Own Me Wholly!

by Reese Gabriel

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  Renaissance E Books

  www.renebooks.com

  Copyright ©

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  "OWN ME WHOLLY!"

  BY

  REESE GABRIEL

  A Renaissance E Books publication

  ISBN 1-58873-876-0

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2006 Reese Gabriell

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

  For information contact:

  Renaissance E Books

  Email comments@renebooks.com

  A Sizzler/B&D Edition

  PROLOGUE

  Caroline has a secret. Her submissive heart is owned by a married man. Thomas’ wife and teenage daughters see her only as a devoted employee, but when all eyes are turned away she kneels for him and she obeys. When her beloved Daddy and Master Thomas has a massive heart attack that puts him a coma, however, Caroline goes into a tail spin. She screams with need and grief she dare not show.

  Enter Brian, Thomas’ son from a previous marriage. He tells Caroline at the hospital one night that he knows the truth. She warns him off, but something draws her, like a moth to a flame. The son is everything the father is not—rugged, domineering, almost brutal. Caroline cannot resist. Helpless, guilt-stricken she is taken over and the more demanding that Brian becomes, the more she desires.

  Her heart hangs in the balance. What are Brian's intentions? Is he only after revenge on the father who abandoned him, will he use up Caroline and throw her away like a broken toy or does he truly love her as no other? Is the one she's sought ... a Master for life who won't have to share her with another? To find out they must survive the explosions between them and face a final hurdle ... the final vestige of Caroline's pride which Brian intends to break and set her free.

  NOT THE OTHER WOMAN

  Dedicated To My Gracie and Her George:

  "I close my eyes, and let my mind drift to that place that you occupy, proud and sexual, lust possessed, your arms so very ready to wrap me up in your energy. Like the proverbial moth I am drawn. Gently you take my face in your hands, your lips pressing on mine, your desirous tongue met by my own ... yes my Daddy, yes, my Master, Mentor and Friend. Envelope me, protect and hold me. So sacred. Who could possibly understand? The roles, the dance of lust, tongues and hands probing, searching to stave off the inevitable reality that will take us in different directions. For now, this time is ours alone, where we are free to explore the limits and push the boundaries of this exquisite union. Intertwined bodies, the scent of desire filling our nostrils. My reality reduced to a single entreaty, desperate beyond measure. ‘Daddy, own me ... wholly.’ ‘Yes baby girl,’ you reply filling my hungry soul. ‘I will own you now ... and forever.’”

  CHAPTER I

  They can't see me cry...

  For my sleeping Prince Charming, Master, lover, mentor, friend, George Burns to my Gracie, Daddy to my baby girl. It can't be real—how could that lion's heart be giving way? A ruptured aorta, standing at the kitchen counter, mixing juice one minute, collapsed to the tile the next, his life hanging in the balance, a list of complications so bad, and yet I'd give anything to get that far along, to be talking about tomorrow, about a wheel chair and therapy and cognitive re-orientation.

  Those hands ... all male, powerful enough to be gentle. Let me show you how that looks, he told me once. Hands with fifty five years of experience, pain and love, hands that have awakened, healed and aroused me, enthralled me ... set me free.

  He's not mine. I have to tell myself that ... he has a wife. I'm an employee, a friend if I don't stretch it too far.

  This man is not mine ... but I'm his.

  Has it been just a day since the heart attack?

  Just a year since he came into my life?

  I have to have a cigarette. I've been avoiding them—because I know I will break down, but the stress load is too much. Monica is here and I have so many mixed emotions about this. Thomas adores her, he's given everything and she probably can't help it but she's been a terrible burden to him, a cause very possibly of his heart exploding. She's a needy, busy little blonde, the trophy wife he calls her.

  She has only one of the three things he must have in a woman. Big tits. The other two, a hairy pussy and a penchant for tobacco are my department.

  It's a second marriage for both of them. Monica's first husband died of cancer, when her two girls were little, so I feel extra bad for her. She's not really reacting to things because of the shock but there's a role for her here at least, when she comes around.

  Me, I'm just all consumed about the cigarette. Thomas went ga ga for them. It got to be a joke at the tidy little office we kept for two, me his ever-faithful assistant and go-to girl. Bend over girl more like; because all I had to do was light up in front of him and I was going to end up bent over something. If I happened to be distracting him—like that was my fault—I'd get a few healthy swats. Otherwise, I would get his hard, wet cock, fed between my sex lips.

  Yes, I said wet cock. Thomas had this thing he did, where he would ooze pre come, more than any man I have ever known. The first time I thought he had already ejaculated.

  I can't describe that feeling, a hot, turgid shaft in my hand, almost purple with pulsing blood ... and covered in tantalizing, man-lubrication.

  It meant one thing to me. That my Daddy owned me completely and naturally, being able all on his own to make the liquid he needed to maneuver himself inside my tight asshole.

  Oh ... jeezus, I need the cigarette. And a hard fucking. I need Daddy to look me in the eye, center me, make me squirm like the sweet little baby girl slut he loved to see me as.

  "I'll get Kasey or Erin,” I say to Monica, sniffling into a handkerchief, golden hair disheveled over her padded shoulders.

  I must have said it like an apology because she looks at me with bloodshot eyes. “It's all right, Caroline, stay, I know he was close to you."

  "You can only have two visitors in ICU,” I say quickly. “One of the girls should be here."

  "Thank you,” she releases me with a smile.

  I find Kasey first. Sixteen years old, auburn eyes and chestnut hair. She is Thomas all over; you'd swear there was a biological link. She has some of the same expressions, the twinkle in the eye. She is passionately devoted about everything, she's a gung ho first child, clear proof what having a good and devoted daddy in your corner can mean for a little girl. She was eight years old when Monica and Thomas married. He made it clear to her up front, and to five-year-old Erin, too, that he would not try and replace their father; that he only ever wanted to help them treasure his memory.

  To that end he helped them each make up a scrapbook of favorite photos and mementos of Craig, their biological father. Those are some lucky girls, let me tell you, to have a man step in like that.

  I would have given my real one up to have that kind of step dad, trust me.

  "What's the deal?” Kasey tucks her straight hair behind her ears. She is frustrated as hell that she can't grow larger breasts and she is having a real problem with one of her girl friends who is bisexual and is starting to have feelings for her.

  I know this through Thomas. I know all kinds of things through Thomas I'm not supposed to. If only this were France where the mistress could stand proudly beside the widow at the funerals of presidents and digni
taries.

  Fuck. I said funeral. Will someone shut me up, please?

  Say goodnight, Gracie.

  Goodnight Gracie.

  I don't know how that started, except he thought I was just like Gracie Allen, the cute as a button little straight woman who ran poor George Burns ragged.

  "Your mom needs a little TLC,” I tell her.

  Kasey nods. She's all about helping. That's like Thomas, too. “I'm on it."

  Erin is different. Erin is a little version of Monica. Since Thomas started living half time down here a year and a half ago to start Montage Property Development, he has gotten a dozen calls a day, half from Monica and half from Erin. Monica's crises concern their business ventures in Atlanta, everything from paint schemes for their corporate office to maintaining the perpetually disorganized books.

  Erin calls about nail polish, boyfriends, the latest pop groups and who is in or out of her all important inner retinue. I get such a kick out of hearing this man, so much on his plate down here, deal with equal and total respect for both of them. Sometimes he'll have me hop on the Net to check and see who the Blog Boys are or why Hillary Duff is soooo five minutes ago compared to her little sister.

  To fit the part, Erin has the lighter hair and it's curlier, too. Kasey favors her father, who looked a little like Thomas. Presumably Monica has a type of man; though Thomas sometimes jokes the main thing that attracted her to him was the fact that he was dating her sister Julie before he went out with her.

  Erin's down in the waiting room, text messaging. I remind her about not using a cell phone in the hospital.

  "I'm not calling anyone."

  "You're using the phone, though."

  She sighs, rolls her eyes to the fluorescent ceiling in high drama.

  I think Erin is a smidgen spoiled. Thomas won't admit this, and I could be biased. But I need nicotine, so I'm not responsible for my opinions.

  "Where's K?"

  "She went in with your dad."

  "Brian was here."

  Freeze frame. “What did you say?"

  "Brian,” Erin repeats, her head bobbing slightly to the music piping into her brain from the Ipod. “He was here."

  "Where did he go?"

  "I don't know,” she makes a halfhearted effort to relate to the outside world. “For coffee, maybe?"

  "He said that—he was going for coffee?"

  "I guess."

  My imagination is racing. “Did he say anything else?"

  "I don't know. He has a beard like dad. Weird."

  I blink. “That's all you have to say. You just meet your half brother for the first time and that's it?"

  I'm being hard on her. I don't want to see Brian, but I know I have to. I've never met him; it's not that. It's just ... well I'm not sure what it is.

  "Take a pill, Caroline."

  She means a chill pill, but I'm thinking of the other kind. Thomas has a thing about that, he likes to make sure I take mine and when he can, he watches me.

  "That's it sweetie, that's my baby girl,” he will kiss and hold me, knowing as he strokes my hair how important this is to me, how I have vowed that I will never have children for very good reasons. It's not like I wasn't taking them already or like I would stop without him—that's not the kind of power that turns Thomas on. It has to do with the affirmation, with seeing how his praise turns me on ... how much I want to be a good girl for the right reasons, for once in my life.

  "If there's a regret,” he told me once, while we were having our daily tea and philosophy session across the street from the office at Starbrew's. “It's that I had to wait so long to find you; that I didn't get to tell you all along how special and beautiful you are."

  Comments like that put me in la la land, so much so that after I go to the bathroom and come back I forget how my panties are hanging at the moment over his leather desk chair, a little trophy from our lunch time lust session.

  "You're going to give them quite a view,” he points out of the two men at a nearby table who are in full range to see up my skirt.

  "Omigod.” I quickly go to close my legs, red with shame, but he stops me, a hand between my thighs. “No. Stay as you are. I want them to see what they can't have."

  His voice has deepened, silk over steel, the seductive tone of the Master, pushing his submissive girl to new limits. My eyes convey my panic, my passion, and my need.

  He knows what a stretch this is, how I am terrified of the least little embarrassment, how I can't bear to stand out in public, a legacy, probably of growing up in a family with so many dark little secrets.

  I am so wet. I am dripping for him. “Yes, Daddy."

  My breath comes in short stabs, the tea we are drinking forgotten. Outside a gathering storm, electricity in the air, the sounds of the patrons, smell of exotic coffees, snooty Winter Park aromas. And us, in our own little world.

  Boom. A clap of thunder. The plink of rain on the windows.

  "Bingo.” Master rises to his feet, takes my hand. We are going.

  We run up the street to the hotel we sometimes play hooky at for the afternoon. “Why did we leave so fast?” I ask as he takes out two cigarettes for us to smoke under the awning before we go in.

  "I saw what I wanted."

  I feel the secret chill, ex post facto of men looking at Master's pussy. Daddy’ hairy pussied, smoke-like-a-chimney girl. “But I didn't get to see,” I pout.

  "I can make the faces if you want,” he offers magnanimously.

  I slap his chest. His blue cotton dress shirt is plastered to his skin. I crave those lean muscles; that body so carefully and proudly preserved. I should only hope to look so good in nineteen years.

  "You're mean."

  "Wait until you see what I do to you upstairs."

  I laugh, tingling, anticipating, totally jazzed, knowing whatever new surprise he'd come up with—and there was always something—it would only lead me to new heights of delicious letting go ... a plunging into wild ecstasy.

  "Caroline, you in there?” she waves a hand in front of my face, bringing me out of my reverie and back to the hospital reality.

  "I'm sorry, Er, I'm being spacey. And bitchy."

  She shows mercy beyond her years. “It ain't no thang,” she uses age appropriate ghetto talk. “You're just upset about dad."

  "I am, kiddo, yea."

  She gives me a hug. I try to hold it together. “I need to go out ... for a smoke."

  "I'll come, too."

  "No way. Your mom's still upset at your dad and me for the time we took you for super sundaes and you threw up at Fun Park USA. All I need to do is get you smoking."

  "Like mom doesn't know already."

  "Dad doesn't."

  She rolls her eyes, pushes me to the door. “Go."

  I make like a zombie down the hall, white washed corridor, uniformed people, in green and blue scrubs, doctors with stethoscopes, an EMT and two Orange County Sheriff's deputies.

  Thomas would be much more at home in this than me. He's the one with ten years in the Air Force and all the political connections. Him and his spit polished shoes and creases in the pants.

  Oh, he can fucking give orders, though.

  And I take them. Never did that for another man, trust me.

  He's said on more than one occasion that if we were in the “scene” doing the “lifestyle thing” he would put his collar on me.

  It's something I try and argue but he will just smile at me.

  "That isn't the kind of thing you debate, Caroline."

  He means that he would just put a collar on me and then it would be there and from then on I could choose to obey or I could fight but I would do it all as his slave girl.

  How does that fit with the whole safe, sane and consensual deal? How do I explain he never makes me do anything I don't want and that I can bet my life he never will?

  How the fuck should I know, he's in a coma and I can't ask him.

  I exile myself out the sliding glass doors. It's pitch b
lack out, there are stars in the sky and cars in front of the hospitals. People, too, a security guard in white with a puffy belly and black pants, a couple of old Spanish speaking ladies and a woman in a floral print dress and denim jacket with a five o'clock shadow who isn't a woman at all.

  "Smoke?” she asks with a deep voice.

  I pull out one of mine, no judgment, because that's how Thomas is. Never treats anyone different, if they're homeless or a corporate CEO. And he knows plenty of both in his line of work.

  Real estate development. On the grand scale. Housing complexes, entire communities in one fell swoop, deals to the tune of hundreds of millions of dollars.

  To his mind it's all pushing dirt.

  Seriously, if you ask, that's what he'll say. I'm in dirt. That's what he told me, the night we met at my first Alcoholic's meeting in the dingy basement of a United Methodist Church downtown.

  "Hi, I'm Thomas. I'm in dirt."

  "I'm Caroline,” I let him take my shaking hand. “And I'm in deep shit."

  I suck smoke with my new companion, lost somewhere in time.

  "Got anybody in there?"

  "A buddy,” I say. “You?"

  "Yea. Me, too. A buddy."

  "Cold tonight."

  "Yea.” I huddle in my jacket, dungaree like his. I have jeans on, too, and a sweatshirt. The height of fashion, me.

  "Caroline?"

  I see Thomas, holding two coffees.

  Scratch that, a younger Thomas, a little taller, maybe a little smaller nose, but the lips and the chin, they're the same.

  And the hands, holding the Styrofoam.

  "Brian?"

  "Caroline."

  "Brian."

  He nods. “Now that we have the name thing down, want a drink?"

  For a split second I flash back. Wanna drink. Those two words were my trip wire, my magic seduction; I could hear them or say them equally well. Drink with me, you were my best friend, sleep with me, stab me in the back, regardless. Turn me down; go all dry and Carry Nation on me and you were off the list forever.

  I'm different now—or at least I was for Thomas and with Thomas. For about the millionth time I wonder, what the fuck am I without him and wouldn't this cigarette go nice with a white wine?