THE IMOGEN SERIES BOXED SET PART I: (Books 1-4)

by R. B. O'Brien

  I couldn't believe my voice, my acquiescence to him. I'm not sure if fear or desire motivated me. But I had a strong pull not to disappoint this man.

  "Thank you," he spoke softly. "You may do what you need to do before drawing my bath." He stood and began to undress himself, as he walked over to his bedroom. I tried not to stare at his tan skin, his masculine, strong frame. "I will leave my clothes on the chair in the bedroom for you to wash as well as this sheet you were wearing." He held it up, his eyes scolding me.

  I scurried out, naked, and turned the soup down to a simmer. Satisfied, I walked over to the bathtub I had been in only a little while before, trying to remove the blood stains of my lost virginity. I bent over to turn the water on, and then he was suddenly there. I felt him move behind me, and I lost my breath. I felt his erection before I even had a chance to turn around. I froze again in place, immobile, waiting for instructions.

  "Please," he spoke in almost a whisper. "Join me."

  "I…" I stuttered. I was quaking again, and I wasn't exactly sure why. I didn't feel as if I was in any immediate danger, and then I felt the moisture between my legs, and I knew exactly why I trembled. I hated myself again for feeling this way, for not being able to control my body's reaction to his close proximity.

  "You will be punished, Slave, if you continue to defy me, to hesitate. I will train you starting tonight. You will understand why I must very soon."

  "I'm sorry," and tears flowed down my cheeks. "I've never been in a situation like this before, obviously. I am scared. I…" I didn't know how to finish. I yelled in my head: I shouldn't be letting you do this to me. I should be fighting you. But I didn't dare say it aloud.

  "It's okay. Come here." And he actually took me into his arms and held me while I cried. His erection was pressing against my stomach. He was so tall, but he wasn't raping me and he easily could have. His actions were so confusing, so…kind and comforting and…terrifying.

  After several, long minutes, he spoke again. "Sssh. Please. It's okay. But I will have to make you behave. The cruelty you might endure at the hands of others will be far less rampant if you obey and listen, and say and do the right things. If you show any signs of weakness, they will capitalize on it. Now, when I tell you to join me in something, as I've asked you now, you do so without hesitation."

  "Yes Sir," I replied, trying to find courage, and entered the tub.

  He poured something into the large bathtub, and it smelled of almond and coconut.

  "Did it sting the last time you were in here?” he asked, a look of real concern on his face. "These oils might help," he added.

  "Yes," I admitted. How did he know?

  When I had drawn my own bath to wash away my guilty loss of virginity, it stung fiercely. But I did not need a reminder of what he had done to me; I did not need the stain to remind me that my body actually liked it.

  I sunk into the warm water, tensing as the sting came back. I flinched but sat down deeper into the water, and I could feel the soothing effects of the oils, and somehow I began to relax.

  He sat down in front of me, faced away from me, and I couldn't help by stare at the wide expanse of his back. The muscles bulged with even his slightest movement. He had scars and battle wounds and in that moment I wanted to kiss them all, one by one, and I loathed myself for feeling such desire.

  He turned slightly to pass me a cloth and some soap. "Wash me," he ordered.

  I slowly began with his back, his shoulders. I was aroused looking at his chiseled body, and I was thankful that I didn't have to look into his eyes. When he was pleased with how I had washed his back, he stood, his ass facing me, and I continued to wash him, all the way down to his feet.

  Slowly he turned, his erection large, and I tried not to make eye contact with him as I caught a smile spreading slightly across his face. But he sat down to face me, took the cloth back, rinsed it, and added more soap. He laid his back against the back of the tub, hoisted his arms along the sides, drew his head back, and closed his eyes.

  I continued to wash his body, trying to contain my admiration for it. God. This man was, quite simply, an exquisite specimen. I was so thankful he kept his eyes shut lest he see my true thoughts.

  I washed his neck, his chest, his torso. I went up to his shoulders, his arms, lingering on his huge forearms. The contrast of his tan skin with his light hair on his chest and forearms was striking; deep down inside of me, I fought the waves of desire pulsing through my body and pounding between my legs. When I got to his hands, I shivered and stopped. The blood there was evident, fresh. I cringed in that moment. What had he been doing when I was cooking dinner? I literally shivered at the thought. Had he killed someone? I couldn't bury the horrid image that forced its way into my mind.

  His eyes flew open and his brown, almost black, eyes bore a hole through me. "Imogen, continue."

  "I…Yes, Sir," I was losing myself to anguish and fear suddenly.

  I began to wash his hands, forcefully, trying to remove his blood in the same way I had tried to remove my own. Somehow boldness found me as he closed his eyes and sank back against the tub again. "What happened here?" I asked, my voice barely audible, as I stared at his hands.

  "Trust me, Imogen. You don't want to know. No questions. Mind your place." I shuddered. He stared at me in such a way that told me to shut up or I might find my own blood on his hands.

  When all the blood was removed, his eyes found mine, amused. "Keep going," he smiled. He had caught my eyes as they landed on his rock-hard cock, sitting firmly against his tight, toned stomach. I abruptly rinsed the cloth, re-soaped it and went to his thighs, his calves, lingering on his feet, his toes, washing nervously. He didn't stop me or make me go back up to the one body part I had skipped. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  When I was finished, I stopped. "Sir?"

  He opened his eyes. "Are you quite done?" That playful look still danced in his eyes.

  "Um…yes, I believe I am," I squeaked. Time stood still as I held my breath to see what he would do.

  He laughed loud. "Breathe, Slave. You are fine. Now please dry me off and feed me. I'm starving. You must be too."

  I dried him and he left me there, alone and naked. For some reason I was panting. Was I disappointed? I hated to admit it, but I think I was. I sulked into the kitchen, shivering, still naked. I removed the towel I had used to dry myself off, trying to follow his orders, his previous instructions.

  I waited, seated in a chair by a table, as he finally entered the kitchen, fully clothed, relaxed. I sat, timid, a little cold, and fully embarrassed. I tried to position my arms and hands to cover myself the best I could. He sat down, and instinctually, I immediately got up to serve him his food. He smiled up at me as I placed the bowl in front of him and sat down.

  He took a bite and moaned. "This is absolutely perfect, Imogen. Thank you. Please help yourself as well."

  I relaxed a bit and rose again to get myself some too.

  We ate in silence. I tried to devour my food surreptitiously, but it could have been anything, and I would have inhaled it, I was that hungry. I felt like an animal. I found his gaze, soup dripping down my chin, and I stilled, humiliated at how I was acting, at how I must have looked to him. Why did I even care? He left the room, and I became frightened. Tears poured forth, inconsolable.

  To my surprise, he came back with a blanket. "It's okay," he assured me. "I'm sorry." He looked pained watching me. I was so humiliated, and even through my devastating hunger, I lost my appetite. What was I becoming?

  I convulsed through my tears, gasping for air, trying to breathe. I was a fucking slave, naked, starving practically, and it all just hit me in a painful, crushing wave.

  He stepped around to my chair and picked me up. He sat back down in his chair and held me in his arms for a long time. I struggled to push away from him, and it only made him hold me tighter. I didn't want this...this…kidnapper, this brute, holding me, and yet I found myself succumbing to his hold, thrusting my fac
e against his chest, letting all my emotions spill over onto him, letting him soothe me. When I calmed, he took my face between his calloused hands and made me look into his eyes. They held a hard-to-fathom emotion.

  He spoke in almost a whisper, but it was stern. "Imogen, you will need to toughen up. You need to be stronger. I need to make you stronger. You are going to think that I'm being cruel; I'm trying to save your life. Tonight will be less gentle. Know that it is not to be mean. I am hoping that you even come to like it. But it has to be done. Go stand in the living room and wait for me. Remove the blanket."

  I did as he asked and stood silently shaking in the living area. When he returned, I noticed some sort of whip in his hand, and immediately, my eyes watered and I trembled again. I whispered, "No…please. I'll do whatever you say."

  "I know you will," he said a little coolly. "You will learn that you have no choice."

  He tied my arms behind my back before I could say anything else. I almost lost my balance.

  "Sssh. Calm down. This does not have to be painful. But you need to control yourself. You need to obey. Spread your legs."

  I stood facing him, my legs spread and my arms tightly secured behind my back.

  He paused, sighing. I saw him squeezing his fists by his sides. He spoke slowly, softly, again, as if in pain. "My god, Imogen. You have a beautiful body. You make me feel weak."

  My body reacted all too viscerally to his words. It oozed with desire, the traitor it was, and I cringed that I had had the same exact thoughts about him earlier in the bathtub. Jesus. What was this?

  He slowly began to touch my body, starting at my feet. He drew his fingers up the inside of my legs, until he got to my inner thighs. He stopped, closed his eyes tightly, and again, as if pained, he spoke. "Imogen, you are wet. Very wet. I haven't done anything yet. In a normal situation, this would please me. It would please me very much. But we are in anything but a normal situation. I almost can't remember what normal is."

  I stood perfectly still, trying not to react. He continued his delicious torture and moans traitorously escaped from my lips and I bit down hard to stop them. He used both hands as he found my sex and lightly brushed the wet lips of my pussy, lingering only to move on far too quickly.

  I moaned again, involuntarily. God I was pathetic. I was so angry with myself.

  "Slave," he stated firmly. When he used that as my name, it reminded me of my true situation, where and what I was, and it not only made me beyond nervous, it also made me angry, angry at my myself, angry at my cowardly husband, angry at him, angry at my situation. "No moaning," he instructed. "If you moan again, I will have to whip you. Please work on it."

  Why? I wondered in my mind. Who cared? Who could hear? I didn't understand, but I didn't dare ask.

  He moved up over my belly and I clenched my teeth tightly. It made me drip as he dragged his fingertips up over my breasts. He wasted no time and lightly took my nipples between his forefingers and thumbs, kneading them. I squirmed uncontrollably, trying not to moan. It felt good, and I could feel the pressure of tears behind my eyes. I squeezed them shut so they could not escape. When he pinched both nipples, I let out a scream of pleasure without even realizing it.

  His eyes found mine. There was no humor, no playfulness and he picked up the whip.

  "No," I begged. "I am sorry. Please. Please don't hurt me. I didn't mean to scream."

  "I know," and he walked behind me and rained a heavy blow across my ass, biting into my skin.

  "Aaaah!" I screamed again, but not from pleasure. I had never, ever, been hit in my life. It stung, bad, long after the strike. Tears pricked my eyes and no amount of squeezing them shut would stop the tears from tumbling. Desire had left me; anger replaced it. How dare he do this to me?

  "Listen to me. We will try again. You can't control how wet you are, but you need to learn to control your outbursts, your noises. Tomorrow night we will work on your squirming, your movement. Tonight, noises. You have to be able to control yourself, especially when I ask you to."

  My mind whirred with confusion. I found myself tongue-tied, unable to speak, unable to formulate questions, unable to find my voice.

  He began touching me again, and again, just like that, my anger began to shift to desire, out of my control. He went right back to my nipples. This was unfair, impossible. How could I control something that was completely out of my control? My anger dissipated completely, and arousal lay in its wake.

  I hated him in that moment, and yet I couldn't control my longing for him, my aching need for him to please me, to pleasure me, to put that pulsating, pounding drumbeat between my legs to rest. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, but to say what exactly, I wasn't sure.

  He touched and pinched, and I struggled to stay still and quiet, trying not to move, trying not to react to these things I should have despised. I was panting, remembering that sweet ecstasy he had brought me earlier. I burned inside thinking about it, even as I willed myself not to. Would I ever be able to forget that feeling? That feeling of absolute out-of-control, blinding bliss?

  "Control, Imogen. You like this, and it's too obvious. Settle yourself."

  Oh. Jesus. I didn't want to like it. I didn't want to show that I liked it. He played and played and I couldn't stay still. I groaned, really loud, and screamed out, "Sir, please! Please!"

  "Please what?" He didn't stop.

  "Please stop." But what I really wanted to say was: Take me! Use me! Make me dive over that edge again! But my pride wouldn't allow me to say that. And it was I who I hated, not him.

  "What do you want?" he asked, never removing his touch from my rock-hard nipples or his gaze from my eyes.

  I lost my train of thought as I could feel myself rising to that beautiful place again, just from the touches he gave me on my nipples. I was ready to tip over the edge. I caved. "I want what you brought me earlier. I want to feel that…"

  And before I could finish, he stopped abruptly. I fell to the ground. He grabbed my chin in between his fingers as I stared up at him. "Wrong answer, Imogen. Let's try again."

  "What? What do you mean? What should I answer? Please tell me. Please," I wailed.

  "Stand up, Slave," he ordered, ignoring my pleas. "Spread your legs again."

  I complied, unsteadily. I did not want to be whipped again.

  He traced his fingers up and down my inner thighs, smirking, but his eyes couldn't hide their slight sadness. I knew I was dripping wet. I was so embarrassed. How could I be so turned on?

  His light touches left my inner thighs and he stroked my slit up and down.

  "Oh god," I accidentally moaned.

  He looked forlorn and picked up the whip. He said nothing but came to stand behind me again and bent me over at the waist. "Count," he ordered.

  Smack. The whip struck me across my ass.

  "Count!" he yelled.

  "One!" I screamed.

  Whack.

  "Two." I panted.

  Slap.

  "Three." I squealed like a pig and tears flowed down my face. It hurt like hell. It stung far worse than I could have imagined.

  He spun me around to face him. "Quiet, Slave. Do you understand?"

  "No. No. I don't understand. Help me to understand. Please," I begged, panting, frightened and aroused at once. I hated it.

  His gaze was firm and stoic. "Turn around," he ordered again. Where was this gentle man from earlier? What happened to him?

  I shook and took position. What choice did I have?

  "Let's try again. No noise, Slave."

  He was cruel then. He went right to my pleasure spot between my thighs as I writhed. My insides clenched with a greedy need out of my power, a wave of heat tearing through my body, and I felt so betrayed. How could this feel good when he had just whipped me? Tortured me?

  I stood, silent, as I could feel my orgasm build. Oh my god, I screamed inside. I am going to come. I am going to explode. This monster is going to make me come, again. And I want him to. No
. I held my breath as he continued to bring me closer, closer, so close I was almost seeing blackness. I didn't make a sound. I didn't want to be whipped again, but more than anything, I didn't want him to stop.

  To my dismay, he stopped and I screamed out, "God. No." I shook violently. Goosebumps appeared everywhere on my body, even as I burned up, the heat of desire almost suffocating me. I could barely find my breath. I was dizzy and panting, shaking and lost, so emotional, I almost wanted to die.

  "Oh, Imogen," he used my name, "You did so well. I am so proud of you…until you just yelled out. You cannot do that. I know you were close. I am getting to know you and your body now. I know your signs. I know you are in pain. I know you need release, but we must work on this. Even if I stop, you must contain yourself. You mustn't let us know."

  Us? What was he even talking about? I was panting, hysterical almost. "Why? Please. Sir. Tell me why. Let me understand."

  "I would, Imogen. If only we had more time. But we don't. We have no time. You need to learn it by feeling it. I know this seems cruel. I cannot deny that it brings me some pleasure to see you like this. It's been a long time since I've felt a woman's body, and it's been more than a long time since any woman has ever been so responsive and receptive to my touches. But trust me, I am doing this for your own good. If you want to come, to tip over, you will have to fight for it. Bend over." And I knew he was going to whip me again.

  Oh dear god in heaven. Make it stop.

  When he whipped me five more times and stopped, I collapsed again, sobbing, trying desperately to take in air that didn’t seem to be there.

  He drew me in his arms and held me against him until I went limp, cried out. He untied the binds behind my back and kissed my hair. I melted into him against my will, so confused. I wanted to kick him, to scratch him, to bite him. I wanted to tell him how much I hated him in that moment, and yet I found myself soothed by his strong arms, by his caresses, by his kisses against my head. I needed him.

  "You've had enough for tonight. Go lie down in my bed. I will be there shortly."