Collared (Masters of Desires Book 1)

by Paula Dickson

  The audacity of his slave astounded him. Was she like that in real life too? Did she disrespect her boss, who was also her mother?

  Preston had done his research. He knew everything about Abigail Bennett and seeing as she knew nothing of him, not even his name, he held all the cards. Knowledge was, after all, power.

  Another sob.

  Another stream of blood rushed to his cock.

  She looked skinnier than before. Could she have lost weight in a day? It seemed impossible. Abigail looked destroyed just as Master Trice wanted—promised.

  What did he feel for doing so? Bad? Sorry? Like a sadistic asshole?

  Nope. Never.

  Master Trice never apologized for his dues.

  He felt accomplished.

  Her cries turned into hiccups until Abigail was choking on her own breath. He thought of what it would feel like to allow himself to care for another human—to care for Abigail. Then, if only for a second, the thought got replaced by an obscene one. What would happen if he let her choke?

  “Stand,” he ordered.

  Her shoulders raised in fear. Her knees were to the point of giving out as she used them to stand, pushing off the iced floor. She knew where the comforter laid, so why didn’t she use it?

  “Get in bed.”

  Indecisively, she stilled for a moment. After reasoning with herself, she slowly climbed into bed. One knee at a time, giving him enough time to reprimand her for getting into his bed.

  Preston got instantly hard with the way she crawled to him. She looked like a mountain lioness, readying to attack her prey. Her long, thick hair tickled his shins. Her soft hands massaged their way up to his thighs.

  She settled on his upper thighs, too far from him. With a grip on her left hip, he hoisted her higher up his body. With both bodies lacking clothes, he felt his erection on her stomach. If he moved just enough, his piercing would touch her clit.

  He breathed in, resting his head against the headboard of his bed. How he wanted that to happen. But his pleasure could bring her pleasure too. That wasn’t what he wanted. It wasn’t what she deserved.

  Preston knew he’d never tire of her. Every time he fucked her felt like the first. She had something none of his previous submissives had. Though what it was, he wasn’t sure, but he intended to find out.

  If any other dominant saw her, they’d think she was tamed. Her poses were accurate, of a sub that had been doing it for years and not mere hours.

  She knelt with grace. She bowed with finesse. She served her master as a servant did its king.

  Placing a finger under her chin, he told her, “Look at me.”

  He admired her gray eyes and how they contrasted with the dark hues of her hair. The tip of her nose was bright red, reminding him of a famous reindeer. A streak of tears slid down her swollen cheek. Preston caught it with his thumb before she could swallow the saline drop.

  Abigail nuzzled into his hand, running her nose up his palm and resting her cheek. She looked so peaceful like she’d finally found her home.

  He couldn’t keep his hands off her. If he stopped touching her, he was sure he’d stop breathing. He couldn’t stop breathing because he needed to taste her once more before he died.

  “Kiss me,” he ordered.

  She leaned forward, placed her hands on his stomach, and planted a teasing kiss on his pec. Running her tongue over his nipple, she kissed her way up his sternum. All the way to his throat. His neck. His chin.

  She lingered above his lips for a second, waiting for his objection. Preston had none, enthralled solely by her sorcery. Abigail had truly bewitched him and like a lustful sailor, he’d crashed against the rocks.

  What dumbfounded him the most was how the caress calmed him. It simmered his boiling blood. It felt like she was worshipping him, thanking him for the precious gift he hadn’t known he’d given away.

  She kissed him. Softly. Her lips swallowed his bottom lip. He groaned into her mouth, digging his nails into her injured ass. Involuntarily, she winced and pulled away. He imprisoned her mouth again, guiding her pussy to rock against his girth.

  Their tongues started their own choreography. A sensual Argentine tango where he led, and she followed. Her hands settled in his hair, tugging lightly. Her hips moved to his accord. Abigail’s weeps turned into orgasmic moans. She was so close—so close to releasing what Preston denied her.

  He pushed her down, away from his lips. With the back of his thumb, he cleaned the residue of their passionate kiss.

  “When I said to kiss me, I didn’t mean here—” he pointed to his chest “—or here—” he pointed to his swollen lips. “I fucking meant here!” He gripped his cock harshly.

  Grabbing a handful of her hair, he pushed her further down his body.

  “Open.”

  Her cheeks hollowed. His cock twitched around her plump lips. He wanted to push her all the way down, make her choke on his dick. But he tamed himself. There was no way he’d allow her more control than she already had over his mind and body.

  His face grew red, a vein denting his forehead as she lowered as slowly as she could. The minx! He couldn’t help it. His ass rose off the bed and his dick pushed entirely inside her. Preston felt himself at the end of her throat. Her gag reflex turned her face damp. Her nose rested on his pubic bone.

  Preston locked eyes with her. Her body trembled as she adjusted to his size and managed to breathe through her nose. Her breathing tickled the soft curls on his lower stomach. With his hand on the back of her head and his eyes burning into hers, he rotated his hips.

  Hearing the sound of metal clanging the enamel of her teeth, brought him close to the edge. He pulled her hair and brought her back down just when her mouth opened to breathe.

  “Look at me!” He shouted when her eyes closed. What an image to behold. If he had a camera with him, he’d snap a picture. “You are nothing but a set of holes to be used for my pleasure.”

  With a deep cry, he came, raising his hips and filling her with his come. Her throat worked to swallow his pleasure. She raised on her knees, waiting for her next task.

  “That was your reward for painting the walls.” He kissed her forehead and whispered, “Don’t say I didn’t feed you.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Abigail woke up later than usual the following day. She was exhausted. Her legs felt like they’d ran a 5K marathon. Her back felt like it had been run over by a truck. Her stomach felt like it housed a lion. Her pussy felt like Niagara Falls.

  Her right hand slid down her stomach and between her thighs. She saw as they shook with want. She was so wet she was dripping. She was sure she’d find a pool of lust beneath her when she rose.

  Her master was cruel and sexy and perfect.

  He’d done everything she’d ever wanted to be done to her and more.

  He treated her like a queen even if he thought she was a slave. He was wrong. If he only knew how much she loved it when he hit her and called her names, he’d stop just to get to her.

  She ran her tongue over her top teeth and gave a soft groan. She could still taste him in her mouth—tangy, warm, salty, like the Caribbean Sea. Her chest smelled like her master as if he’d nuzzled it before he left for his morning workout.

  Once again, she woke with the comforter around her shoulders even though she hadn’t reached for it at night.

  She stood from the ground, folded the comforter, and followed what was soon becoming her morning routine: brush her teeth, tend to her wounds, and comb her hair with her fingers.

  Hearing her stomach complain, she made her way to the kitchen. Just as the living room, this room was white with freckles of stainless steel. The kitchen faced a frigid New York that with a simple glance, made Abigail shiver. She warmed her shoulders with her hands and looked for her master.

  With Trice nowhere in sight, she took a moment to admire the chef’s paradise. A double-door fridge. A commercial stove with a griddle and a large exhaust touched the ceiling.

&nb
sp; It was a tedious process she worried she’d never accomplish but she enjoyed the snippets of information she’d gathered about Master Trice. So far, she’d found out he had an interest in Greece. He liked to draw. And loved to cook. Maybe he painted Greek cuisine?

  It felt like she was completing a jigsaw puzzle, finding small pieces that connected together to show the broader image that was Preston Trice. Where would her piece fit? Was she a border piece or a piece with no edges?

  On the massive island that curved in the shape of a crescent moon, Abigail found a note addressed to her.

  Whore.

  She rolled her eyes and smiled, remembering Master Trice’s voice when he called her that. That word alone did more for her than the cliché love, honey, or sweetie. In her eyes, whore, slut, and cunt were endearments that showed just how much her master appreciated her.

  Whore,

  In the envelope, you’ll find a form. You are to fill it out sincerely. Don’t hold anything back. This is how we’ll communicate every Sunday. This is how you will tell me what you liked and didn’t like about what we did. This is how you set your limits.

  When you finish, you will close the envelope and leave it here. Then, you’ll dress. Kenneth will be waiting for you downstairs. He’s not keen on waiting so, don’t take long.

  He’ll take you home.

  You will not touch yourself. I left you dripping. I expect to find you dripping on Friday.

  If I find you dry, I’ll know you didn’t follow my orders.

  PS: Take the stairs.

  You’re welcome,

  Master Trice.

  If Master Trice thought she’d hate the task he’d given her, he was wrong. Taking the stairs wasn’t a punishment in her eyes. It was a reward. Not touching herself, however, was beginning to get on her nerves.

  With her pussy waxed, she could feel everything. The slightest of air tickled her clit. The touch of her thighs pushed her labia together. She would have to walk with her legs far apart, so she didn’t orgasm by mistake. But she was sure when she was allowed to come it’d be explosive and that’s the thought she held onto the most.

  Tearing open the envelope, she found two papers. The first was a copy of his medical records stating he was clean of all STDs.

  Shit. She’d completely forgotten about his sexual history. The thought this man didn’t take care of his body didn’t cross her mind for a second. Of course, he was clean.

  In the records, she read his age, blood type, weight, his age, his age, his freaking age.

  “He’s thirty-four?” she questioned aloud. Her voice echoed in the empty space.

  That was ten years her senior. He looked younger than thirty-four. She thought Master Trice was at least twenty-nine. She’d never gone out with anyone older than her. All her ex-boyfriends had been the same age.

  And look how that turned out.

  A man Master Trice’s age was at a point in his life where he knew his place. He knew what he wanted. He knew how to get it. He told it straight as it was because he knew no other opinion mattered in the world but his own.

  Abigail was still trying to find herself. She didn’t know what she wanted. She didn’t know how to get it. She told it as curved as it was because she knew other’s feelings mattered as much as their opinions did.

  Trying to find herself and what she desired had led her to Master Trice. She was just now figuring out her wants and how to go about getting them.

  Did this insight change her feelings toward him? What feelings was she thinking about?

  She dismissed the thought with a shake of her hair and unfolded the next paper. Upon seeing the form, which only had a few questions, she couldn’t help but scoff.

  This was so him.

  A sterile paper with questions and answer choices like she was in school taking a standardized exam. Why couldn’t they have a normal conversation like normal people? What was he scared of?

  She gripped the black pen that he’d left for her to write with and began answering the questions. As he’d suggested, she held nothing back.

  1. Of the following done to the submissive thus far, which is the submissive willing to try again? (check all that apply; unchecked boxes indicate the submissive will NOT like to try again)

  ✓flogging

  ✓caning

  ✓bondage

  ✓cuffed

  ✓gagging

  ✓chosen food

  ✓choking

  ✓exhibitionism

  ✓hair pulling

  ✓humiliation (private)

  ✓humiliation (public)

  ✓forced nudity (private)

  ✓forced nudity (public)

  2. Where is it okay for the dominant to leave marks on the submissive’s body?

  Anywhere Master Trice likes.

  3. Describe the submissive’s sexual fantasies/fetishes that the submissive would like to play?

  I have fantasized about being stripped and bounded to be completely exposed in a room full of men. In my fantasies, they take me from all holes at the same time.

  Additional comments/questions: As I said when you fucked me against the wall, I love what we did. Thank you for an unforgettable weekend, Master Trice. Now, just as you commanded, I’m being sincere when I say: what is this? What is this piece of paper? Why can’t we talk like normal people do in a D/s relationship? Why can’t you care after me? Am I really not allowed to speak without your permission other than to say “Yes, Master Trice”? I had a few questions of my own this week but was afraid to speak out of turn. Is that allowed? In the middle of a scene, if I have a question, can I ask it without fear of chastisement?

  PS: I see you didn’t have denied orgasm or starvation on the checklist. Or was denied orgasm under “humiliation (private)” and starvation under “chosen food?”

  My pleasure,

  Your whore.

  She placed the pen down and read over her answers, editing a few commas. Working in a publishing company, Abigail knew it was much easier to express one’s thoughts in writing than dialogue.

  She wondered if that was his reason too.

  She hadn’t been too blunt or too reserved, but she had never been this honest with anyone before.

  Her fantasies made her skin glow all the more knowing they’d one day come true. Abigail knew her master would deliver in such a way it’d feel real.

  Once more the lion housed in her stomach roared. She took a tentative glance at her surroundings, making sure her master wasn’t hiding behind the walls. When she saw it was clear, she walked to the fridge to find a chain and padlock around the handles. She gave it an annoying rattle.

  Fine. She could still eat some crackers from the pantry. Walking to the upper cabinets she noticed they weren’t only too high but padlocked as well.

  The fucking bastard!

  How much protein did he think his semen produced? She needed to eat, sooner rather than later.

  With angry steps, she walked to the foyer and took out her clothes from the closet. She decided to leave her feet bare as she needed to go down all eighty-seven floors.

  Before pushing open the door, she searched for the camera she knew he was watching from. Finding one on the corner, she mouthed, Fuck you, and with the sweetest smile gave him the bird.

  She was going to start bringing her own food inside the pockets of her clothes to have something to snack on while she went down the steps. Abigail could faint any second. She could really get herself injured and the bastard didn’t give a shit.

  Was this what she signed up for?

  She was okay with demeaning herself to the lowest degree possible as long as her master didn’t really think she was shit. She was okay with humiliating herself as long as her master took care of her.

  Trice hadn’t done that.

  She was more sexually frustrated now than when she first walked into his club. She was more confused about her wants than before. She was food-deprived, dammit!

  She hadn’t eaten in more than twent
y-four hours. She’d been beaten and had no energy to go down eighty-seven floors. She hated the fact she was a bit claustrophobic when it came to tight spaces. The elevator wasn’t the problem. She could handle the elevator as long as it didn’t take five minutes to reach a floor. A minute, even two was fine.

  “Sixty-seven,” she read the number painted on the wall. Her body was already sweating. Her sore limbs threw their complaints.

  Feeling a wave of vibrations coming from the inside pocket of her pants, she pulled out her phone to see Mike’s picture on the screen. It was just what she needed to get her mind off the labor her master had put her to do.

  “Hey! What’s up? I saw you called me twenty times. Is everything okay?”

  “Abbs! Everything is great! I have great, great news!” She giggled. Mike always had a tendency to make everything ten times what it wasn’t.

  When he was ten, he came home crying because he’d broken his knees after falling in his PE class. Turned out it was just a scrape. When Mike fell in love...oh, boy. He fell hard. Every guy was “the one.” Mrs. Sinclair and Abigail soon gave up caring for Mike’s partners after countless “ones”. She wondered what he had in his mind now.

  “Before you say anything, how about we get some lunch? I’m starving. Plus, I haven’t seen you in weeks. We need some sibling bonding time.”

  “Alright. Alright. I’m in the mood for Italian. Meet me at Alfonso’s in thirty?”

  Her mouth watered. “Deal.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Having finally found the time in his schedule to focus on something other than blueprints and compasses, Preston pulled out the white envelope he’d carried with him since Sunday evening when he’d finally gotten home.

  It wasn’t often Preston rethought his occupation. Lately, it was beginning to sound and look more like work than what it was for him in the first place—something he enjoyed doing just for the fact he loved to destroy structures and rebuild them stronger, attractive, and sustainable, never to be torn apart again.

  The more known his architecture became, the more business he gained. The more his bank account increased in size. The more eyes around him. The more time away from home. The more time he’d spend without his slave by his side.