the migraine he chased away.
“Do you have any questions?” She nodded but again didn’t say a word. “I’m asking, Abigail. I don’t ask often.”
What he meant to say was he didn’t ask ever. He took, not just the finger but the whole hand.
She cleared her throat, took a chocolate strand behind her ear, and looked at him. “Shouldn’t we have a safeword?”
“That’s for you to decide. You must never forget that word and it can’t be no or stop. During sexual activities, oftentimes people say no or stop, all along meaning yes and harder.” He leaned across the table. “What I’m more curious about is your need for a safeword when you know you’d never use it.”
Abigail’s gaze lowered, suddenly interested in her nail polish. “You scare me.”
His cock stirred when her eyes rose from underneath the curtain of hair on her forehead. “And that turns you on.”
“It does.” Her cheeks reddened.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“How far will you go?”
Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, he stood from his chair. In two simple, but deliberate steps, he was in front of her, his erection in her face. Abigail licked her lips. Preston wondered if that was an invitation.
Yet again, the urge to dig his fingers into her scalp and choke her until she vomited with his cock in her mouth titillated his mind. The thought made the whole situation uncomfortable as he had to wait for her signature to have her in as many daunting ways as he’d like.
The erection he’d harbored was past the enjoyable stage and border lining blue balls. His hands gripped the arms of the chair she was sitting in, focusing on something other than the beat of his heart in his cock.
Lowering his face to be inches from hers, he said, “As far as you’d let me.”
He hated admitting it, but it was the truth.
A misconception that the dominant was the one in power surrounded D/s relationships when that couldn’t be farther from the truth.
The submissive held all the power. Any moment, Abigail could say her safeword and Master Trice was to stop. No questions asked. No ifs, and, or buts. The dominant could only do what the submissive allowed. He could only go as far as she wanted to take it.
“I’m not aware of my limits. I’ll let you take me as far as you want.”
She was initiating a dangerous game and Preston couldn’t deny such an irresistible invitation sent to him by a woman who had no limits, who’d trust him to take her, them both, over the edge.
He stepped back, needing to get away from her intoxicating scent.
This could get messy.
Abigail was a Siren, of course what she said sounded attractive. He needed to be meticulous and know when to make his move.
Preston was aware of her limits, but it was Abigail who needed to find them—set them.
This was going to take some time. She was going to take most of his time...and patience. Unlike the other women he’d been with, Abigail was a virgin to this world. He was aware she’d broken a rule and people who broke his rules didn’t get punished. Oh, no. They got ruined.
As much as his sadistic side desired to ruin her, he couldn’t start with the torture apparatuses he loved. He’d have to start light and slowly drag her to the dark side.
He’d need her complete obedience and trust. How could he ask for trust when he didn’t even trust himself around her?
“I don’t do monogamy,” he informed her, eager to get his terms out of the way. “I have another submissive. I expect you to fuck her. I expect her to fuck you. I expect to fuck both of you, at the same time. I will fuck you in front of others and then let them have their share. I will cut you, draw blood, and intentionally leave scars. I will hit you. I will take you in the ass, in
your mouth, in your pussy. Wherever there’s a hole, I will fill it. I will choke you, gag you, suspend you. I will always take you for my pleasure, never yours. Consider it a kind gesture whenever I allow you to come. Do we have an agreement?”
“Yes, Master Trice,” she agreed easily. It didn’t go past him how she bit her lip when he said he’d share her.
There were other rules Abigail had to get acquainted with before they could start playing.
“I won’t dictate your life outside our sexual encounters. You’re allowed to do as you please. You are mine from Friday evening to Sunday afternoon. However, you are expected to use protection when and if you fuck anyone else but me. I won’t ever have vanilla sex with you. I won’t make you drink my urine. I won’t electrocute you unless it’s something you’d like to try. We’d discuss the terms as they come up. Something you must know, Abigail, is that I won’t take care of you after our scenes, that’s what Lauren is for. She’ll heal you and put you back together for me. You’ll do the same for her. As for the limits you aren’t aware of, you’ll try everything I say and use your safeword when you’ve had enough.”
“Is that what’s written in these papers?”
“In legal terms.”
Abigail reached for the black pen on Preston’s desk and signed the bottom of each page. He knew he should stop her, but he didn’t want to. The faster they got through the niceties, the faster he’d have her shackled and whipped.
Or was this another one of her tricks?
“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, his nostrils soaring.
“I’m handing you control. It’s done. I’m yours. Fuck me. Abuse me. Do as you please.” It pleased him more than he’d ever admit hearing her say those words.
He yanked the packet from her hand and looked it over. She’d signed every page without reading a word. She was so stupid. This woman was wild. He was going to have fun taming her. Her lawyer, on the other hand, was going to have a fit.
Preston could care two shits about her lawyer because as erratic as she was, with that one act she’d given him her trust. That was a needed key in a D/s relationship, and she handed it over blindly.
Collared (Masters of Desires Book 1) Page 4