Dark Surrender

by Quin Zayne

  The sawhorse brought back that mix of titillation and horror. She managed not to sputter. Laughing in the dungeon would be a mistake.

  Taking a long breath, she composed her face and mastered her posture. Breasts out-thrust and ass arched. Yes. Chin tucked in, yes. Concentrating, she homed in on the bulge in Damon’s pants. As awkward as she found this, she needed to find her way to arousal. The dungeon setting wasn’t doing it for her. She’d much rather see his bedroom. The romantic in her wanted to know the real him, get behind his mask and find the man.

  This was the stage he provided, and so here she would perform. Watching his cock rise, she kept her lashes lowered demurely. She practiced her pussy exercises to help stimulate herself, imagining giving him tight resistance when he pushed his large cock at her opening for the first time. Breathing faster, she squeezed her arms against her sides, making her breasts more prominent and willing her nipples to harden.

  There. Yes. They tightened and pushed against the raw silk dress.

  She felt sexy. He’d given her that. Modeling had bolstered her self esteem, but it was too much pressure. She’d been as much a cog in a machine as she was as a barista, interchangeable with any other model her size. She, the real her, didn’t matter to clients or customers. Nor to Damon.

  The sooner she stopped wishing for a personal response from him, the better.

  With an effort, she mustered a small smile. Mona Lisa eying the painter’s erection. There. That was it. The most arousing thing about this scene was Damon’s erection. His cock was—substantial. Long, and thick, poking at his pants. Lisa would piss herself if she told her about this set up. Ken would want a fly’s eye view. ‘I’m not a size queen, but I have been impressed.’ He’d be impressed. Despite her limited experience with cocks, she’d seen plenty of erections in her vicinity. Damon’s was in a league of its own. If he got any closer, she might shriek.

  Losing her virginity plummeted from its high place on her to-do list.

  Damon smiled at her. He didn’t take a step in her direction. He lifted his chin toward the sawhorse bondage stand.

  “Undress and assume the position, Rose. Ass up, toes on the floor.”

  He was a billionaire. The only surprising thing was he didn’t expect her to do the bondage part herself.

  She nodded, that was safer than talking. Her hair fell forward and she hid in it. She didn’t trust her voice. Her nervousness deflected itself by composing a send-up of this experience for Ken’s benefit.

  The impatience flaring in his eyes told her to move fast, no strip tease. She peeled off the lovely dress and cream-lace lingerie, having no doubt he meant for her to undress completely.

  Cheeks hot as he stood there fully clothed watching her, she kept her eyes on the black floor.

  The hot as hell bastard finally wanted to do something to her, and it felt passionless. It would be far more exciting if Damon bent her over the contraption with his own hands. Having servants and a multitude of employees must have removed the inclination for hands-on experience.

  Keeping her face blank as a doll’s, she stepped out of the high heels.

  Disappointment thickened in her throat. As she lowered herself onto the black-covered device, she clenched her jaw and shut her eyes tight. She wouldn’t cry. She’d be damned if she’d ever cry in front of Damon Karl.

  “Hold on tight. Don’t worry. I’m not going to tie you down. Not this time. You’re not going to go anywhere are you?”

  “No. No, Sir.”

  “Good. Good Rose.”

  Her hands found comfortable grips on the stand, and she held onto them. She pressed her toes against the floor and raised her ass.

  His boots thumped toward her.

  Would he finally touch her?

  Something did. Something soft and narrow slid along her neck. She glanced over her shoulder.

  Damon held a riding crop. He trailed the leather tip of it down her back.

  She clenched her teeth.

  With a smirk, he brought it down sharply on her ass.

  It wasn’t bad. A small, warm slap. The warmth intensified after the strike. He hit her again.

  “This is for my enjoyment. You haven’t done anything wrong, Rose. Applying discipline regularly builds character.” He chuckled.

  Mandy bit her lip. Maybe he really was mad.

  He sent blow after blow against her ass, hitting the target near the crease below each cheek repeatedly. The heat grew and the sting intensified. The un-threatening toy in his hand became an instrument that delivered the discipline he promised.

  Unbidden, she found herself wanting to be good.

  Horrified, she realized she wanted to be good so he’d do this to her again.

  As the heat peaked and became wildfire between her legs, tears rand down her face and dripped onto the black floor.

  She kept her face turned to the floor with her hair curtaining her face. She didn’t want to give the sadist the satisfaction of seeing her tears.

  His boots thumped the floor as he approached from his whipping position behind her ass.

  She flinched. She couldn’t help it.

  His big hands gathered her hair and tied it in a knot at her neck.

  “There. Much better. I don’t mind if you cry. If you want me to stop for any reason, say ‘vanilla.’ I’d rather continue.” He leaned forward and smiled into her eyes.

  Handsome bastard. “Alright.”

  “Repeat your safe word to show you understand how to stop the action.”

  “Vanilla,” Mandy murmured. She’d read a lot of adult classifieds and some of the popular BDSM novels. She got it. Vanilla was the flip side of BDSM, ‘regular sex.’ Ha ha. ‘Vanilla,” she repeated. Anything to get that devastating devil out of her face.

  The warmth in her ass kept radiating right into her core, making her hotter than ever for him.

  His chest muscles gleamed, and black jeans rode low on his strong hips, exposing his happy trail that led to his—yes, fully-erect cock. At least she had that effect on him, or whipping her did.

  This didn’t answer her questions. He could get a call girl for this, or go to one of San Francisco’s pro dungeons where he could buy damned near any kink. BDSM wasn’t scandalous, it was damned near mainstream in their home city.

  Were his tastes so limited that only a living doll would do it for him?

  He patted her shoulder. “Stop thinking so much. You’re frowning. Smooth face, doll, smooth face.”

  She released her breath and made her face neutral. He was right. She was getting a -premature frown line. She noticed it after the accident, as though her mom passed it on, no longer needing it herself.

  Stop thinking so much. Now he wanted into her mind, too. Control her thinking. How much control did this man need anyway? The pit of her stomach went cold. She knew the answer to that one. He’d already shown her. All of it.

  A sound attracted her attention. He stood at a cabinet, a beautiful lacquered thing with multiple doors and drawers. He drew on a pair of gloves.

  He returned, his boot steps thumping with her heart.

  His covered fingers caressed her shoulder, her spine, her ass. Fine leather, already warmed by his skin. She noticed the leather aroma along with his clean, musky scent. He could bottle that and make a fortune, if he hadn’t already been handed one.

  She inhaled deeply, his scent firing her arousal.

  Her toes gripped the warm floor and she pressed against the saw horse. It didn’t reach her clit, so she had no way to rock on it. Instead, she squeezed her inner muscles to boost her stimulation.

  She wanted Damon to smell and feel her heat. She wanted to drive him as crazy as he drove her.

  Stretching her neck, she peeked at the mirror that covered two walls.

  Damon drew his hand back and slapped her ass.

  The blow and the after-heat felt good, more a thump than a sting. Maybe that was the purpose of the glove. Or maybe it was a symbolic barrier between them. The man seeme
d disinclined to fully touch her. She wanted to know if this was part of a power play, or if there was some—neurosis or something. Or, the thing that worried her most, if he deprived her of touch because he didn’t like her.

  But he chose her.

  He slapped the other cheek.

  He was right. She was thinking too much.

  She hung on to the handles.

  His slaps fell like rain, pelting her ass. His strokes heated her, inside and out.

  She shifted between squirming and holding still for him, uncertain which he liked better. Squirming felt good, but it might seem disrespectful. In some encounters, she got the impression he enjoyed making her uncomfortable. If she held still, if she was too stoic, he might get bored. Tough call, but she’d rather risk irritating him than having him decide she wasn’t entertaining. She had to please him.

  Damn, she needed to shut off her mind.

  His blows came faster and harder.

  She tasted the word vanilla, but didn’t say it. She wanted him to have his fun.

  She’d never imagined liking being smacked and spanked, yet this was an act of pleasure, not aggression or punishment. His hands were sensual on her, and she’d longed for his touch. Most of all, she wanted him to get what he wanted from the scene. Was this was what made him come?

  The heat centered on a sweet spot low on each bottom cheek.

  He pummeled her right there with the sides of his leather-clad fists, drumming her.

  Hot, so hot. Her hips rose with his strokes. She took his rhythm deep inside her, losing her fear of his size, aching for his cock.

  This erotic beating was not what she expected when it came to getting pounded, but damn, it felt intensely good.

  She creamed, her back arching, her hips hunching.

  Hearing his panting breaths as he worked over her, she lost her inhibitions.

  As she watched him, she no longer hid her pleasure. Pure sex face stared back from the mirror.

  His body gleamed like a young Zeus throwing lightning on mount Olympus. Her fingers itched to sketch him, to capture the dynamic lines of his passion face, his heavy-lidded eyes, beautiful teeth, the feral shine of his eyes.

  His fists pounded her, gently enough to make her hot, hard enough to take her to the edge of saying vanilla.

  She rode that wave for him, between yes and no, between please don’t and—I do.

  If only she could be his for real. His Mandy, not his Rose. Maybe in time he’d see her, see the woman within the doll he felt compelled to create.

  In the meantime, she’d play him as much as he played her.

  Raising her head, she met his glittering eyes. “You fucker,” she whispered. “You devil.”

  He crowed, a sound of triumph, and brought both fists upward hard against her ass right there.

  In the mirror, a dark come spot spread down his black denim clad thigh.

  She came hard, watching the come reach his knee.

  Fuck, his cock is huge.

  Clinging to the stand, she howled in his echo, her cries sliding lower and lower as her body collapsed from her climax.

  His fist wrapped in her hair and raised her head. “This is only the beginning.”

  Without prompting, from her need to find out what he’d do to her next, she spoke the right words. “Yes, Master.”

  The corner of his lips lifted in a wicked smile.

  OPENING ROSE

  Billionaire Dark Obsession Duet 2

  by Q. Zayne

  Fortress

  Mandy examined her image in the mirror. The white negligee appeared deliberately bridal. Her eyes stung. It was a good thing she had permanent eyeliner and mascara, or she’d be raccoon-eyed. She turned slowly for him.

  Damon leaned toward her from his shadowed seat and stroked his chin. “Beautiful. The effect is stunning, even better than I expected. You bring everything to life.” He waved his arm, and even in the shadows where he sat, his cuff links flashed gold and ruby.

  His praise helped her smile. The room’s ceiling spots were trained on her and cast dots of light throughout the room, but none reached him. The bright spots on the black floor create a reverse Swiss cheese effect.

  She could barely make out a white shirt and black suit, a red rose in his lapel. Intriguing that he dressed as though for a formal occasion. Did he expect a visitor to the island, or was this for her? The way he kept her on edge wore on her.

  “You’ve certainly taken objectification to new heights.” Her tone was light, but she meant it.

  “Silence now. Show me who you’ve become. Show me with your body, Rose.”

  Becoming demur to suit his demand for submission, she focused on embodying Rose. Who the hell was Rose? A cipher, a receptacle.

  That was it. In many ancient cultures, sacred women satisfied the lust of men who came to the temples. Damon needed a priestess for his twisted desires. So be it. She’d show him who she could be for him—everyone but her. He didn’t want Mandy, he wanted Rose. His doll.

  As though preparing to walk a runway, she struck alluring attitudes in the gown, posing with unselfconscious sensuality. The light, silky fabric flowed over her and fluttered with her slightest movement.

  Large mirrors reflected each other, casting her image into infinity. Any girl she’d worked with would give anything to stand in her thousand-dollar shoes.

  The lighting, unlike in his vault, was too bright to be the most flattering.

  Every tiny detail showed. The pulse beat at the base of her throat like a bat trying to escape. A tiny muscle beside her lip twitched.

  Her face, expressive with each pose, from languid to poised for a kiss, helped disguise her tension. No doubt he saw it, and had calculated the lighting to show him everything.

  Each detail in his realm had a purpose.

  He sat back in his throne, an antique carved chair centered at the end of the room. He sat partly in shadow, his thick hair and dark eyes gleaming. His bright teeth showed.

  He’d waited for her to emerge in the gown a servant brought, but hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a word.

  To keep from freezing and standing there with a racing mind, she treated the situation as a modeling audition for a difficult yet powerful client.

  Her job was to make the gown come alive, to suggest an endless variety of fantasies and fulfilled desires. Following the dictum of her favorite dance teacher, she found rest in motion, an endless stream of images coming alive through her body.

  She became the Pharaoh’s new concubine, then the sheik’s virgin wife on their wedding night. A servant unrolled her from a carpet at the feet of Caesar, and she embodied the nubile Cleopatra prepared to please the much older Roman.

  A mermaid, she made sinuous love in the water, her shoulders, spine and tail-bone aquatic in a dance so fluid it took her into a trance.

  He held still at first. As she breasted a wave in front of him, the foot resting across his knee pulsed to her silent music.

  If her energy and performance gave that bad boy a hard on, all the better.

  His eyes burned. He gestured with his finger for her to turn around. She spun, swinging her ass in a full pendulum of fuck-me deliciousness calculated to make a dead man rise.

  The room lacked a dais for her, but she perceived the pedestal of idealized womanhood. The desire to ask who she stood in to replace danced in her mouth. The elaborate face, body, and costuming, all the training in deportment and voice, the pressure points exerted to change her personality—it couldn’t be only for deviant sex, companionship, and a face for his company. She didn’t buy it. This was personal.

  Damon Karl’s intensity evoked criminal obsession.

  Maybe he wanted her to become a girl who jilted him. There was something he hadn’t told her. She pressed her lips together, shimmying real slow to a dirty old blues beat with her back to him. If his living-doll desire was rooted in a psychological derangement, it could be dangerous to confront him. The prospect of losing the million dollars dictated s
ilence. She’d stick to the careful salty comments he enjoyed.

  She pursed her lips, then relaxed them, parted them the way she would for his cock, if her offered it for her to suck. His sharp intake of breath gratified her. He hung on her performance.

  In a slow arc, weaving near him and away, she made her spine a serpent rising from a basket to a haunting wind tune in a marketplace. With an artful flip, she transformed her hair into the cobra’s hood.

  Damon’s eyes brightened.

  This was a dangerous game. Give him enough sparks and spirit to keep him excited and keen for the chase, but not so much as to perturb the fragile male ego. If men knew how far women went to help them maintain their illusions of superiority, there’d be a worldwide crisis.

  Returning to the mermaid, she breasted the waves at him, then settled on a rock out of reach, making the air around her the isolated shore of an enchanted prison. Flipping expertly high into the air, she landed on her feet and swam, slipping through beams of light and sliding along darkness. She swished her tail and looked over her shoulder through her hair at the enthroned billionaire.

  The bastard held her life in his hands.

  “This isn’t you,” he whispered. His words cut through the room, taking away the ocean waves she’d been riding, slapping the swells with her tail. He beckoned her closer.

  She came to stand before his throne, close enough to feel his hot breath on her cleavage. “Of course not. You don’t want me, Damon Karl, you want your doll.” She bit the word, angrier than she’d realized.

  Taking a step back, she tossed her head like a wild mare. It was his rejection of the true her that stung. This act, this was nothing to do with her, except that her early career gave her the skill to do it. Somehow, she didn’t think her mother would be pleased that this was where years of dance lessons brought her. Well, Mommy, you always said, ‘Marry a rich man.’

  Her mouth curved in a calculated bitch look. He wasn’t the only one who could be controlling and withholding.