Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set

by Jill Elaine Hughes

  I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach. I’d figured that Rodney knew some of my reasons for being on St. Lucia—but not all of them. He’d read me like an open book. The man was good at his job, that was for sure. “How did you find all of this out?”

  “I have my sources,” he said. “And my sources on that subject are rock-solid. You’re swimming in very shark-infested waters, Jasmine. You see, my father set you up. If you’d gone through with your plans for this week, you not only would have been the subject of a massive exposé in the Post, you might have even been looking at federal criminal charges.”

  I was aghast. “Criminal charges? What kind of criminal charges?”

  Rodney ticked off a list on his fingers. “Bribery, racketeering, improper campaign fundraising, tax fraud, I could go on and on. I’m not necessarily saying you’re guilty of any of these things—because I think you just got caught up in something much bigger than yourself through no fault of your own. But the powers that be probably wouldn’t have seen things that way. So I had to intervene, before it was too late. That’s why I’m here.”

  I pondered this for a moment. On the one hand, I was flattered to no end that Rodney Doyle had seen fit to play knight-in-shining-armor to my damsel-in-distress. But on the other hand, I couldn’t help but feel that he was probably responsible for the whole mess in the first place. “How exactly do you propose to intervene in this fiasco, Rodney?” I asked. “Especially considering you’re in the thick of it yourself.”

  He reached into his pajama pocket and pulled out a small black address book. “I took the liberty of taking down the names and numbers of all the people who left you messages here at the resort, looking for trysts. Most of them are already here on St. Lucia,” he said, his expression stern. “Some are even staying here at this very resort. I blacked over their names and numbers on your message slips so you wouldn’t call them before I had a chance to talk to you first.”

  I chewed my lip. I still had very mixed feelings about the whole thing, and wasn’t at all sure I’d want to go along with anything Rodney proposed. “I’m still not crazy about the fact you broke into my hotel suite, however honorable your intentions might be,” I said. “I could even call the island police on you if I wanted to.”

  Rodney blinked. “You’re right, you could. And you’d be totally justified, in my opinion. But the fact is, you’ll end up in trouble with the island police yourself if you don’t at least hear me out.”

  “Go on,” I said, now more than a little nervous.

  Rodney handed me the little black book. I was stunned to see it not only listed the names of Congressman Jacob Raleigh and Rocky Robinson, editor-in-chief of the Post, but several senators (male and female), two state governors, a Democratic party leader, and a member of the Cabinet. It seemed that Dexter really knew how to set up an offshore political orgy.

  Rodney took both my hands in his; his palms had gone from cold to clammy. “It’s my understanding that Mr. Robinson from the Post is here basically as an undercover journalist. He’s planning to pose as someone who’s interested in procuring your—ahem—services in exchange for offering you a job at his paper. But his real goal is to expose what you’re doing here as front-page news, along with outing all the identities of all the movers and shakers Dad arranged for you to meet with while you’re here. For the Post, it would be the political scoop of the century, on a par with what they uncovered during Watergate. For you, it would mean the end of your professional career, maybe even jail time. The Post was going to position their story around the assumption you were setting up an illegal offshore campaign-finance party, with you as the entertainment. If the Post had been able to conjure up any evidence that even suggested you might be doing that—which I know you weren’t, but Dad could probably have pulled some strings so it looked that way—you’d be looking at a federal indictment, and immediate extradition back to the States.”

  My stomach lurched when I remembered that Dexter had lightheartedly suggested on the way to the airport that I tell my guests tax-free campaign financing was the purpose of my little getaway.I thought he’d been joking. Apparently not. “So he basically entrapped me,” I said. “How could I have been so stupid?” I put my now-throbbing head in my hands and bit my lip again until I tasted blood.

  “You’re not stupid, Jasmine,” he said, his tone soft and reassuring. “My father is a master of deception. He’s managed to trap and expose world leaders, even. He can trap anybody he wants to. And he saw you as a way to get to me. You didn’t stand a chance. Your—ahem—friends Rebecca and her Congressman boyfriend are at risk, too. I’ve already spoken with Congressman Raleigh about this mess, and he’s gone into temporary hiding, just to be safe.”

  I groaned. My life was over, it seemed. I thought I should just go out to the beach and wade far out into the ocean until the tropical currents carried me away. “So what do we do now?”

  Rodney stood up and stretched. “Well, I do have a plan, if you’re interested.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  Chapter 19

  I was very skeptical of Rodney’s plan for our salvation at first. But I soon warmed up to it.

  “I’ve been wanting to clean up the Beltway Times’ image for a long time,” Rodney explained. “All these years, I thought I was getting back at my father by publishing low-level political dirt in my newspapers. I thought I was one-upping my father, doing something more legitimate than he did. I honestly thought I was bettering society by using everything at my disposal to manipulate public opinion against more than half the body politic. Can you believe that?”

  I chuckled. “Yes, I can believe it,” I said. “But I’m not sure anybody but the chairman of the Republican Party would agree with you.”

  “I know,” he replied. “But since I’ve met you, Jasmine, I’ve discovered that I don’t have to do things the old way anymore. In a nutshell, I was just doing what my father had always done, just in a different way. I discovered that I’d become him, actually—just in a different way. And I don’t like that idea one bit.”

  I smiled. I liked this new side of Rodney very much. “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “I think we should use this opportunity to accomplish two things,” Rodney said, his face lighting up. “One, we can finally give my father his come-uppance. And two, we can turn the Beltway Times from a lowbrow political tabloid to a highbrow investigative news outlet in one fell swoop.”

  I was intrigued. “How do you propose to do that?”

  “Congressman Raleigh and I have discussed my plan at length and I think it will work. First, Congressman Raleigh—I mean, Jacob—will lure Dexter down here with promises of a good time at a tax-free political shindig. If we play things right, Dexter will think that Congressman Raleigh is knee-deep in your little sexcapade scheme. Then, once Dexter—Dad—is here, I’ll have you meet with him disguised as Mistress Hyacinth Slaughter. Not many people know this, but my dad has a real weakness for dominatrixes.”

  “Like father, like son,” I offered with a laugh.

  Rodney flushed deep red. “I suppose that is one trait we share,” he admitted. “When you’re in your Hyacinth Slaughter disguise, you can use your considerable talents to slowly draw the truth out of Dad. I’ve made some discreet inquiries, and I think we can arrange to have not only the Washington Post editor present, but also several of the other high-ranking officials who’ve made their way down here look on in secret while you do your thing. I’ll also have the proceedings recorded. Once we have the evidence we need, we’ll go public with all the information Dad reveals about his undercover business. I’ll share some of the scoop with the Post so they’ll cooperate, but the most juicy parts will be released exclusively by the Beltway Times. Congressman Raleigh even thinks he can use his position on the House Economics Committee to launch a Congressional investigation into Dad’s business activities, as well as all the people who’ve hired him illegally.”

  Hearing how Rodney wanted to
hinge his entire plan on my fledging dominatrix skills had me excited, but very apprehensive. “Do you really think I can get that kind of information out of Dexter—I mean, your father—just by playing Mistress Hyacinth with him?”

  “I have every faith in you,” he said.

  “Are you sure? Because I’m still pretty new at the whole bondage-submission thing.”

  Rodney grinned. “Jasmine, trust me on this. Even judging by what little you’ve done already, you are by far the most talented sex mistress I’ve ever encountered. And I’m speaking as a connoisseur.”

  I still wasn’t convinced. “I find that pretty hard to believe,” I said. “I’ve never really learned how to be a proper dominatrix. I just sort of flew by the seat of my pants the few times I’ve tried it. And I could never be as good as Mistress Violet.”

  Rodney’s expression softened. “That’s not true at all, Jasmine. Dominatrixes aren’t made—they’re born. You don’t train to become one, you are one. And believe me, you were born to boss men around in the bedroom. When Dexter gets here, just do what comes naturally to you, and nature will take care of the rest.”

  “All right,” I acquiesced. “But I don’t have any dominatrix clothes. How will I hide my identity? And shouldn’t I have a whip or something?”

  Rodney enveloped me in a hug. “That’s my girl,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.”

  ****

  I don’t know how he managed it, but somehow Rebecca’s Congressman boyfriend Jacob lured Dexter down to St. Lucia with promises of a wild offshore political fundraiser featuring exotic entertainment. Dexter couldn’t believe his luck; thinking that he’d improved upon his sinister set-up of me entirely by accident, Dexter was en route to St. Lucia by charter flight the very next morning. Dexter probably thought he’d stumbled upon the exposé of his career, when in reality, he was about to step into a trap that would likely end it.

  Meanwhile, Rodney set out to convert his presidential villa into a domination den. That morning, Rodney, Rebecca and I had set out on a shopping tour of the tiny island, making the rounds at the tourist ports-of-call as well as local hangouts. Using some tips we’d gotten from Reginald, we found the best sex shops on the island down a little-known alley in downtown Castries. At, Night Moves, a run-of-the-mill adult store aimed mostly at tourists, we were able to load up on the basic necessities—lube jelly in several flavors, extra Rabbit vibrators, nipple clamps, and the like. Good Vibrations, the second of the three shops, carried an exciting array of boudoir costumes. Rebecca outfitted herself with a classic Naughty Nurse made out of leather and PVC; Rodney helped himself to some baggy pirate pants and a matching eye-mask and hat set. I selected a shiny red PVC catsuit with zippers at nipples, neck and crotch, along with a matching red half-mask decorated with marabou feathers.

  But by far the most exciting bedroom gear came from the last shop in the alley. Hidden down a dark, rickety flight of stairs that were practically unnoticeable without Reginald’s detailed directions, was the small, brown, unmarked door to the third and most exciting sex shop of the three—The Dungeon.

  The Dungeon had no sign advertising its presence, and its door was kept locked at all times. Its only customers came through word-of-mouth. Per the detailed instructions Reginald had given us, we had to knock three times on the door and wait for the owner to unlock it before entering. Back at the resort, Reginald had explained that absolute secrecy was necessary for the shop to stay in operation. Apparently, the St. Lucian authorities considered much of what was for sale inside The Dungeon illegal, since most of it could be construed as weapons.

  Once the owner—a stout, elderly Creole woman named Genevieve—let us inside, we found ourselves in a veritable dominatrix’s paradise.

  I was blown away by what we found inside. The Dungeon’s walls and ceilings were draped and hung with every possible kind of S&M harness, suspension apparatus, restraints, whips, and sensual weaponry known to humankind. There were things in there I’d only read about in books like The Story of O and Safe Word. There were even things I’d never known existed.

  After pouring over the store’s exotic stock, Rodney, Rebecca and I decided to keep things simple for Dexter’s little party. I selected a classic braided leather whip with a single wooden bead embedded in its tip, along with two sets of black leather binding cuffs and a matching blindfold.I also chose a pocket-sized hand whip with multiple metal-tipped leather strands. While a leather-aproned Creole clerk decorated with multiple face piercings rang up the purchases, Rodney disappeared into the store’s dank back room with the proprietor, Genevieve. “To place a special order,” he explained.

  After a few minutes, Rodney re-emerged from the back room carrying a mysterious invoice, which he tucked into his pocket before I had a chance to read it over his shoulder. We gathered up our purchases and headed back to the resort.

  When the three of us arrived back at Rodney’s private villa, there was a message from Jacob Raleigh taped to the front doorknob:

  Dear Co-Conspirators:

  The trap is set, and the bait has arrived. The Post editor and numerous other guests have been summoned. Ring the bell desk when you’re ready to begin festivities. I will accompany the bait to his party myself.

  Sincerely:

  J.R.

  “All right, ladies,” Rodney sang. “Time to get this show on the road.”

  Rebecca, Rodney and I all donned our disguises. Rodney then rehung the semitransparent window drapes across the middle of the room to create an improvised submission chamber. I would occupy center-stage in the curtained room, with the various spectators watching through the semitransparent fabric. The room would be kept dark enough so Dexter would think the curtains were opaque and we were alone—at least until the costumed and masked Rodney and Rebecca joined the fun. Rodney had also rigged a digital recording device underneath a small endtable he’d placed in the room for me to store my equipment in.

  Rodney placed a discreet call to the bell desk, and several guests started to file into the villa soon after. Rocky Robinson, the Washington Post chief editor, was among them, dressed inconspicuously in gauzy white island madras shorts, sunglasses, and flip-flops. In addition to Robinson, the party’s clandestine audience consisted of three senators—two men, one woman—Raphael DuMont (the current head of the National Democratic Party), and the current Secretary of Veterans’ Affairs. They all took their places in the set of chairs Rodney had placed in the darkened section of the room behind the curtain. I watched them all file in from my hiding place just inside the villa’s bath suite.

  Jacob Raleigh, the freshman Congressman from Rhode Island, led Dexter in last. I was surprised to see that Dexter had cleaned up his appearance quite dramatically since I’d last seen him driving his phony cab. He was clean-shaven, and had recently had a haircut. And instead of the wrinkled khakis and denim shirts I’d always seen him wear behind the wheel of his taxi, Dexter was wearing a custom-tailored English suit and highly-polished Italian wingtips that together probably cost as much as my last car.

  Jacob directed Dexter to take a seat on a lone footstool Rodney had set up in the domination chamber. The voyeurs were silent as mice, and Dexter made no indication that he’d noticed their presence. Jacob whispered something inaudible in Dexter’s ear, then disappeared behind the curtain. It was my cue to enter.

  I strode into the curtained chamber with confidence and authority. The sound of my platform heels on the travertine tile was deep and deafening. I took special care to make my disguised dominatrix voice match the tone of my footsteps. I dragged my braided whip behind me like a devil’s tail.

  “Greetings, Slave,” I boomed at Dexter, not even bothering to ask if he wished to be dominated that fine tropical evening. His mere presence in the domination chamber was enough consent for me. “I am Mistress Hyacinth Slaughter.?

  Dexter gazed straight into my masked eyes, obviously searching for recognition. I gave him no sign that I’d seen him many ti
mes before, and he in turn gave no sign that he recognized who I really was. “Greetings to you, Mistress Hyacinth,” he said, eyeing me from head to toe. “That’s quite a getup you have on.”

  I cracked my whip. “Silence, Slave!” I leaned forward into Dexter’s face, until my nose was mere centimeters from his. “You will never dare speak to me without express permission! Because if you disobey this or any other of my commands even once, our sex play will immediately cease and desist for the evening and you will be denied satisfaction. Do you understand? ”

  Dexter gave me a single nod. The growing tent at his crotch showed just how he felt about my rules.

  “Good, Slave,” I said, twirling the end of my whip around my index finger. “And just to show that I am a just and ethical Mistress, I will assign you a safe word. If at any time my domination becomes too much for you and your weak, boyish little body to take, you need only say ‘Banana,’ and our games will immediately come to an end. Do you agree, Slave?”

  Again, he gave me a single nod.

  “Excellent,” I said, my voice lowering an octave. “Then let us begin. First, Slave, you will disrobe completely.”

  Dexter stood up, then hesitated.

  “Do you have a problem with my order, Slave?” I boomed, cracking my whip mere inches from his wingtipped feet.

  He shook his head, never breaking my gaze.

  “Then carry it out, Slave! Or there will be penalties!”