FatalSubmission

by Nicole Austin

  Muscles not plugged into the machine tensed. Claire bit her lip, hanging on to the precipice by her sheer stubborn refusal to give Carl what he wanted. But a few more twists of the dials and she’d succumb.

  Oh Lord, please. Give me the strength. I want to live.

  Cold, sharp metal grazed her neck, starting beneath her ear and moving down, stopping where her frantic pulse throbbed.

  Don’t come.

  The mantra reverberated through her mind in a continuous loop as her flesh prepared for the rush of ecstasy. Blood pounded in her ears, a sound similar to the stomping of heavy boots.

  “Drop the fucking knife,” a familiar voice shouted. “Don’t make me shoot you.”

  The muscles in his back stiffened and his finger twitched on the trigger of the pistol Cam had thrust into his hand. The smaller weapon was a better choice than the shotgun for the situation.

  Bile churned in his gut and his breathing grew shallower with each step he took. Mason had learned in battle to harness the fear and use it to propel him forward. The probability of Claire being in the basement left no other option.

  A faint feminine whimper was almost drowned out by the loud mechanical hum and classical music from below, increasing his tension and rising dread. Winters was down there all right. And he wasn’t alone.

  “Who is your Master? Who owns this body?”

  Mason recognized Winters’ voice.

  “Me.” The weak, rough rasp didn’t sound like Claire.

  Moving past the obstruction of the floor above seemed to take forever and yet Mason almost came to a dead stop when he got his first clear look into the basement. His eyes widened and cold numbness traveled through his limbs.

  Wrapped up in tormenting Claire, Winters hadn’t spotted them, giving him precious moments to assess the circumstances, weigh risks and plan his actions.

  Claire’s nude body, strained muscles slick with sweat, had been strapped down into what appeared to be an electric chair. The hum emanated from a tens unit with wires connected to strategic parts of her anatomy.

  In one hand, the sick bastard held a wicked curved and serrated blade against her jugular artery. In the other, he held an expensive camera, rapidly tapping the exposure button.

  “Drop the fucking knife,” he shouted. “Don’t make me shoot you.”

  Please give me a reason to shoot you!

  His finger itched to squeeze the trigger and end the miserable fucker’s life.

  Winters snapped his head in their direction, a demonic grin frozen on his lips. His dark eyes blinked rapidly then opened wide, almost bulging from their sockets in a look of pure shock.

  Too bad the comical expression didn’t ease Mason’s stretched-tight nerves.

  Winters’ arm tensed and the blade cut into Claire’s neck. A crimson drop of blood swelled then trickled along the shimmering silver edge, quivering as it clung to the tip before splattering to the cement floor.

  Mason reacted, taking advantage of Winters’ moment of frozen surprise. His finger tightened on the trigger as his eyes locked on his target. Releasing a measured breath, he squeezed off a shot, the resultant sound deafening in the enclosed space.

  Mason was already in motion as Winters’ body dropped, hitting the hard floor, accompanied by the clatter of the knife and shatter of the camera breaking into a million pieces. He reached Claire a heartbeat later, applying firm pressure to the gash, tingles of electricity streaming through her and straight into his trembling hand.

  “Claire—” His voice cracked. Mason cleared his throat, his voice erupting a bit higher than normal. “I’ve got you, honey. It’s over. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  Most of what he said didn’t make sense or matter. He kept up a running stream of reassurances for both of them.

  Her eyelids fluttered, slowly lifting, her eyes—a stunning combination of deep-brown and bright-green flecked with gold—were dazed and full of aching need.

  Cam approached the electrical stimulator and studied the dials. “I’ll have this shut down in a flash.”

  Claire’s pupils darkened as they expanded. “No,” she cried in a barely discernible voice. “Please. Hurts…so bad. Finish it. Please, Mason.”

  She met Mason’s stare, beseeching with eyes that were bracketed by lines of pain. Her distress hit him in the gut and he finally allowed himself to look beyond the surface to taut, quivering muscles, swollen nipples and slick, pulsing clit.

  Winters had taken her to the breaking point and she needed the release only orgasm could bring. He knew it in his heart but Mason hesitated. The idea of bringing her off made him feel as if he was more of a sick pervert than Winters.

  “Christ,” Cam barked, “give her some relief or get out of the way and I will.”

  “The fuck you will,” he denied. Claire was his, now more than ever. This strong woman who had survived more than two days of torture. His to cherish and take care of in whatever way she needed. And right now she needed a release from the agony that was well within his ability to provide.

  Keeping pressure on her neck, he teased two fingers over her soaked folds, getting them nice and wet before thrusting deep. Electricity slammed into his hand as he curled his fingertips and stroked her sweet spot.

  Claire bucked against the restraints as he finger-fucked her again and again but she wasn’t able to go over. His scrambled brain had no luck sorting out what he needed to do.

  Cam’s big hand smacked down on his shoulder, fingers digging in tight. “Give her permission.”

  Ah, Christ.

  “Come for me, Claire. Right now. All over my hand.”

  Her pussy clamped down on his fingers to the point of pain before dissolving in convulsive spasms that shook her whole body. He lost his grip on her neck as her head slammed backward and her mouth opened in a silent scream.

  Distantly he heard Cam mumble, “Fucking magnificent.”

  He couldn’t agree more. Claire caught up in the euphoria of orgasm was absolutely resplendent.

  * * * * *

  “This is going to hurt,” Mason warned in a gruff tone that betrayed his high level of stress.

  “Just do it.”

  She closed her eyes tight, held her breath and braced herself as best she could. Thankfully, Mason didn’t draw the torment out. He removed the clamps from her nipples and before the pain fully registered, he’d freed her clit.

  Blood surged in an excruciating cataclysm. Claire heard a shrill scream in her head even though her throat had closed, trapping the sound inside. Consciousness wavered, darkness coming and going in waves. She recognized the sensation of the probes being eased from her pussy and ass only peripherally.

  Soft material was pulled over her head and her arms were thrust through sleeves. The shirt still held Mason’s warmth and smelled like him. She burrowed into the comfort the garment provided.

  She opened her eyes as she was gently lifted into his arms, then Mason set her down on a blanket and pulled it around her. Claire glanced around, an odd sense of detachment filling her. The dungeon didn’t bother her anymore with Mason there. Not even the sight of several guns sitting next to her merited more than a passing glance. She felt as if she were miles away and all the horrors of being tortured had happened to someone else.

  Concern tightened Mason’s features as he stared into her eyes and brushed the matted hair from her face. “I’m going to get you out of here but I can’t take you home yet. We’ll have to talk to the police first. Cam’s upstairs calling them now.”

  She nodded, distractedly noting how her head bobbed drunkenly on her weak neck. Didn’t matter. With Mason there, she was safe. He’d be strong for both of them.

  “I-I was here,” he stammered. “This morning. Found the address in your apartment. I talked to the sick fuck—”

  She freed one arm from the blanket she didn’t recall being wrapped around her and pressed her fingers against his lips. “You came for me. Nothing else matters.” The little remaining voice she had w
as a harsh rasp.

  Mason dropped his forehead into the curve of her neck and breathed deeply. She rubbed his back soothingly, soaking in his warmth as shudders racked his big body. Lord, she couldn’t handle it if he broke down. “It’s all going to be okay…”

  Claire trailed off, losing the grasp of what she’d intended to say as Carl stepped into view. Blood coated the front of his shirt and his face was twisted in a horrible expression of agony and determination. Her mouth hung open, words refusing to form as his arm lifted, the knife held tight in his fist. He moved as if in slow motion, dragging his body closer, the blade aimed right for Mason’s exposed back.

  Why couldn’t the bastard just die?

  She had to warn Mason but couldn’t. The connection between the warnings screaming through her head and her mouth refused to work.

  Not taking her eyes from Carl, she blindly reached to her side. Her fingers touched cold steel and wrapped around the grip as if it were a natural extension of her hand. Cold, ghostly fingers and hands joined her own, helping Claire raise the gun. Resting her shaky arm on Mason’s strong shoulder, buoyed by the silent support of the other victims, she stared into Carl’s dark eyes.

  “Die already, motherfucker.”

  Without flinching, she pulled the trigger twice. The whisperers helped keep the weapon steady, her aim true.

  Claire stared in amazement as two perfect round holes appeared in Carl’s forehead.

  For a long moment he stared at her, shock widening his dark eyes before they went blank, then like a marionette with its strings cut, he dropped to the floor in a lifeless heap.

  * * * * *

  With a grim expression tightening his features, Cam dropped a heavy book into Mason’s lap.

  Automatically he glanced over at Claire, bundled in blankets, lying curled up on the passenger seat of the Bronco. He remained in place, sitting on the hard running board, leaning against the open door. One of her hands stayed on him at all times. Mason found he needed the reassurance as much as she did.

  He glanced down at the book, dreading whatever it held. “What’s this?”

  “Winters’ trophies.”

  “Aw, Christ.” He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, afraid to ask about his cousin. Cam hung his head and squeezed Mason’s shoulder.

  “Sorry, man. She’s in there.”

  His chest grew tight and his heart lodged in his throat, preventing him from responding. Cam understood, gave his shoulder another supportive squeeze and stepped away.

  Fuck. He didn’t want to look but he had to. For Trina. For his aunt and uncle. For Claire and all the other women that sick fucker had tortured.

  His fingers shook and a fine sheen of cold sweat coated his brow as he opened the photo album. On the left side, under shiny plastic, a pretty redhead sat on a park bench with a dreamy expression on her face. The next image, on the right, showed the same young woman, features contorted with pain, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Patty Babcock, twenty-two-year-old college student. The first victim. Mason rubbed a hand over his shaved head then turned the page.

  “Oh God.”

  Winters had taken before, during and after pictures. In the subsequent images, Patty’s green eyes were dull and sightless, mouth slack, tears still dampening her face. The vibrant spark of life seen in the prior pictures had been permanently extinguished.

  He glanced over at Claire again. If he hadn’t found that damn door—

  No. He refused to think that way. Cam and he had made it in time, preventing Claire from ending up like Patty and the others.

  Having studied the files, he knew each woman’s face, along with some of her personal history. As much as he didn’t want to turn the pages, Mason felt compelled to bear witness to their deaths and mourn their loss.

  He swallowed hard and slowly studied each picture, reciting names, ages and occupations in his head until he reached the twelfth victim. Tracing the sweet curve of her face as tears blurred his vision.

  Mason’s voice came out choked by his overwhelming sadness and sense of failure. “Trina Burke. Twenty-five. Legal intern.”

  The gaping hole in his chest wouldn’t hurt any worse if his still-beating heart had been carved from his body with a dull knife. How the hell would he ever look his aunt and uncle in the eye again knowing how badly he’d failed them. The only thing they’d ever asked of him—bring our baby home—and he couldn’t deliver. Her body might never be found. They’d have to bury an empty coffin.

  Claire shifted closer. One hand remained on his back, the other slid over his chest, coming to rest over his heart, and she nuzzled her face against the curve of his shoulder, providing comfort he didn’t deserve. He’d failed her too, hadn’t protected her. Hell, she’d had to make the fatal shot herself, saving his sorry ass.

  For the rest of his days, he’d regret putting her in that position. Taking a life changed a person. She’d always carry the heavy burden on her soul.

  “I’m glad it was me,” she whispered as if she’d read his mind. “I could kill him a hundred times over and never feel a shred of remorse. My only regret is how quick he died. I would have preferred he suffer.”

  Such a strong, amazing woman. He didn’t deserve her but was damn glad to have her in his life.

  Chapter Nine

  August 1981

  Checking her watch for what felt like the millionth time, Claire blew a hard breath at her bangs.

  “What’s with you today? Got a hot date or something?” Laurie deftly snatched the last pot sticker between a pair of chopsticks and dipped it in a bowl of sauce before popping the appetizer into her mouth.

  “Don’t I wish,” Claire complained.

  “Well something’s wrong. You’re more nervous than a new guy in the prison showers.”

  “Now that’s a visual I didn’t need. Thanks.”

  Laurie gave a dismissive wave with her chopsticks. “Don’t mention it.”

  Mrs. Wong hustled over to check on them and refill their teacups. As soon as she’d moved away from their table the inquisition began. Claire didn’t mind. She appreciated Laurie’s concern. Their friendship was a blessing. Just having another submissive woman to talk with—someone who understood her in ways no one else did—choked her up when she thought about it.

  “Did you have a rough session?”

  “No.” She looked forward to her therapy sessions and had been disappointed when they’d been cut back to once a week. “Therapy has been great. Patrice says I’ve bounced back wonderfully. She even said I don’t have to keep going.”

  “Hey, that’s awesome.” Laurie beamed at her.

  Claire thanked her lucky stars to have the top-notch therapist working with her. She hadn’t had a bad dream in almost two weeks. With Patrice and Laurie’s help she’d put the whole trauma behind her. Now if one stubborn, overly cautious Dom would get with the program, she’d be a happy camper.

  What would it take to convince Mason she wasn’t as fragile as a crystal vase held together with only bubble gum, a wish and a prayer. She wanted—needed—to live again. To love and be loved in return. To submit.

  And Lord, how she needed to be fucked! Long and hard and repeatedly.

  Yes, Mason had made love to her and it had been amazing. Soft, slow and tender. Everything a woman could ask for. And yet not enough for a submissive.

  Laurie cleared her throat, pulling Claire from her thoughts. “So why the long face? What’s wrong?” She stared at Claire for several moments then nodded. “Ah, this has to do with Mason.”

  “He is the most frustrating, hardheaded, opinionated, bossy— Ugh,” she grumbled.

  “Oh honey,” Laurie commiserated. “Two words—dominant, male. It’s the nature of the beast. Mason is just like Cam.”

  Claire stared into her friend’s laughing eyes. “And yet you’re happily married to the cocky jerk. What’s your secret?”

  “Ask a Dom the key to a happy D/s relationship and he’ll say trust.
Ask a sub and you get a different answer.”

  She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “What’s the answer?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, trust is paramount. You trust Mason, but he also has to trust himself. The whole thing with the professor— God, I still cannot believe that nut job had a PhD in psychology and taught at the college.” Laurie waved her hand dismissively. “What is it the news vultures named him?”

  “Depends which station you watch. Most of the national networks call him the Dungeon Master but a few local reporters named him Dom of the Dead.”

  Her gaze dropped to the faint scars on her right hand. Being able to say the word “master” had taken several long weeks of intense therapy yet the pride in her accomplishment dimmed considering the subject under discussion. Laurie understood her difficulty and pushed Claire to say the word, which really did help. Each time she did it became easier.

  Laurie beamed at her with immense pride. “Mason has to trust that he’ll be able to accurately read your responses. I’m sure he’s also worried that you may have lost your interest in being submissive. You’re going to have to take the lead and prove it to him.”

  Yeah, so how the hell was she supposed to make him realize being a submissive didn’t work that way? Claire couldn’t turn off that essential part of herself any more than he’d be able to ignore his need to dominate.

  “So what do I do to convince him?” She glanced at her watch again. “Right now he’s meeting with Patrice.”

  Laurie arched her brow but remained silent.

  A slow grin curved along Claire’s lips as she remembered trying to convince Mason into talking with the therapist. “I told him Patrice needs his input on my progress.”

  “But that’s not the point of their meeting?”

  “No. Patrice knows how frustrated I am with the stubborn fool. She’s going to reassure him that not only can I handle the big bad Dom but I need it.”