For Love & Torture_A Submissives’ Secrets Novel

by Michelle Love

  “Just because something as small as him bringing you ice cream on one of your birthdays is about all you have to remember, it’s the way you felt that matters.” I kiss her forehead and lay her back. “You rest for a while. I’m going to tell the driver he can leave. We won’t be needing him anytime soon.”

  She reaches out for my hand before I walk away. “Grant, thank you for understanding. I know you wanted this trip.”

  “I want to be here for you the way you’ve always been there for me. Tahiti isn’t going anywhere. I love you. That’s what love is about, right?”

  She nods, and I leave her to go let everyone know our plans have changed, indefinitely.

  I don’t know when she’ll feel up to going on a happy trip.

  As I go out into the hallway, I catch Tad and Jenny talking outside her room. Stopping, I wait to see what the hell is about to happen.

  Tad’s hand moves up her arm, resting on her shoulder. Jenny is all smiles as they talk so quietly I can’t hear a thing. Then she opens her door and in they go.

  “Oh, hell no,” I growl and take off toward her door.

  Dad steps into the hallway too, leaving his room. “What the heck is wrong with you?”

  “My friend is overstepping his bounds, is what’s wrong with me.”

  Dad’s hand lands solidly on my shoulder. “Leave your sister be, son.”

  I stop and look at him. “Dad, I don’t want to explain it all to you right now, but Tad’s a nice guy who’s into some stuff I don’t want my sister into.”

  “Oh, that BDSM stuff,” Dad shakes his head. “Yeah, I know all about that.”

  My jaw drops as I stare at my father. “Huh?”

  “I know all about that, Grant.” He pulls me into his room and closes the door behind us. “Look, your sister is a grown woman. She’s more than capable of making her own decisions. And I don’t think Tad is the kind of man who forces anyone to do anything they don’t want to do. Am I right?”

  “Um, well, technically yes.” I fall into a chair and shake my head. “Dad, how long have you known about this?”

  “Your club? Or BDSM in general?” he asks as he takes a seat.

  God, he know about my club?

  “You know about that?” I ask as I look down, ashamed and embarrassed.

  “Hey, don’t look like that. It’s okay. Nothing to be embarrassed about.” He chuckles. “You’re not the first man to want to do something like that. And frankly, I’m kind of proud of what you did. But I’m also proud that you put that behind you to make yourself a family.”

  “Well, other forces kind of caused that. The thing burned down after a man put explosives in it. Luckily only that man was killed in the fire. So, how did you find out about the club anyway? I thought no one in the family knew about it.” I lean back in the chair and see my father in a whole new light.

  “Your brother and sisters don’t know. Hamilton, the guard who was my friend back in prison, told me about it. I had him check up on you. You know, make sure you all were okay. He was a good friend.” He sits back, crossing his legs and rubbing his chin. “A good man.”

  With a nod, I see things a lot more clearly now. Dad was watching over us too, without us knowing it. “I’d say he was a pretty good friend to you.”

  “He was. And I bet Tad, and you are pretty good friends too. And I bet he’d never do a thing to end that friendship. Doing something to your sister against her will would be a thing that would ruin that friendship, wouldn’t it?” He looks at me, watching me, getting into my head.

  “You’re right.” I sigh. “With your help, Dad, I just might learn how to be a pretty good dad.”

  A wink and a smile tell me he thinks so too.

  Getting, up, I head out of my father’s room and go let Paul know our plans have changed. After sending him on his way, I head back to check on Bell and find her talking to someone on her cell. “You’re what? I am? Oh, my God. Of course, I will. I’m so sorry, Rachel. I should’ve called. I just walked away from Dad and inadvertently all of you. I let myself get wrapped up in other things.” She looks at me and holds out her hand. I go to her and take it. “I let myself get into other things, trying to forget I had sisters who I care about. I’m sorry. I’ll come see you tomorrow. And please give my new niece a kiss for me and tell her that her Tia Isabel will be there to welcome her into our family in the morning.”

  She ends the call, and I take a seat on the bed next to her. “Tia?”

  “My sister had a baby yesterday. It’s the first one in my family.” She looks down then back up at me. “I’ve also let my family fall by the wayside these past few years. I need to stop doing that.”

  “Yes, you do. And I can’t wait to meet them all. How many sisters are there?”

  “Ten. I’m the second to the oldest. It’s my big sister who’s just had the baby.”

  Holy, hell?

  “Ten?”

  She nods. “Our mothers were baby making machines. Dad had four wives in all.”

  “You know, I probably should’ve asked you more about your family during the past few years we’ve known each other.” I lean back, resting my back against the headboard, taking her into my arms.

  “Well, we were a little busy with other things. But we have a lifetime to get to know all about our families and our past.” She snuggles into me, and I rest my chin on her head.

  We do have a lifetime, and I’m damn glad we do.

  The End

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  Dirty Little Virgin

  A Submissives’ Secrets Novel

  By Michelle Love

  With one question on a BDSM message board, Jade Thomas sparked something inside of me that had never been lit up before.

  Our discussion of my world as we talked online woke things up in me I had no idea were lying dormant. My dominant side was calling out to me to take her and make her into what I knew she could be. But she was young, afraid, and had a fragility about her that was daunting.

  In no time at all, she had me wanting to get her obstinate ass into my hands. Mold her, shape her into the submissive I wanted her to be. Capture her spirit using sex and pain.

  What happened blindsided me and changed me forever …

  Pierce Langford answered a question I’d left on the BDSM message board for a club called “The Dungeon of Decorum.”

  No matter how hard I tried to keep it all above board, he was determined to reel me into his dark world, a place I was curious about but also afraid of.

  Like a persistent hunter, Pierce never let up on me, keeping the pressure up to get what he wanted: me, as his submissive.

  My body was on fire for the man from the get go. I yearned to feel his actual touch on my flesh—flesh, he wanted to torment. Pierce Langford wanted to show me his world and all that went with that: pain, pleasure, and there would be no room for love.

  Or so he thought …

  Jade

  Romance has been in my blood since I was only a girl of sixteen. An avid reader of anything in the romance genre, I’m especially keen on the darker side of the romantic spectrum, the side where pain and pleasure meet in an ebbing and flowing stream of both calm and frantic nuances. A place where sin and evil meet with good and innocence, leaving their residue on each.

  My curiosities have come all the way to the surface, and they won’t allow me to shove them down any longer. I sit at my computer, searching the vast Internet to find someone who will help me. I need help to understand the reality that is BDSM, something that won’t leave my mind.

  The books I’ve read are great, enjoyable, and pleasing. But I think they’re purely fictional, with
little to do with the reality of that lifestyle. And I want to know more about it all; the why’s, where’s, and how’s of the whole thing. Why do people do it? Where do they find others who want the same things they do? How do they take society’s sideways glares that let them know everyone knows what they’re doing, and that most think it’s disgusting?

  What immoral behavior is has been adjusted since the days of old when women wore nightgowns that covered them from their necks to their feet, and men were covered too. Small slits were made in the front for sexual activity, an activity that was not for pleasure but for procreation and procreation alone.

  Masturbation, if one was caught doing such a horrible thing, was more than merely frowned upon. One was punished for it, and harshly, at that. Nowadays when one is punished, per their requests, mind you, they’re deemed immoral. It’s a common belief that if one practices BDSM or any variety of that, then the person must’ve had a bad upbringing or something terrible happened to them. Most people think something sexually abusive occurred.

  I have to admit that I have favored that mindset. Recently, for reasons I cannot explain, I’ve had other thoughts about the people who practice the lifestyle. I just can’t imagine why anyone would want to dole out punishment or receive it, as an adult. But deep in the recesses of my heart, I long to understand. The core belief resides in me that not all who seek out this type of attention have been broken in one way or another.

  Being an erotic author is my dream, my passion. I simply love to go away in my head to worlds where anything is possible. Worlds where an ordinary woman can meet up with an abnormally handsome, viral, and of course, heavily muscled man. He would be filthy rich and just plain filthy in the bedroom, or any room, really.

  The world of erotic romance is where I dwell so often in my mind. Damsels in distress are no longer acceptable heroines. No, today’s heroines are smart, sharp as tacks in the wit department, strong in all ways, and take-no-shit kind of broads. The majority of these fictional women aren’t looking for love; they seem to stumble upon it. And with that little stumble, they find themselves in the arms of a man.

  Not any man will do in today’s erotic romances. He must be alpha, clean to his core. In many of these novels, for some reason, our hero loves to hit women. And they love to be hit by him. And that is where my writer’s brain has found a dilemma.

  I can see falling for a big, strong, handsome man. Who can’t?

  But falling for one who wants to tie you up and beat your ass while you cook his dinner and iron his clothes, well, I can’t see it at all. BDSM makes no sense to me, and I’m striving to make sense of it. For my career!

  I was a writer before I was anything else. I told stories before I could read. I looked at scenes and made up why things were going as they were. Making up stories has always been like second nature to me.

  Being only one year away from graduating with a Master’s Degree in Creative Arts at Bangor University in North Wales, United Kingdom, I’m dangerously close to the part of life where I will need to make my own living in this world. Soon to be cut off from my father’s dime, I have to focus, and that means I must have some belief in what I’m writing about, or I will never see my dreams come true.

  My dreams aren’t huge. I want to see my name on the cover of books. Oh! And best sellers’ lists as well, of course. I don’t want to be a mediocre writer. I want to be one of those authors who goes the distance to get to the meat of the story, somewhat like a reporter, only I want to get creative with my truths. I want to make my characters, and the world they live in, seem realistic while having fantasy-like lives.

  And there is little to no reality in normal women finding men with voracious sexual appetites and a penchant for beating them. So, here I am, searching the Internet, hoping no one ever looks at my browser’s history and thinks I’m a woman of ill repute. I am far from that.

  At the ripe old age of twenty-three, I haven’t found Mr. Right. And by that, I mean my cherry is still intact. I’m not a prude, though one might think that. I’m just very into my own head a lot of the time. A writer’s thing, my professors tell me. I’ve been told I’m normal, for a writer.

  Socially, I am a bit inept. Sure, I talk with ease to others, part of my reporter’s instinct, I suppose. But I share little about myself, preferring to steer people in directions that allow me to learn more about them, rather than talking about myself.

  With a click of my mouse, an awkward picture fills my computer screen. A woman deep throating an enormous penis!

  Hurrying to get the picture off my screen, I notice the small writing at the bottom of the page. It’s about some auction that’s about to come up. Only after seeing that do I notice that the link I clicked on that took me to this sexual place belongs to BDSM club in Portland, Oregon, in the States.

  Several clicks later, I find out this place is a haven for those types of people, and there are many clubs in that city. It’s the number one city in America to find things of this nature. And it seems like the perfect place to begin my search for people who might be helpful enough to be truthful with me and offer me more insight into the dark world that’s shrouded in mystery.

  Another click sends me to a picture of a naughty young woman wearing leather clothing and holding her hand to her mouth as she looks surprised. I suppose she never saw the man coming who’s behind her. Hard to believe, as he has a whip in his hand, and it’s aimed for her round and firm ass. Somehow, he’s surprised her with what he’s about to do.

  No fear is in her eyes. No tears from pain. Only a surprised look covers her pretty face. The man wears a firm expression on his ruggedly handsome facade. I can hear him now, in my mind, “Gertie, you have this coming to you. You forgot the salt in my soup again.”

  I giggle to myself, as that was an actual line in one of the novels I read, recently. Even then I thought it was silly and dimwitted. If a man told me I was about to get whipped with an actual whip because of something so small and easily fixed with the jiggle of a salt shaker, I’d most likely laugh and walk away. He would obviously be an idiot and not worth my attention or time.

  My mind is too strong, and so is my will, to ever be involved in any of that stuff. But it’s such a fantasy for many women that it bears investigating. My first novel in the erotic realm should have more than a grain of truth to it. I want some real grit mixing in with the fairy tale of a story I will create. None of that phony crap!

  I wonder if I can find a real Dom or Master to ask questions to. I wonder if any of them would even want to take time away from whipping asses to talk to a lowly, vanilla virgin about things she knows little to nothing about.

  Doubt clouds my vision as I sit back and gaze at the next thing that’s popped up on my screen. A couple of women, clad in nothing but black panties, stand with their backs to a whip-wielding man who wears a black mask and looks like he’s about to bring down the rain on them both.

  “Run, you morons,” I say out loud, as I notice an open door to their right.

  Is it humanly possible to stand still and take the pain of a whip when you’re steps away from escape?

  Is it possible that, in some people, the need to feel pain is overwhelming, like a drug addict who hates the after effects of a certain drug but can’t stop taking it?

  The sharp eyes of the women as they look over their shoulders while holding hands, waiting for the whip to meet one of their bodies, haunt me. How can they be so bright eyed with pain on the way?

  If I see a hot burner on the stove, I don’t touch it. If I saw a man running wildly down the street with his belt in his hand, striking out at people, I’d hide. So why do some seek this out?

  And what chance do I have of finding even one of the people who practice BDSM who would be willing to help me understand them? And why would they want to?

  I’m offering no compensation for their time. I’m offering nothing. I merely want to satisfy my own curiosity, nothing more than that. I want to use what I’m given to make money, a
s a matter of fact.

  No, it’s doubtful that I will be able to find anyone in the BDSM scene to answer my questions. Perhaps I should end this silliness. Maybe I should put this idea to rest and focus on romantic comedy, instead. That would be so much easier, wouldn’t it?

  Pierce

  Her ass sways as she leaves the room. Strands of leather cover it, and red marks cover the places the straps don’t. After an hour of cuddling my sub for the evening, Tasha, she feels safe enough to leave my company in the private room I rented at The Dungeon of Decorum. She wanted no sex, only punishment. And I gave her what she asked for, like any good Dom would.

  Relaxing on the small bed in the room made for torturing the flesh of submissives, I can’t help but recall the first time I came here. It was a mere three years ago, yet it feels like a century.

  Bogged down in business, I was burning out fast. Being the new CEO of Waterson Mutual, a business finance company in Portland, Oregon, I was trying to prove my worth to the board, busting my ass far more than I needed to. And it was catching up to me.

  Grant Jamison became my friend and eventual hero. Older than me by five years, he took me under his wing and taught me that work is great, but one should always leave time for play.

  Grant’s idea of play was very different from what my idea was. I thought he was suggesting playing racquetball with him and the friends he talked about. What he brought me into was far more serious than a ballgame.

  In the matter of one month, I was inducted into the brotherhood of the Dominants at a local BDSM club, aptly named The Dungeon of Decorum, a place I now visit often.

  Being a Dom comes naturally to me, as if I was born to lead, teach, and rule women. At thirty- five, I’ve been told I should be settling down and finding a woman to marry. I’ve been told I can keep my dark hobby a secret and lead a normal life in every other way, but that sounds boring to me.