by Liz Meldon
“Yes, sir.”
There was a moment, as I forced myself to meet and hold his stare, when all this felt very real. Everything. Our situation. Our dynamic. Our—relationship. I didn’t feel like I’d just been comforted by a client, but someone else. Someone closer. A friend? A boyfriend? No. I swallowed hard. No, I couldn’t think that. I couldn’t…
As if possessing a mind of its own, my hand crept up and brushed his hair back, smoothed the sandy brown locks, made darker by the water. Dean held perfectly still, watching me, his gaze never once leaving mine.
It hit me then—the intimacy of it all. Here, on a private island. Two people alone. Naked. Giving each other a piece of their soul. My submission. His dominance. Freely given, willingly taken.
He might have been paying me at the end of all this, but what I did with Dean, what we did to each other—I would have done it for nothing.
So much for professional boundaries.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I retracted my hand when I realized it was still up there, fiddling with his hair like it was mine to fiddle with.
“I—” My lips pressed together before uhm could slip out. “I’m going to go freshen up, then grab a drink. Do you want something? I can make you a smoothie.”
He was partial to peach—with a hint of vanilla and honey, a pinch of nutmeg and ginger. Dean might have cooked all my meals, but I knew my way around a blender. And by now, I knew what he liked. All too well, I knew.
“No, Belle, I’m fine,” he said softly. Not in his Dom voice. Not in a voice I recognized at all; in fact, I could have sworn he was frowning. Ignoring the spike of panic, the sudden tightness in my chest, I forced a smile so bright that it hurt my cheeks.
“Okay!”
Then I was off like a shot, dropping through the middle of the donut floatie and scrambling underwater for the staircase. Amidst the quiet of the faintly salty water, surrounded by glittering white and grey tile, tears stung my eyes again.
And for the life of me, I just couldn’t figure out why.
10
Dean
Wednesday, February 13th
…and while I realize you are on vacation—your assistant has made that perfectly clear the fifteen times I’ve called this week—I really do think you should take a look at what is happening at the resort. I’m afraid Richard isn’t exactly stepping into his old position as easily as everyone hoped, and I know you have a vested interest in the success…
Eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, I deleted the email without reading the rest. I knew what it would say. I could have written all these emails from managers and GMs as soon as my father told me we were all about to play musical chairs with our roles in the Donahue empire. Word for word—I could have written everything. Just because Richard had tricked the enablers at his latest costly rehab center into giving him a clean bill of health didn’t mean he’d changed.
My brother—the con artist, the manipulator, the sloth. The last time he had been clean was when he was twelve. It had all been downhill from there, and I still couldn’t understand why my parents didn’t see that. Adelaide understood my brother’s habits just as well as I did, and she was only twenty, for fuck’s sake.
Closing my eyes, I dragged in a deep, calming breath and relaxed into my high-backed leather office chair. When I refocused on the twin monitors in front of me atop my sleek black desk, the email was gone. I could forget, momentarily, that the resorts I’d lovingly cultivated for the last seven years were going to shit in a matter of weeks. I could block it out. Pretend it wasn’t happening. Pretend that the general managers I’d left in command could handle my brother once they learned how best to manage him.
A woman. A limitless credit card. A bottle of scotch. A kilo of cocaine. A locked door.
Simple, really.
Once they realized the only way to limit the chaos was to give in to its worst vices, things would run smoothly. I had to let go, even if instinct told me to take charge. Call someone. Shout at someone. Reorder things. Confront my father. Step up from the lowly middle-child rung and usurp my brother.
My instinct had steered me well before.
But those fuckers had forced me—
Never mind. I was on vacation. I had Ixora and Belle and an ongoing list of fantasies to explore.
Let the rest of them put out their own damn fires for once.
Sitting forward, I scrolled through the rest of my very full inbox. My executive assistant Eliza would answer the bulk of these, but I still liked the option to read each and every email I received. While the Donahue global empire was expansive, I had my own empire to run outside of the real estate and resort business.
I’d invested heavily in start-ups over the last few years, ranging from tech to med, nearly all of which had provided substantial returns. I owned several luxury apartment buildings in London, Venice, and Hong Kong that all needed managing, along with about two dozen restaurants in Manhattan and Los Angeles. Unlike the rest of my immediate family, I wanted as diverse a portfolio as possible. Sure, real estate had given us Donahues a cushy security net through the years. It was almost a guarantee now; Donahue + real estate ventures = a new trust fund for the next two or three generations, at least.
But I wanted to spread out—and thank fuck I had. If I’d stuck to the party line, thrown my whole self into my father’s ventures, I’d be shit out of luck by now.
And bored. Terribly, terribly bored.
Silent partner. In my own family’s business. What the fuck do you even do as a silent partner when your name is on the bloody building? Sit back and wait for the check to arrive every month? Infuse the business with cash when needed? I wasn’t a fucking bank. Even my investees looked to me for input, and I had my own personal teams—branding experts, graphic designers, patent lawyers—assisting along the way.
Still, I was just a man—a man with irons in nearly every fire. I prided myself on my ability to delegate accordingly. The restaurants ran themselves for the most part, but I still required weekly and monthly figures from management. My inbox was never empty. Everyone reported to me, albeit indirectly, through my CFO and his team. Even on vacation, I had allotted myself at least an hour of work time in my second-floor office each day.
Usually, in that time, Belle had taskwork to do. Something to keep her busy, but always within sight. Those outside the dynamic might find it demeaning, but submissives enjoyed keeping busy. They needed structure, purpose, and praise for a job well-done. Some subs preferred being babied, doted upon—littles, mostly—while many others felt a need to contribute to the household. A sense of purpose took them far, and nearly all looked to their Dom to dictate that.
It was a part of the relationship I had always relished. Pushing a submissive’s boundaries. Helping them set and accomplish goals. Seeing the look on their faces, in their eyes, when they conquered a challenge. The success of a submissive reflected the skill of their Dominant. Given the nature of the relationship, outsiders thought us Doms bossy, demanding, the kings of micromanaging. Little did they realize that in the grand scheme of things, our submissives called the shots. They set the limits. They produced the goals that we in turn would help them reach.
So, yes—taskwork for Belle may have consisted of things others thought demeaning. Dusting my office with a feather duster, which she could only hold in her mouth. Naked, of course. Polishing my shoes. Reorganizing all my bookshelves into alphabetical order one day, then by colour the next. Tidying my desk.
Or, sometimes, just sitting patiently at my side—waiting for the next instruction.
She needed orders. I needed to give them. Otherwise, we were both restless. I saw it on her days off; usually around lunchtime on Sundays she came wandering back to me, looking for something to do. Her time after dinner was also her own, but generally she still sought me out, offering to play cards or stargaze or watch a movie together in the cinema room.
Today, however, taskwork was out the window. I’d spent the night thinking about our
interaction in the pool yesterday, from her failing once again to ask permission to orgasm right down to her tearful apologies in the aftermath. While it frustrated me that she still wasn’t following such a crucial rule, I hated to see her cry. I never wanted to see her cry, honestly—unless the tears followed a spanking, or a vigorous round of fucking. Tears were the body’s natural response to overstimulation, to emotional anarchy in the brain.
To realize she had been crying in frustration, anger, perhaps even fear that she wasn’t pleasing a man paying her to submit—well, it had broken me a little. It made me feel like a failure, like I had let her down as her Dominant.
Then there had been that moment, after she’d settled. After I’d told her to stop apologizing. A flicker in time. Over so fast that it gave me whiplash. We had looked into each other’s eyes—and I’d seen the woman inside. Belle. Not just Belle, my escort, my paid submissive.
It stirred something inside me, something deep, raw, primal even. I’d never felt more myself, more a true Dom, than when she toyed with my hair, when I gazed into her eyes and saw—her. Belle Bennet. Compassionate. Worldly. Intelligent. Beautiful. Warm.
The submissive I’d been searching, waiting, hoping for all these years.
And then it was over, just like that, with her scampering back to the house.
I’d been left there to float by myself, thinking, pondering the strange turn of events, the break in our illusion, the realization. Chance had brought us together. Maybe even fate—not that I believed in that sort of thing.
Yet she’d said it herself: Belle needed the structure of the escort-client relationship. It was simple. Straightforward. Easy. I suspected she preferred to keep her heart safe, that the lack of real feelings had its appeal.
But I knew, right then and there, that this woman—my beautiful, intelligent, worldly, warm submissive—was where she was meant to be.
Here. With me.
Kneeling at my feet while I worshipped her submission.
Perhaps she had realized it, too.
Perhaps it scared her.
With that in mind, I let it go. I tucked the epiphanies away for another day. Belle needed order, first and foremost. She needed routine, defined expectations, a clear-cut role for us both to play. So, I would give it all to her because I could—until I could broach the subject without the risk of her running again.
I had spent the rest of the night crafting her punishment. No taskwork today. Punishment.
Obscured by the computer monitors that took up the bulk of my desk, Belle whimpered. Not for the first time this morning, either. We had been in the office for about a half hour, and her punishment would last until she had completed it.
Eight orgasms.
This morning’s punishment was my equivalent of the old—you wanna smoke, kid? Well, smoke a whole carton of cigarettes!
If Belle wanted to climax, then she was going to climax.
But she was going to do it on my terms.
Eight climaxes, right here in my office. No rest between—eight distinct, separate orgasms. One right after the other. She couldn’t do anything else today until she had seen the punishment through.
The look on her face when I first told her—it was like she’d won the lottery. Although she had tried to fight it, to remain calm and docile, Belle couldn’t stop that bright, infectious grin from spreading across her sweet mouth. I’d let her have it, that elated moment at the thought of all that pleasure.
She mustn’t have realized how torturous it would be, three or four climaxes in, forcing herself to keep going, to thrust her sensitive little clit against the vibrator over and over again until she wanted to scream.
This was a punishment, after all.
I leaned around my second monitor. Behind it sat a neat, sparsely furnished office. I hadn’t put as much time or care into its design as I had the rest of the house; this was supposed to be a vacation home. If the office was too comfortable, too welcoming, I might never leave it. Stunning floor-to-ceiling windows lined the wall behind me. Matching bookshelves sandwiched in the doorless entryway, the hall silent beyond. One of my landscapes—the Caribbean Sea mid-storm—hung on one wall, an enormous twelve-by-twelve-foot canvas. A two-seater white couch sat against the other.
And in the middle of it all, Belle.
It had taken us some time to get the pillow arrangement beneath her right. Even though this morning’s session was all punishment, I didn’t think it fair for her to have to kneel on the merciless tile for however long it took her to finish. So, we had collected all the cushy, plush pillows from the indoor seating areas and stacked them into a pyramid of sorts—at the peak, a rather large vibrator. Not the kind for internal use, of course, although some inexperienced asshole Dom might attempt to shove it in a hole at some point.
I’d been cursing myself since I dreamt up this punishment for not furnishing the house with a Sybian. In its absence, we’d had to improvise. Belle sat straddling the pillows, the vibrator between her thighs. The device rumbled along at its lowest setting, batteries freshly charged. It could go for hours. Belle couldn’t.
When she realized I was watching, her watery blues snapped up, begging, pleading me to relent. I said nothing, neither verbally nor with my expression. Flushed and quivering, she looked lovely this morning in her tightly cinched white corset. I’d laced it up myself, fastening it tighter than comfortable; this was a punishment.
The corset crushed her creamy breasts, forcing them up, the delicate skin trembling as she rocked back and forth across the vibrator. Her hands were out of the question; she knew how to pleasure herself. If she had full use of them, the punishment would be over too soon. So, they remained tied behind her back with pink satin, the usual bow.
I’d opted for the bit gag again, enjoying the way it cut across her mouth, her cheeks. Besides, she’d likely want something to sink her teeth into after, oh, orgasm number five? My ball gags weren’t quite as pliant.
Blonde waves drawn up in a bouncy ponytail, she shuddered, rocking her hips, the corset demanding near-perfect posture. She hadn’t started to dribble too much from her mouth yet, just a bit of saliva glistening on her chin, but that was coming. The slickness along her inner thighs turned my semi into a full erection. Last night, I had debated allowing her to wear panties. Although she wasn’t permitted to wear them ordinarily, I worried the vibrator might prove too uncomfortable without a barrier, even if it was just a slip of fabric.
In the end, I’d decided against it. This was a far prettier picture.
Although I hadn’t given any terms should she climb off, topple over, or in any way give herself some reprieve, the implication that she wouldn’t be able to sit for a week was there. I’d alluded to it—in the dark look I gave her as I arranged her on top of the pillows, in the steely bite of my words when I told her she couldn’t stop until she’d had her eight climaxes.
I couldn’t see her while I clicked through my inbox. It was on her to take the punishment.
Trust—crucial in all things.
Needing a break from the ceaseless barrage of emails, I switched off both screens and stood. My shorts tented noticeably, and I made no effort to hide it as I strolled around the desk, hands in my pockets. Belle tracked each step, peering up at me with tear-filled eyes. To her credit, none had fallen yet, and she held my gaze as she ground her hips into the pillow beneath her, the vibrator muffled.
“So,” I said, stopping directly in front of her, tent bulging in her face. “What sort of progress have we made?”
“’Ree,” she mumbled back, the gag hindering her speech just beautifully. I smiled, my chest tightening, and then crouched down.
“Three?” My thumb grazed her lower lip, then stroked her cheek. “Look at you, Belle. Nearly halfway there.”
She let out a strangled moan as I stood, then bowed her head without prompting when I reached for the gag’s clasp. I undid it with one hand, then curled the saliva-soaked thing into my fist. Belle straightened whe
n I unzipped my shorts, and her mouth opened, on cue, as soon as I dug my stiff cock out. Without a word, I thrust it between her parted lips, groaning as she took me in, my head falling back, my eyes drifting closed.
Her mouth was heaven.
Her pussy was paradise.
And Belle was my very own goddess—the kind I could keep on a leash.
She gagged only slightly, her technique much improved from the first time she’d dropped to her knees for me. While teaching her how to deep-throat hadn’t been on my to-do list these two months, it had been something that happened naturally over the course of our sessions. I found myself murmuring little hints—stick your tongue out, breathe through it, hold it a moment longer, a gag reflex can be conditioned to settle. From the way she engulfed me now, the head of my cock briefly nudging the back of her throat, she had been paying attention.
Her nostrils flared slightly as she dragged in a deep breath, her gaze soaring to mine. That was one of the house rules: if my cock was in her mouth, she had to be looking at me. Watching me. Waiting for the next instruction. Beyond that, there was just something so fucking stunning about a submissive gazing up as she took me, almost down to the hilt, her pretty pink lips circled in a perfect O.
As I wrapped her ponytail around my free hand, a slight lift of my brow encouraging her to move, I noticed something amiss: the vibrator. I could hear it, suddenly. Frowning, I glanced down and found her hips off it completely. Belle sat up on her knees, still watching me, her head bobbing up and down my cock—as if that might distract me.
Bratty.
My Belle was bratty when she wanted to be. I believed that now, no longer sidetracked by her brilliant smile and demurely fluttering lashes, her proclivity for pink and lace.
Brat.
I forced her down my cock, waiting until she stopped gagging, and then narrowed my eyes at her. “What do you think you’re doing?”
There it was—the fluttering of those dark blonde lashes.
