“Ryan.” I turned to him. “While I am letting you off the hook, I do think you need some more discipline.”
He blushed again, ran a hand through his mop of auburn curls, then whispered, “Yes, Madame, I think I do. Would you like to give it to me?”
I gave him a toothy grin. “Yes, I think I’m going to spank you.” Pressing a button on the steering wheel, I slid the front seat further back. “Right here. Right now. Take your pants off and give me that ass.”
His firm, white ass was bare in seconds. Two egg shaped cheeks jiggled as he placed himself across my lap. The muscles in his back shivered with anticipation.
I skimmed my nails over the top of his buttocks and he trembled. “You’ve been a very naughty boy, Ryan. Are you ready to be punished?”
“Yes, Madame, please.”
My fingers slithered in between his ass cheeks, tickling his crack, then moving farther to tease his perineum. I scraped the tips over his soft sac and he tensed in my lap. Air hissed out between his teeth.
I drew my hand up his back, felt the knobs of his spine, traced the contours of his smooth skin. Then I pulled my palm away and positioned it above his ass. He sucked in a breath and held it, and I brought my hand down hard. The sharp crack and sting made him jump and squeal. His cock, now pressed against my skirt, twitched and grew harder.
“Ohhh, Madame,” he moaned, and I gave him another sharp rap that made him squeak.
“Tsk tsk. No talking until I say you can. Spread your legs wider.”
He did as I requested and I reached between them to fondle his fuzzy sac, to stroke the underside of his stiffening cock. He squirmed and wriggled atop me, and my pussy was now wet and throbbing from watching his display.
“Would you like to cum, Ryan?”
He writhed. “Oh, yes, please…Madame.”
“Not yet.” I scraped my nails up and down his balls until he clenched his teeth to stave off a moan. “Maybe later, if you’re a good boy. But I’m not done spanking you yet.”
I drew back and brought my hand down harder still. He jerked in my lap and his back arched with the sharpness of the blow. Then I swirled circles over each rosy red cheek with the tips of my nails. His breath came out in short pants. He gyrating in my lap, rubbing his penis against the fabric of my skirt.
I dug my fingernails into his ass and commanded, “Stay still, Submissive.”
But he was worked up, willful, and didn’t listen. I touched his sac again, but this time I dug my nails in just enough to let him know I meant business. He stilled, and I wrapped my hand around the base of his cock. Then I began to stroke him.
“Uhhhhhh,” he moaned, and I squeezed his cock so hard he cried out in pleasure / pain.
“You’re determined to be naughty tonight, aren’t you?” I squeezed harder still.
He dry humped my hand and lap once more. “Yes, Madame. I can’t … help myself.”
Moments later, a warm wetness spilled over my skirt and seeped through the fabric. Great, I thought, I’ll never get that out.
“You’re not supposed to cum until I tell you to,” I snarled, but I wasn’t really as angry as I sounded. I just wanted to make him jump a little.
“I know.” He gave a sheepish smile as he rolled over in my lap, displaying his flaccid, sticky cock. “I’m sorry, Madame. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
I arched an eyebrow, smiled, and ran a finger up and down his slippery shaft. “What makes you think there’ll be a next time?”
He looked up at me through those golden red eyelashes, bit his bottom lip. “Well, I was hoping.”
I tapped his chin. Then I grabbed my purse from the floor, fished out a business card, and handed it to him. “We’ll see what can be arranged.”
***
Surrender Ever After
By Anita Lawless & Roxxy Meyer
Surrender Series Volume 2
BDSM romance with a British dom and a burly carpenter.
Includes:
Surrender To His Proposal
Surrender To His Wants
Surrender To His Lust
Surrender To His Love
Bonus Story: Surrender Ever After
Surrender To His Proposal
The roof is beyond leaking. If I don’t get someone in soon, the entire attic might become a swimming pool.
“I can fix it for you,” Jake says, and he notices my discomfort at his words, because he quickly adds, “Or I know someone who can do it cheap.”
Pride. I shake my head at myself, knowing pride is going to kill me one day. And a woman can’t be full of pride when she has two boys to raise and bills she can’t pay piling up.
“Carrie.” Jake leans across the arborite table I picked up at a flea market and squeezes my hand. “Let me help you.”
I smile at his boyish face, those cute dimples in his cheeks. “You’ve already helped me by renting part of this place, and doing the fixing up you’ve already done.”
Jake Black rents the apartment above the garage attached to my old two story Cape Cod home. I inherited the place from my mom when she passed on, and it was a lifesaver, since my husband of fifteen years picked that time—right after my mother’s funeral—to leave me with two boys to raise. Preston and Michael are eight and twelve.
Jake is undeniably handsome. He’s got a mix of boyish good looks and rugged male, with his bright green eyes and rounded face, work roughened hands from days spent as a carpenter, and a five o’ clock shadow that’s just as red as the hair on his head. But we aren’t together. I’m just not ready for that yet. It’s only been six months since I lost mom and went through the divorce.
That being said, there have been hot kisses and much more, but we haven’t had sex yet. I don’t want to lead Jake on, or confuse my own currently messed up head and heart. Still, when he moved in here to help me and the kids out, it was a blessing I was entirely grateful for.
“There’s a lot more I could do for you,” he says, standing to walk behind my chair and feather a few kisses up my neck.
I try to make a quip about this. “Two redheads shouldn’t sleep together. The results could be catastrophic.” His tiny kisses make me shiver.
Just at that moment, my boys decide to run into the kitchen. Preston, my youngest, holds a paper in his hand and his eyes are wide. “Mom, can I please sign up for hockey this year?”
I don’t know what to say to that sweet, freckled face. His brown, puppy-like eyes beseech, but we simply can’t afford it. Not ready to break his heart, I say, “We’ll see, hon.”
He prunes his face and makes a minor protest, but Jake distracts them both with the proposition of some two on one road hockey, out in the dirt alley that runs between our place and Mrs. Granger’s. I’m thankful for the time this gives me to think.
And that’s when I see it. An ad in the employment opportunities section catches my attention. I already work on an assembly line building slot machines for a living, but that wage barely covers the bills. It sure won’t fix the roof and the other repairs this old home needs, and it won’t cover hockey fees for Preston either.
But the job notice I stare at, the amount indicated, certainly would. So long as the hours don’t conflict with my other work, I could take this, should I get it, and finally get this house spruced up, give my kids some money for recreational activities that they’ve been dying to join.
The notice says: Woman between 20 - 35 needed to test innovative new designer products. Must have an open mind and a healthy attitude toward sex. Apply in person with resume at Suite 001-353 Bloominfield Blvd.
And the monthly income it cites makes my eyes widen. I can do this, I think. I’ve got an open mind and a healthy attitude toward sex. For the income offered, I’ll dance naked on tabletops at this point.
But when I show the ad to Jake after I join him and the boys outside, he gently takes my arm, gives me a concerned expression, and ushers me to the side of the house.
“Are you crazy, Carrie?” He loo
ks angry as well as concerned. “This could be a setup. You could get raped or killed.”
I shake my head at his protest, cross my arms over the front of my spring cardigan. “I’ll be fine.” When he frowns deeper, I put an arm around his shoulder and give him a reassuring squeeze. Close to his ear, I whisper, “I’ll take protection with me, and I’ll text you as soon as I get to the place and once I meet the interviewer to let you know I’m safe. How’s that?” I’m registered to carry a handgun, and I’m a very good shot, too. Years of target practice with my dad, now also passed on, gave me an eagle eye and aim.
“You should let me come with you,” Jake says, still wearing that deep frown that barely crinkles his smooth, pale face.
“Someone has to take care of the kids,” I protest, feeling a bit guilty for asking his to be a last minute babysitter yet again. “I’ll pay you.”
He shakes his head at me, then a smile spreads, bringing out his adorable dimples. “You don’t have to pay me for watching the kids. Don’t even think about it.” Then he wraps his arm tighter around my shoulder, swipes a quick kiss over my lips before saying, “Please be careful.”
I swat at him playfully. “Don’t mother me, for cripes sake. I’ll be fine.” Then I quickly give him another kiss before adding, “Thanks for watching the kids again.”
***
A few days later, I’m up way before the kids and Jake, showered, and dressed before they even stomp down the stairs for breakfast. Jake protests, saying I should’ve let him help me with the bacon and eggs. I wave him off to ask if I look presentable for my upcoming interview.
His green eyes shine. “You look beautiful.”
The kids make silly noises at this, and Michael asks when me and Jake are getting married, with a cheeky grin spread across his face. I tell him to eat his bacon and mind his business. He just laughs. He gets his precocious streak from me, I admit. His brother just grins a lopsided grin and chows down on his eggs.
Now sitting in my beat up old Pontiac Sunfire, I take a last minute to inspect myself before I drive off. I’m wearing my best dress—one of my only dresses, now I’m on a tight budget. A spring knee-length number in pink with tiny white polka dots spotting the thin material. I’ve put on my Aunt Peg’s pearls for good luck and pinned up my fiery red hair in a neat, simple chignon. Applied a bit of makeup to my cheeks, a wisp of shadow to enhance my blue eyes, and a tint of pink lip gloss to my lips. I frown at my reflection, worried that I look more like June Cleaver than someone with an open mind and a healthy attitude toward sex.
“Oh well.” I tell my worrisome self. “It’ll have to do.”
***
The building at 353 Bloominfield Blvd used to be an old brownstone, but it’s been recently converted into office space. I approach a man with a pleasant smile and a bulldog face to ask him where exactly Suite 001 is. But first I send Jake a text to let him know all looks good so far.
His face blanches and he raises an eyebrow. “Why does a respectable looking lady like you want Suite 001?”
I play with my pearls and almost consider telling him I’ve made a mistake. I contemplate this and leaving, but the dollar amount in the ad flashes in my mind again. “I’m here about the job advertised.” I point to the classified I’ve circled with yellow highlighter.
His bushy eyebrows climb higher. He clears his throat and straightens his navy blue uniform coat. “Lady, that job is not for you.”
Now I’m getting just a little miffed. No one tells Carrie Brannigan what to do. And when someone tells me no, I just get all the more determined. “I think I’ll be the judge of that, thank you. Now, if you don’t mind?”
With a disapproving scowl, he directs me to an elevator with ugly orange doors. Someone really needs to paint that, I think.
“Basement,” the security guard says, and as the doors close he adds, “Good luck. You’re gonna need it.”
“Not exactly a confidence booster,” I mumble to myself before I hit the button indicating lower levels.
When the elevator slides open, I find myself in a drab, narrow grey hallway lined with white doors with gold numbers and keycard slots on each one. I locate Suite 001 and ring a doorbell situated near the keycard slot. A brief moment passes before someone swings it open.
The man standing before me has an aura of danger and mystery that instantly puts me on guard. “Hello,” he says, letting his thick, pouty lips curl in a sensuous smile full of lecherous intent. I detect a slight British accent. Then he steps back from the threshold, still not inviting me in as he gives me a bold up and down perusal while stroking his trimmed goatee. “Yes… as long as you’re not as good a girl as you look, I think you’ll do quite nicely. Come in.”
He takes my hand and I feel an instant spark. I study his face briefly as he leads me into the room. His eyes are ice blue, like slivers cut from a glacier, and set wide apart, which gives him a deceptively innocent look. His nose is wide at the nostrils, tapered as it moves toward the bridge, and his cheekbones are not too defined but still prominent. He reminds me of a man found in paintings of old world nobility. He’s slender and not much taller than my 5 ft. 6. With my curves and heavy breasts, I feel fat next to his proud figure with spiked hair that isn’t quite sure if it’s meant to be brown or golden blond.
The retort I had ready dies in the back of my throat when I glance around the room I’ve entered. Stainless steel tables are strategically placed close to stark, black leather couches and chairs. And on these stainless steel tables are dildos and assorted sex toys like I’ve never seen. At least, I think they’re sex toys. In my marriage to Colby, the boys’ father, we experimented—I even proposed an open relationship when I found he’d cheated on me for a third time—but our tastes had been fairly vanilla compared to the assortment I gaze at now, mouth hanging wide open.
He gestures for me to sit in a chair opposite a plain, wooden desk. “As you can guess, I’m not big on subtly,” he jokes, indicating the toys on display. “But I believe in giving full disclosure to all applicants as soon as they walk in.”
With a slightly shaking hand, I give him my resume. “Exactly what position am I applying for?”
Giving a vulpine grin, he ignores my question at first and extends a hand. When I take it, he brushes those soft lips just below my knuckles before he introduces himself. “Luke Wesley, but my good friends call me Dom Luke.” He used my hand to tug me closer to the desk. “And you’re applying, my dear, to test out designer sex toys.”
At this point, I’m sure I’ve given him my deer in the headlights stare.
His smug expression lingers as he scans my resume. “Tell me, Ms. Carrie Brannigan.” He tents his fingers in front of his face and stares at me with acute scrutiny. “How do you feel about that?”
“You design sex toys?” I blink at the instruments of pleasure surrounding me before I quip, “That last question makes you sound more like a psychiatrist.”
He laughs—a deep, throaty laugh that sounds like velvet to me. Yet still it holds that lingering danger I saw in his eyes when he opened the door. “I simply want to ensure you’re 100% comfortable with the job before we begin.”
My heart pounds like the feet of a scared rabbit fleeing a predator. But I bluff calm composure. “When would you need me to begin?”
His white teeth show wide between those pouty, sexy lips. “Well … immediately, if possible.”
The ad had also insisted that any applicants must prove their sexual health when applying. Which meant I had to go for an array of STD tests before I could vie for the position. The paperwork indicating I’m clean and disease free is attached to my resume. So, other than my reservations, there is nothing stopping me from saying yes.
Except for the knot of fear twisting in my guts.
I stall for more time and information. “Exactly who do you design these toys for?”
His slim, spidery fingers push a brochure across the desk towards me. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of Surrender
Inc.?”
“No, can’t say I have.” I frown as I remember I still have to text Jake again to let him know all is fine. But I’m not entirely sure it is just yet, so I wait on that while I scan the information he’s just given to me.
Surrender Inc., I learn, is an exclusive, elite sex club and resort franchise. They cater to some of the richest people in the country, in the world, according to the pamphlet, and their clubs are open to people from all walks of life, assuming you can pay the entry fee, which is more modest than the resorts price tags.
Feeling intrigued, I ask, “How do you pull this off? Last time I heard, the sex trade was still illegal.”
He gives that wolf smile again. Stretches like a panther before he leans over the desk, drawing closer to me. “And do you agree with that, Ms. Brannigan? Outlawing the sale of pleasure?”
I shrug. “No, to be honest, I don’t. Everyone’s got to make a living somehow. I think if they legalized it there would be more protection for the workers. It would make the industry safer.”
His obvious approval shows. “I like the way you think.” He shakes a finger at me to add emphasis to his words.
He stands then, walks around the front of the desk in his simple white striped shirt that is untucked from tight leather pants. Staring at the way the leather molds to his lean, corded legs, I wonder how I missed those when I entered.
“And to answer your question as to how we get away with it.” He bends his head, narrows his eyes at me, and I feel like a dove trapped by a fox. “The people who run Surrender Inc. are some of the richest individuals in the world, darling. When they want something, they get it. But, be assured, play is kept safe and clean. We value the well being, along with the pleasure, of our customers.”
I nod, and just then my cell phone vibrates in the pocket of my white cardigan. My gut flipflops as I remember I was supposed to text Jake again to let him know I am all right.
Surrender Boxed Set (Surrender Series Volume 1 - 7. BDSM romance with man love, bad boys, and billionaires.) Page 11
