Collared (Masters of Desires Book 1)

by Paula Dickson

  Over and over again he tried to get her to speak to him, but his attempts went unheeded.

  The longer she remained quiet, the angrier he became—with Abigail, with Lauren, with himself. He stood and paced the room, thinking himself a foolish man for falling for a woman who refused to fall for him. A woman whose sole purpose through their arrangement had been to satisfy her own sexual fantasies. She’d never wanted more with him. He was but a mere stop in her sexual endeavors.

  He laughed dryly. “I’m a fool. A goddam fucking fool for thinking you’d fall for me as easily as I—”

  “Rainbow,” she intoned as a lone tear escaped her eye.

  He staggered back, instantly distancing himself from her.

  Lauren gave him an apologetic shrug as she ushered him out of the bathroom. The closed door offered a barrier between the two. Through it, he heard Abigail’s cries and Lauren’s encouraging voice as she calmed her.

  He was confused. What had he done to make her feel so unsafe she resorted to her safeword?

  Preston retraced his steps, going back to this afternoon and earlier this evening. The conversation in her office and the scene in the playroom hadn’t granted such a response from her, at least not in his eyes. Was it he lowered her into the water when she begged him not to? Was it when he confessed he’d fallen for her?

  Whatever he’d done, hurt her. That much he knew. It wasn’t a physical pain because he’d done much worse to her before. This was an emotional pain, and those wounds were murderous to the soul because they had no recovery timeframe.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Abigail’s eyes were red and swollen with saline tears. She could’ve sworn the tinted water covering her body was a puddle of her internal pain and not due to her physical wounds.

  She played with the ebbing water mindlessly, watching it move this way and that way much like her thoughts.

  Earlier today Preston had called her a thief because she’d stolen something that wasn’t hers to take. She hadn’t known what the cryptic message had meant until he’d cradled her in his arms and made his way to his bedroom. At that moment, she knew what she’d taken from him because he’d taken hers, too.

  It all happened so fast, she hadn’t the time to process her thoughts, especially with Lauren lurking in the background.

  When Preston started his rant, she felt his declaration on the tip of his tongue. And although her eyes were nowhere near Lauren, she knew she felt it, too. Saying her safeword had been the only way to stop him. Her alliance was with Preston, nevertheless, she’d built a sisterhood with Lauren. She wouldn’t dare break their pact again. It wasn’t fair for her to see the man she’d loved for over five years declare his love for someone he’d only known for a few months.

  However, in her attempt to salvage Lauren’s feelings, she’d hurt Preston’s. She felt trapped inside her own mind. On the one hand, she wanted to reassure him his feelings weren’t as one-sided as he thought. She might need time to reciprocate the words he wanted to say but she felt just as he did.

  Abigail’s dilemma steered when she felt the need to get out of the bathtub and run to him, but she didn’t know how to do so without hurting the friend who was currently taking care of the wounds Preston couldn’t take care of.

  And so, her tears were uncontrollable, feeling like Odysseus—stuck between Charybdis and Scylla.

  “It’s okay,” Lauren soothed, weaving her fingers through Abigail’s braid.

  She drained the bloody water before filling it up again with a much bearable lukewarm temperature. She scooped a gradual amount in a plastic cup and poured the water over her shoulders.

  Her soft hands lathered Abigail’s body in antibacterial soap. The fresh citrus smell had her closing her eyes, enjoying Lauren’s feathery touch on her skin. She used relaxed strokes to knead her sore muscles. Although the touch was meant to remain clinical, her body was hyperaware after being denied pleasure.

  Her nipples charged with sexual need as Lauren washed under her breasts. The soap left a trail down her stomach, which Lauren quickly washed away with her thumb. Abigail spread her legs as she cleaned between her thighs. Her breath hiked at the feeling of her hands in such an intimate spot.

  She felt Lauren’s hot breath on her cheek as it caressed her jaw and slowly moved toward her lips. A familiar blush crept onto her cheeks as Lauren tilted her face and captured her lips. Although Lauren’s lips were thin, they were soft and firm at the same time. She tasted like summer and rain—warm and full of life.

  Right now, she needed what Lauren offered, and what she offered was something Preston couldn’t give her, so she accepted her kiss. She opened her mouth to hers, engrossed in the feeling of being protected.

  Together, they found their own rhythm.

  Lauren’s hand hitched higher on Abigail’s legs. She quivered in the water when her finger found her opening and pushed inside. When she found that special spot, she stroked it in a come here motion that had her seeing stars.

  Her touch was expert, languid, and unhurried. It amazed her how Lauren touched her in the way she liked to be touched. She didn’t have to tell her to push deeper or go faster, or even beg her not to stop.

  As her thumb continued drawing exquisite circles on Abigail’s clitoris, Lauren dipped her head and sucked her right breast into her mouth. She ran her teeth on the sensitive nipple before giving it a tug that had her on the precipice of orgasm.

  Like a parched vagabond, Lauren swallowed her moans with a kiss. She splashed water on the floor as waves of pleasure ran through her body. They stayed quiet long after her release. Their foreheads touched as they both breathed hard.

  Pacified by orgasmic bliss, Abigail rested her head on the side of the tub and closed her eyes. She felt Lauren’s hand push aside her bangs as she ran her thumb over the light scar on her forehead.

  “Why can you accept my love but not his?” Lauren asked, her voice sultry and angelic.

  Abigail raised her chin. In her eyes, she saw no malice just pure curiosity and a means to help. Whether Lauren wanted to help her, or Preston was the question she couldn’t answer.

  “I don’t know what you mean. He doesn’t love me.”

  Lauren kissed her temple. “Oh, my sweet Abby. Don’t insult my intelligence with your lies. That hurts more than the fact. Now, come on, let’s get you dried. Your skin has turned prune.”

  Abigail tried to stand but failed. Her eyes too swollen to guide her steps. Her soles too sore to sustain her weight.

  Lauren hadn’t the strength to carry Abigail, so she did as best as she could guiding her to bed. She massaged her body with medicinal cream and offered her the rest of the tea. It was when the tea had dried, that Lauren called it a night.

  She tucked her in and kissed her forehead sweetly.

  The motherly gesture reminded Abigail of her own mother. Every night for the first eighteen years of her life, Mrs. Sinclair had tucked her daughter in, given her a kiss on the forehead, and laid by her side. She’d snuggle close to her and told the best bedtime stories.

  These stories weren’t generic fairytales. The princess never needed to be rescued, on the contrary, the princess always rescued the prince. Love at first sight didn’t exist. And the women were curvaceous with large breasts, stretch marks, and cellulite.

  “Where’s my bedtime story?” Abigail joked as Lauren got under the covers.

  She giggled, nuzzling into the crook of Abigail’s shoulder. “I could tell you a story, not sure it will fit into the fairytale genre. It’s along the lines of horror.”

  “Eh, I’m into unconventional romance, anyway.”

  Lauren opened her mouth, but Abigail stopped her. “Wait, I don’t want to have nightmares, either.”

  “I’ll give it a fairytale ending just for you, okay?”

  Abigail nodded, biting her lower lip.

  Lauren’s golden hair rested on the pillow in perfect tresses that looked professionally done. Her blue eyes painted a full moon overlookin
g the sea. Abigail couldn’t stop staring at her, feeling like she’d seen her before but couldn’t quite place where.

  “Men are detestable creatures. They create war, not caring many will die because their ego is more important than innocent lives. And society approves of their appalling behavior. They say, ‘boys will be boys,’ ‘he’s a man, what did you expect?’”

  Lauren laughed wickedly, seeing no humor in her words.

  “I expect respect. I expect equal opportunities. I expect my stop to mean stop and my no to mean no. Unless I’m in a consensual D/s relationship, I shouldn’t need a safeword. Rarely is there a man in the rough but occasionally one appears, and when you find him, you don’t ever want to let him go because he listens when you say no and stops when you say stop. This story takes place in a land not too far away. Everyone would see it if they’d gaze out their windows. I am going to tell you about a girl and how the love of her life came after the biggest tragedy in her life. It starts as all fairytales do. Once upon a time...”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  It was such a sorrowful day even God was crying. His howls were sharp enough to leave cuts. His anger crackled from east to west with vicious bolts.

  Dead leaves fluttered in the air like a flock of migrating sparrows. A musty petal kissed the cheek of a woman walking on the sidewalk.

  With both hands fastened on the handle of her umbrella, she shook her head. Strands of blonde hair throttled her neck. The fragrance of rain perfumed her body with an earthy scent of soil.

  She closed her eyes and wished she had the will to teleport home. Although it was just five blocks away, the abandonment of the streets made her feel like the only human left on earth.

  The loud engine of a car, a deafening honk, and the derisive catcalls from somewhere down the road burst her secluded bubble.

  She paid them no attention, tightening her fingers on the umbrella as she sped-walked.

  But malice often trumped good. And sadly, wheels were faster than her feet.

  The driver soon caught up to her, lowering the window with a loud creak that sent explosions of bumps to spread over the woman’s arms.

  “Looks like you need a ride,” the man said, jerking his head. “Hop in.”

  She politely declined with a cemented smile and kept walking.

  “You’ll get wet,” he said, his eyes peering down her soil-splattered legs.

  To her dismay, a gust turned her only shelter upward. She tried her best to hold onto the metal handle, but the wind was too strong. With nothing left to cover her body from the treacherous rain, she was drenched within minutes.

  The thin fabric of her dress glued onto her chest, molding the shape of her small breasts and strong thighs.

  “Now you must come with us.”

  She gnawed her bottom lip, running her hands up and down her naked arms. The man looked younger than her, probably early twenties. What harm could he really do? The town she lived in was so small, she knew the odds of seeing him again were high.

  Shrugging her shoulders in an “I guess” manner, she opened the backseat door. As she placed a foot inside, she found out he wasn’t the only man who resided inside the car.

  She counted three heads—the driver, a passenger, and another in the backseat.

  “On second thought, I think it’s best if I keep walking. Need to keep in shape and all,” she said and made to remove her leg, but a hairy hand drew her inside.

  By the time she knew what was happening it was too late. The damage had already been done.

  She looked for beer bottles, a sign of drug use, anything that would impair the men’s judgment, refusing to believe people did this out of their own volition but found nothing but organic evil.

  Hours later, the woman was thrown on the side of an unknown road like a wounded animal left to die. She had trouble standing as her limbs forgot all motor-skill. She closed her eyes and hoped the petrichor scent overpowered the monsters’ heinous crime.

  It was morning when her eyes opened again.

  The blinding light shone on her face.

  The streets had dried.

  The leaves had returned to most trees, and the sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians and happy residents.

  It was the complete opposite of the night before. Almost as if yesterday hadn’t happened. For a second, she thought it had all been a nightmare, but the soreness between her thighs and the bruises on her wrists advised otherwise.

  She made one last attempt at standing. This time her feet complied. They guided her across the street, behind the dumpsters of a small taverna. Pressing her back on the steel side of one, she slid down, drawing her knees to her chest.

  She allowed herself to grieve, rocking back and forth as she mourned the death of the woman she was no more. She mourned the death of a life she’d never have, a love she’d never receive, and the kids she’d wanted desperately, she knew she had to abort.

  Her eyes, sore with tears of shame and repulsion, felt like a broken fountain.

  In the midst of such misery, she heard an angelic voice that brought upon elevated hope. Fearful no more, she opened her eyes.

  “Come with me.” His humanoid silhouette echoed the rays of the sun as he extended his hand. She accepted it without question, wanting badly to leave this wicked world and enter The Heavenly Kingdom.

  Although her thighs were sore and her limbs were fragile, it wasn’t physical pain that made her want to say goodbye. It was the emotional turmoil living inside her that begged to give up.

  It happened without preamble as fast and as furious as a moving train. For countless months and many years, the man took care of the woman’s external physique, but most importantly, her internal wounds.

  He took her to therapy, fed her, gave her a shelter, a home she could call her own, one far from her past. He clothed her in clothes and jewels but most of all in his undivided attention.

  He gave her every woman’s dream come true, but never what she desired the most.

  To him, she was a refugee, a wounded animal in need of attention but to her, he was the world—her savior. Although it pained her to admit it, she knew her future with him was nonexistent.

  Her needs weren’t his needs. His needs weren’t her needs.

  He tried.

  She tried.

  Just as he could see the pain in her eyes when she offered her body, she could see the pain in his when he took it. Each was holding the other back, obscuring the person they truly were, preventing the other from growing.

  Because she loved him fiercely, with all her mind, with all her heart, with all her soul, she gave him a very special gift. It was nothing compared to what he’d given her. After all, he’d given her life, but this gift was a close second. This gift gave him the tools he needed to live his life truthfully without reproach, without regret, without wonder.

  To show him how much she loved him— Lauren stopped mid-sentence, hearing a small moan escape Abigail’s lips. She always made the sound when she fell asleep. It was as arousing as it was adorable.

  Against the dim light of the moon, she saw Abigail’s tranquil face. Her lids were closed. Her lips were pouty like the petals of a blooming flower. She connected every light freckle on the bridge of her nose and along the top of her cheeks with the tip of her finger.

  Abigail was the personification of beauty and perfection.

  Lauren had known since the moment she saw her she’d be perfect for Preston.

  She took a deep breath and said the words she’d kept a secret for months, “To show him how much she loved him, she gave him a woman.”

  Preston had spent the last years making sure Lauren’s needs were met, whether by him or Elliott. At times, he’d go as far as to neglect his own to please hers. Today, Lauren returned the favor, forgoing the needs of her heart to appease his.

  She meticulously removed the covers from her body and made her way to the walk-in closet where she got dressed. Her body felt light as if a tremendous weight had
been lifted off her shoulders. Yet her heart felt heavy with saddens, feeling the loss of another family. Tears escaped her eyes. She let them roll down her cheek. This family was worth mourning.

  She watched Abigail from the comfort of distance, afraid if she were close, she’d find herself lost in the serenity of her sleep.

  Although Preston helped Lauren expecting nothing in return, she’d felt indebted to him. Because of this, she searched every BDSM club in the state of New York looking for a woman like Abigail. The moment she saw her gray eyes roll toward the heavens when a man flogged a woman, Lauren had known her search had come to an end. She’d finally found a woman stoic enough to handle Preston Trice’s desires.

  And she’d gotten her right.

  Preston was the happiest she’d ever seen him and so was she, feeling absolute for the first time in five years. Although it broke her heart to have to leave the couple behind, she was ready to start her new life as Mistress Lauren.

  Through her exploration in finding Master Trice’s perfect masochist, Lauren became acquainted with her dominant side. She found inflicting pain on men was as much a psychological thrill as it was a coping mechanism.

  As Lauren waited for the elevator to ding, she replayed quick memories of her time with Preston and Abigail, knowing it would be the last time she’d see them again.

  “You’re leaving?” Abigail’s voice was strained, almost fragile.

  Lauren simmered the urge to reprimand her for walking on her injured soles. She told herself it wasn’t her place anymore to order her to her room.

  Why did the elevator take so long?

  She wasn’t a fan of confrontation. Had she known Abigail wasn’t in REM sleep, she would’ve ended the story with the woman giving the man a bouquet of flowers. Talk about unconventional romance.

  “It was you, wasn’t it? At the club that night? I knew I had seen you somewhere, but I was never able to place where.”

  “Yes,” Lauren said, her voice low and soft. Her head was down, not quite able to meet her wrath.

  “What the fuck is this? Are you some kind of pimp for him?”