Once Upon A (Stained Duet Book 1)

by Charlotte E Hart

  “It’s in resurgence. Gotta keep up with the flow, Bree.”

  “You are so bored,” she says, turning back to me, picking up my notes from the side of the desk and skimming through them, too. “And what’s this ‘gasping’ section about?” Ah, the gasp. I smirk at her, finally enjoying the thought of a smile and shaking my head as I head back out of the office. “Gasping? Did Blaine make you gasp?”

  Yes. Yes, he did. On a few occasions, regardless of how proficient I attempted to remain. I didn’t even feel the gasps until they erupted from my mouth, giving away any element of professionalism I was hoping for. I still can’t quite put my finger on why. It’s the way he moves, I think. Slow, disciplined, as if he’s so comfortable with his every thought that his whole purpose is to make someone else feel insecure.

  “Of course not, Bree. It was a professional meeting. Nothing happened.” Although, at this moment, and after several self-conversations about it, I’m beginning to question just how much of an impact he’s having on my lucidity.

  “Where?”

  “What?” I’m stalling. I know what she said. I’m just attempting to direct the conversation away from the really quite seedy place I spent the morning in. “I think the cab’s here. Shall we go down?”

  With that, I don’t give her time to question, dig, or even keep up with me as I grab my keys, take a quick glance in the mirror to check my eye make-up, which is pretty damn good for me, and then head out of the door for the waiting cab.

  I’ve given up on the subway here. I cab everywhere at night or walk during the day. Frankly, the few times I tried when I first got here were fine apart from learning a new system, but then I did a few journeys late at night, missing stops and eventually ending up in places I didn’t know. It scared the shit out of me as junkies hung around, watching me hurry through the stations and following me until I found some light again, hoping for the cops to be present. After the first bag snatch, and the next week’s inappropriate gesturing from some man in a long mac, I made a vow to never use the things again, and certainly not at night.

  “No amount deflecting is going to make me give up on this conversation, ya know?” she says as she catches up with me. I keep heading for the car, descending the steps from my two-apartment brownstone to the pavement.

  “Remind me to send my edits back tomorrow, will you?” I say, once again trying to avoid her topic as I reach for the cab door. “I’m late with book three.”

  That’s all I’ve currently got as she shifts the tail of my dress over so that she can get in behind me. I smile over at her as she raises her brow and waits for more of an answer, one she won’t get. It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it. It’s more that I need her to be more honest about her reasoning. She’s not talking about me fucking a dominant because she wants me to write a good book. It’s because she thinks I need a man in my life. I don’t. I’m self-sufficient and happy that way. I’ve tried relationships, and they don’t work for me. Men can be needy. They get clingy when you don’t message them constantly. Stroking their egos as well as their dicks is apparently a necessity. Not for me, it’s not. And there’s not one part of me that wants to be tied down so I can fall in love and have babies. It’s not the way I’m built, not now anyway. Maybe once upon a time I was, but whatever that dream was has gone along with the quirky version of me that used to exist. And besides, when you write romance for a living, as well as crime thrillers, what’s a man got to offer in the way of excitement? I know it all already. There isn’t a story, romantic interlude, situation, or happily ever after I haven’t already written. I know all the endings. I know all the one-liners. I know all the ways men sweep you off your feet. I’ve told their stories a thousand times and every one of them I’ve ever had sex with has tried the exact same stories to lull me into a relationship of some sort. I don’t want that. I don’t want a man who thinks those cheese-ridden one-liners engage me. They don’t. They make me roll my eyes in abhorrence, forcing my thighs to close the instant they open their mouths.

  “What’s the harm in fucking someone who’s good looking and could give you a new experience?” she says as the cab pulls away for our journey.

  Well, there is that school of thought, I suppose. Still, my non-plussed expression doesn’t change as I watch her pull out her make up bag and start applying, because she hasn’t done it yet. She was too busy answering emails and getting ready for her release to concern herself with looking perfect for these people. “I mean, you’re the one always complaining that men are boring. What was the last thing you said? That they couldn’t come up with originality if they were offered it free of charge?”

  Yes, I did say that. I say that sort of thing a lot. It’s entirely true on most occasions. “Perhaps this Blaine guy can show you something original?”

  I don’t doubt it. It would also be painful from what I saw of that poor woman strung up into some sort of torture position, and worrying for cleanliness given the sticky carpets.

  “They really do hang people in those places. Did you know that?”

  “What?”

  “Hang them. From the ceiling. On hooks. They use carabiners and then they wrap ropes around the skin to create patterns. Shibari. Kinbaku.” She looks a little shocked. I don’t know why. She’s read some of the books I’ve read. “And if you’re not in to that then you can have a ‘gimp mask’ put around your face as someone pulls you across the floor for others to pee on.” She pulls a rather nauseated expression, the same one I tried not to use when I saw it happening to a man right in front of me. “Mmm. Also, I touched the implements they use to cause pain. It’s not Victoria Secrets’ version, I can promise you. They’re solid pieces. It’s not a pleasure thing at all from what I can tell.” Her frown has become more distressed than amused. “Still think I should let him show me?”

  “Well...”

  “Oh, and there’s a place called ‘The Pit’ where you earn your right to be called a member. Can you guess what happens in there?”

  “I’m not sure I want to.”

  “Let me tell you. It’s apparently exciting, and the highest form of honour for a submissive.” She shifts her weight around, giving me just a few moments of feeling superior in front of Bree’s normal devil-may-care attitude to life. “You’ve already guessed, haven’t you? Fucking happens. Lots of fucking. Men. Women. They all fuck the submissive, as if it’s their divine right in the middle of their hedonistic fun to initiate the newbie.” She frowns again, looking me up and down, probably trying to gauge my interest in such a strange initiation process.

  “But surely that’s not the only way? There are too many stories of committed couples and collaring. Isn’t that the true BDSM lifestyle? I thought that’s what you were researching.” So did I. Unfortunately, that’s not what was presented. And, thinking back, it’s no wonder I may have been bitchy about its atmosphere.

  “Well, not according to Mr. Jacobs, who, from what I know so far, is one of the most respected Dominants in this particular club. He told me nothing of committed lifestyles or realistic endeavours. It just seemed like a den of iniquity to me.” Although, he didn’t seem quite right in that particular den. Still doesn’t as I visualise him there, his body moving as calmly as a gentle wind through trees, completely opposed to some of the other men’s loud, aggressive behaviour. He was, perhaps is, above what I witnessed. At least different to it somehow.

  The statement appears to shut her up, thank god. It gives me a little time to attempt to rid the man from my mind as we continue through the streets. Tonight is reasonably important to Valerie’s future. I’ve lined up a few discreet conversations with other publishers, all of which will have to happen away from my current publisher who will hover endlessly around me—either him or his son anyway. Oh god, I hope it’s not the son. I’ll have to endure the entire evening with him leering at me while I try to keep his fingers from my arse. It won’t be fun. In fact, it hasn’t been for the last few I’ve been too. It’s becoming nothi
ng but hard work, frankly. The events are filled with sycophants and bootlickers, none of whom have the foggiest clue who I am, what I want, or why I’ve become the person I have. They don’t care about me in the slightest, not Alana anyway. All they care about is Val and how much money she can make them, or what being her friend might bring them. It’s so damn exhausting. Even now I can feel the anxiety rising, telling me something is so very wrong with all of this. It makes me dig into my bag, sighing at the thought of yet another thing I’m struggling with and pulling out some of my happy pills. They’ll help at least; mixed with some of this champagne, they’ll do wonders to make this evening seem acceptable. Perhaps I should just get blotto and make my own fun, let the professionalism ebb out of me so I can just be me for a night, at least try to find me again. Bree can join in, no problem there. She finds the whole thing snot worthy most of the time.

  “Did you bring your hipflask?” I ask, turning to see her applying her last layer of lipstick, my fingers reaching for her bag as I get two pills out.

  “Yep.”

  Good.

  Chapter 3

  Blaine

  T he pattern’s as striking as it always is, intricately carving its way into flesh and enhancing the taste, but it holds no sense of realism. It labours in my mouth, less venomous than a snake in flight and as diluted in flavour as blended Scotch. It’s cheap, weakened by overuse, and tainted with the scent of every other man who’s fucked it lately. My fingers push the girl away, wiping my chin and running my tongue across my lips in search of something more palatable. She lingers patiently on the bench long after I’ve stalked back to my seat, waiting for another to enjoy his place at the feast I’ve delivered for them. Feast— it’s such a desolate term. Nothing is worth feasting on. It’s all empty, vacuous. Barely edible in reality. It stains my tongue, wrenching at old desires and haunting me with thoughts not meant for this innocuous venue.

  Another man gets up and moves to the girl, his mouth open as he leans between her legs and begins his ministrations. I’d show him how to do it more effectively if I could be bothered, but I can’t. This is a celebration of acceptance, one I’ve announced myself for all these students to enjoy. Why they think it’s something to celebrate, I don’t know. Some of them are Doms and some of them sadists in the making, ones who are yet to unfurl their hands on anything until I’m ready to let them.

  That’s all I do now, use this experience behind me to teach management and skills. It’s containment, essentially. Something I used to get an amount of pleasure out of it. I’d grade their abilities against my own, remembering what I used to do and enjoying the weight of the thought. Perhaps allowing someone else to use their inclinations for me on occasion, relish its sound as it cracked the air, but now it’s all as blunted as the thoughts I make myself labour in. They haunt the back of my mind, taunting me with visuals and images of sickening need, making me weak for my own desires. However, they’re also the same sentiments that force my own repression into human familiarity, a rare aggressive kink allowed to break through and show amusement maybe, or debasement depending on your standpoint, but basically I’m now normal again, at least a pretence of it given my new career choice.

  Still, teaching I can do. It’s a tool I know well. I understand it. Bask in it. I enjoy its monotonous drone each day, maybe as a determination of self-worth, sanctioning it a draw on my own opinion of demonstrability in the middle of others’ chaos. Teacher. Entertainer. Deliverer. All life has become is a ritual of empty encounters and hollow engagement, all of which facilitates the sense of emptiness to consume thought more and more by the day.

  I sigh and shift in my seat a little, noting the dim lights that bounce around the room’s sparsely populated interior. Five men in total, two women, one a Domme and the other an aged and appreciated sub, who is moaning her approval at the current guy’s efforts. I’d rather fuck the guy—not that I’m gay, but the fact that Adam’s a virgin to anal means the experience would be gratifying. Tight. I ponder the thought, arguing with myself about the uproar it might cause for me to unleash just a little temper into the space after all this time nurturing the brave. They’ve yet to see a sadist in full flight, any of them. I’ve refused them the privilege, not broaching the subject in fear of them pushing for answers I can’t give. Not anymore, not after her.

  A screech of orgasm crashes into the room, the little sub squirming as she tries, in vain, to break her bonds. She won’t; I’ve taught the Domme too well, invested time with her when she showed an aptitude for rope work, met her often to enhance her skills. If I’m honest, she’s the best one in here. The best Dominant, too, regardless of the heavier set men. She has a career in front of her should she choose it—lithe frame, accentuated by long arms that hold a crop firmly, and legs that broach athlete’s standards when she crushes within them. She’s good. Fuckable too. And she always has a high ponytail mounted on her head, one I long to rip from her fucking skull while my dick’s driving into her mouth.

  Adam makes his way back to his seat, his dick straining at his pants and the sub’s juices glistening on his lips as he smiles. Seems he’s pleased with his performance. I’m not sure why. The sub’s still smiling. She shouldn’t be. Fucking is an art form that should leave both too exhausted to move and barely able to breathe, let alone damn well smile. Smiling is for fools and romantics. It’s for those people who harbour nothing more than fanciful adoration and some passage of self-obsessed relevance. Adam should have taken his wants and given them to her with neither regret nor instruction. She is there to be used. The man knows what he is; he feels it just as I did all those years ago. He’s a sadist. A true and brutal sadist by the look of his grip on most things he touches. It’s the very reason his tongue’s efforts are weak. He doesn’t want to please the sub. He’s not bothered if she comes or not. What he probably wants to do is strangle her, watching the way her eyes dilate as she begins to die, just so he can push her limits further each time he tries again. But people long for pride to be bestowed, sadists or not. They lavish themselves with goods and merchandise to build self-esteem, rendering their borrowed time on this fucking planet worthwhile in some way. They look for people to appreciate them, nodding their approval at valiant efforts, something I do as Adam looks at me, waiting for teacher’s acknowledgement of success. It’s hardly success, more a failure if truth be told, but it’s my failure because of my own inadequacies, not because of Adam’s.

  The thought annoys me, so much so that I’m standing and hooking a finger at the guy before the next one gets up to engage his fancies with the sub.

  “Is that all?” I ask, watching as Adam frowns and takes a step towards me. “Is that all you want from her?” Adam doesn’t speak. He just continues frowning, presumably because of the question at hand. “Don’t you want to watch the light go out?” I move towards the girl, wondering how much she’s endured under true duress before now, having never pressed this particular one. “It’s easy enough to do. Isn’t that what you really want?” Adam’s face hardens. I’m not sure if it’s from acceptance or excitement, but, just for once, I’m going to drive the man forward into his oblivion, irrespective of his confusion on the matter. “Look.”

  It only takes a second or two to find her pressure points after asking permission by way of a nod. She frowns at first, but eventually returns the nod, her lips already parting at the thought as I wrap one hand around her neck. For the first time in a while, a true smile breaks across my face as the sensation surges inside my veins, unfettering impressions I’ve buried because of her. Adam looks stunned, his hand reaching forward as the sub begins to squeal in my grasp. “Watch her eyes brighten,” I say, as my fucking cock remembers the connection even though I refuse to look at what’s happening in my hand. I can’t, won’t. I’m barely able to contain the need to drive myself inside her now as she fights and writhes against my hold. “Then dim.” The debilitation should I gaze into weakening eyes is just not an entertainment I can divert myself with, no ma
tter how much I long to see the lights go out myself.

  Adam takes a step closer, as does the Domme and one other man. I’m not surprised as I scan the remaining two who hover in the background. Their faces seem confounded, a look a sickness rising on one of them. Good, the shorter one needs hardening up. He’s weak for a Dom, always hesitating and proving his insufficiency. He’s probably a switch in reality, something I’ve not spent long enough investigating. Delaney would have a field day with the psychology going on in that mind, as would I if I could be bothered with the prosaic nature of the task. I can’t, though. I can’t be bothered with anything these days. I chuckle at the thought a little, bracing my fingers tighter as the sub tries to wiggle her way from my grasp, and then turning back to look at my favourite little Domme.

  “How long can they last?” she asks, her hand running the length of the sub’s leg and eventually landing by her cunt to finger her way in. “Before they choke out?” My eyes close as she speaks the words, barely restraining the need to help her feel the sensation so she can know it herself. Instead, I let the pent up breath exhale from my lungs and open my eyes again, slowly glancing over the leather-clad woman and wondering if she will fight as well as I hope.

  “Not long.”

  It’s the only answer I’ve got to ensure most of the room will look after those in their care. The truth is, most don’t last long enough. Some do, though. My Eloise had. My little fuck toy had lasted as long as I needed every fucking time, giving me the time necessary to fulfil my wants on her skin. And she fought valiantly, too, her body scratching out at me as her heels kicked me on for longer. I can still feel her now as this little sub’s pulse begins to increase in my fingers, her squeals dimming to near defeated. Her perfume still resonates so intensely in my mind it makes all other scents seem pallid in comparison, but with Eloise’s scent comes the visions of her broken body, too.