Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
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Once Upon A …
An erotic novel
The first part of The Stained Duet
Copyright ©2017 by Charlotte E Hart
Cover Design by MAD
Formatting by MAD
All rights reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved alone, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of those trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Acknowledgements
Once Upon A …
By
Charlotte E Hart
“There is always calm before a storm.”
Chapter 1
Alana
"I t's undeniably alluring how the human skeleton stretches under pressure," he says, rounding the prone body in front of him and tapping the flesh gently. "Muscles lengthen when warmed. Ligaments twist slightly, lending another inch of growth to the gratifying position asked for." He turns his head back to me for a second, scanning my dress and sneering, probably at the fact it’s not see through. "The rapid intakes of breath and then sighs coming from her lips increase blood flow, resulting in yet more give to her tendons.” He leaves the naked woman’s side, travelling over the wooden floorboards and making me back away from his extended hand. “But it’s the howl that finalises the posture to perfection.” Really? My feet move me again, away from his still extended hand as my eyes flick around nervously. “Her groaned scream of agony.” I feel my shoulders hit the wall, leaving me nowhere to run to, no room to manoeuvre at all. He smiles, obviously amused by my attempt at escape. “Haven’t you ever wondered how that’s achieved?”
To be honest, no, I’ve never thought of how they get these girls into extreme positions, or why the hell they put up with it in the first place, and this interview is just becoming more and more nonsensical by the second.
“Are you still breathing?” Barely. It would help if this one wasn’t so damned attractive. He was last time, too, in the normal world where average people exist. In here, he’s like a quirk I can’t refuse. And why do they all smell so bloody good in these places?
One week I’ve been at this. I was supposed to be simply collecting data for research purposes. Just a quick sit down with a few of them. The first one, a Dominant called Wraith—yes, apparently that was his real name—was obliging and gave me a thorough breakdown of how the whole thing works, but then, at the end, he offered to give me the name of someone who might be able to help me a little more with the sadistic tendencies of the scene. The one thing I didn’t expect to be delving into, when I eventually picked up enough courage to call the man in front of me, was the seedy underground side of what I’m trying to research. It has been reasonably useful, though, and he is hellishly attractive. Hardly a chore in reality.
“Would you like to try? We have another twenty minutes left before I have to leave.”
I tip my chin up at him, signalling my absolute horror at the very idea of such a notion. Highly educated women do not, in any way, allow themselves to be strung up and potentially gutted like a pig. As the woman in front of me is currently doing. Although, she’s not being gutted. Nor are any of the others I’ve seen as far as I know. In fact, her moaning is quite arousing in some way. Not that Mr. Beautiful here will ever know that’s the effect I’m feeling.
“No, thank you.” I wish that didn’t come out as shakily as it did, but it did, unfortunately. It’s only because of the moaning woman. Well, that and the fact that I’m pretty certain he’s wearing Chanel under that suit just to enhance his muscles further. All the good looking ones wear suits. Good ones. It’s utterly debilitating to professionalism.
“Is it all too dirty for you? The floor, I mean.” Well, yes. Not that it would make any difference if he swept me off to a more ‘high end’ version of the same subject matter. I mean, I’m only writing a book. It’s all the rage, you see. BDSM. Kinky stuff. Before this, the most kinky thing I’d ever indulged in was a vibrator I got as a joke one year for a friend. I didn’t actually have the balls to give it to her, so I ended up keeping it myself and giving it a go. It was… different, and still quite useful when I get myself wound up through writing. Not that it happens too often lately.
“You’re wet.” What? Where’s the water? I look down at my feet then back up to him. He winks, licking his lips at the same moment. Oh. OH. The flush of colour that rises through my whole body has me barging past him and towards the door before I know it. Bastard. How would he know if I was or not? Or am. I am. This is another unfortunate thing that keeps happening around these men. I think they have some sort of link to vaginas. I’m just not quite sure what it is yet. It needs more research, something I’m not currently prepared to entertain given this atrocious venue. Certainly not with this overly attractive one anyway.
“I can help you with that.” I swing my head sharply, aiming for yet more abhorrence at his crude remarks as he walks behind me, chuckling.
“Do you think this is amusing? I’m a professional, not one of your…” I don’t know what to call them. I wave my hand at the woman behind us, who is still moaning. “…things.”
Professional. Very, actually. I nod at him, clampin
g my false smile in place and indicating my departure from this building. I’ve been writing novels under two pen names for around six years. Three actually, if you count the disaster that was Sci-Fi PNR. I don’t discuss that, though. Anyway, Valerie Du Font writes romance. She’s where I started in college. She does quite well—well enough for me to not be in this repellent place anyway. And Peter Halloway writes crime thrillers. He also does reasonably well, given that I’m a woman writing as a man, a trick another author turned me on to some time ago. Seems male readers prefer to read male authors. Who knew, right? Anyway, BDSM is the new thing. Unfortunately, it’s a thing that neither Valerie, Peter, nor Alana know anything about. And if there’s one thing I do, it’s research. When this book hits the shelves, which is a long way off given that I’ve only just started researching, it will be as if I was the one living the scene.
“Is there anything else I can help you with, aside from the obvious, that is?” he says, his voice still full of glee at my disastrous predicament. Arse. Perhaps I should pop a tampon in the next time I see one of them, soak up the creative juices, so to speak.
“No, no, really. I think that will be enough for today,” I reply breezily, waggling my hand in the air and lengthening my stride through ‘The Pit’. Quite enough. My nod to myself confirms this thought as I continue through said Pit, trying not to stand on any appendage that presents itself en-route.
He rounds in front of me as I eventually reach the exit through the labyrinth of maze-like hallways, smiling again. He rarely smiles. In fact, it’s only when he’s got the upper hand that he seems to manage one at all. I’ve met him twice now—once for a coffee in a small restaurant in Manhattan, and then today when I met him at this address, which was unwise now I think about it, but thankfully, he does seem gentlemanly in some respects, as much as he can be in this situation.
“Actually, one final question if you don’t mind?” I ask, sidestepping his outstretched arm as he guides us through the double doors out onto the pavement. He raises a brow as confirmation that it’s okay to ask. This is another thing he does rather than speak sometimes.
“Have you ever been in love?”
For the first time since I met him, he falters, a frown descending to show through the normally unaffected expression of disinterest. It’s a look that has me taking a step away from him. Not in fear, more like surprise really. I’ve never seen such a scowl on his face. “I’m sorry if that was inappropriate. You don’t have to answer.” Although, it would be nice if he did. All these books talk of men who’ve never been in love, never known a woman good enough, never been tamed. It all seems a bit unrealistic to me. I’d like to know that real dominants, the ones out here on the streets, are human, too. That they love and are as fallible as the rest of us.
“That was inappropriate. I’m not inclined to answer it,” he eventually replies, backing himself away from me and taking hold of the door behind him again.
“Oh, alright.” Clearly that’s hit a nerve, one I’ll need to understand in more depth.
“Do you need a taxi hailing?” he asks, all pleasantries and joviality lost from his tone.
“Oh, no, no, I’ll walk. It’s fine. It’s the middle of the day. No problem at all.”
He doesn’t smile at me again. He just scans my dress again, allowing his slightly mocking sneer to develop as naturally as it did before, and then slips through the door back into the building.
Right. That went well, then. Wonderful.
I turn into the bright afternoon sun, clutching my precious notes and laptop, and start the walk back to my one bed apartment. It might not be overly large, but it’s mine. Bought and paid for. Being an author has done me proud. It’s not what I thought I’d do when I was at college. I’d hoped more for vet or similar, and I managed to get at least three of the five years completed, but college loans needed to be paid, and it’s just the way life has turned out for me. I made a fair profit off the sale of my first book, which led to me being snapped up by a publisher here in New York. I moved here, thinking I was some high-flying professional. That turned into ratshit, to be honest. While landing me with a four book deal, which seemed extremely exciting to a twenty-one-year-old, they basically ripped me to shreds financially. They took all the money, barely leaving me with enough to support myself over here, and laughed all the way to their bank while I ate noodles and rice for sustenance. Manhattan is extortionate to live in. Food was not a necessity at the time. However, that was what led to Peter being born. He worked independently to Valerie, giving me the ability to make money through him as long as I kept up my obligations to the publisher with Valerie. And the contacts I made, although I had to be quite secretive about it—penname and all that—helped me achieve more profits than Valerie ever allowed. Thankfully, by the time my new deal came around with Valerie, I was more savvy about the publishing world. So, she now writes for my publisher, making me a good deal in romance while they do all the marketing around the world, and that gives me the freedom to write Peter, and whatever I’m going to call my new penname, independently. I really need to think of a new name.
I snap out my phone and call the only real friend I have around here. Don’t get me wrong, I have hundreds of friends, most of whom are in the publishing industry, but only one that I call an actual friend. She’s also an author, an independent one at that, and she writes entirely in the male domain. Thrillers, fantasy, romance, all as men. She says it makes her more money and she can slip in and out of private chats unknown as the person she is. I think it’s because she likes being a man, and if she’d actually admit she was a lesbian, it would help no end.
“Wanna have lunch, Bree?” I ask before she actually speaks because she hardly ever bothers doing that unless it’s an absolute necessity. There’s a grunt on her end, more than likely because she’s writing three books, Facebooking and Tweeting at the same time. You should see her office. Three screens, all with open Works In Progress, and then she’ll have another on audio playing in the background. She’ll be editing that one as she goes.
“Where?” is her eventual human response, not that she inhabits the human world all that much.
“Bluties?”
“See ya in fifteen.”
The phone goes dead. Pleasant.
I’m not even sure why I like her, but she’s always been straight with me, which is something a lot of these other publishing people don’t do. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to help and be part of a team, always have been, but I’m not stupid either. Some of these people wouldn’t have given a shit about me if I hadn’t have made my way up the tree, so to speak. They would have trodden on or over me merrily to get to where I am now. So if they think I’ll give one inch of help to their conniving little arseholes, well, they’re wrong. I’ve learnt my lessons along the way, thank you very much. I’ve become stronger and more able to see the clearly, perhaps changed myself to see straight through the bullshit or at least accommodate its occasional virtues. It’s a shame, but needs must. Trusting, happy, whimsical Alana is long gone. Perhaps swallowed up along the way so that this new version could survive the cutthroat business I’m in. Who knows? Control is all I know now. Control and methodical planning.
I turn along Madison, heading for Bluties, and feel the last rays of the autumn sun belting down on me with a smile. Summer’s lovely in New York, not like the winter that’s coming, which is, frankly, hell. The UK did not prepare me for winter in New York. It’s freezing. The most we used to get over there is a few days of panic stricken roads, empty stores and then as suddenly as the white dusting arrived, it would all disappear. Maybe there would be a bit of sludgy stuff for a few days, but nothing more than that. I think I remember a couple of weeks of it when I was about twelve, but really nothing more. It’s horrendous here. Five foot drifts. Women falling over in heels with their arses sticking up in the air, which always makes me titter, and then there’s the wind. Jesus Christ, all these straight roads are like wind tunnels. I literally took off l
ast year, arms flailing around like a banshee, my coat acting like wings lifting me to the sky. Fuck. It was terrifying. I now go nowhere in the winter without sturdy boots and a handy umbrella to anchor myself to something should the need arise. In fact, since I’ve been living here I hardly wear anything but boots and jeans, which is odd because I never used to. I loved dresses, summer ones with heels, but I suppose I’ve just drifted into casual because of how much time I spend at home rather than going out. I’m only dressed in this dress now because of my interview. Being an author means I can wear what I like when I like, and suits aren’t it. I like to get dressed up, and I can certainly afford it, but on most occasions I spend my time sitting behind a laptop. Why would I get dressed up for that? Most of us are a mess, wearing nothing but old comfy gear and more than likely not even attempting make-up of any description unless we have to.
“Yo. Lana! The fuck is that?”
That’ll be Bree, welcoming me into her arms with her less than excitable exuberance.
“Hey, Bree,” I call back, lifting my head to find her standing outside Bluties, laptop in hand and her phone held high in the sky.
“The fuck you wearing?”
“I had that interview with the Dom.”
“Yeah, right. You get all sexed up then?”
I don’t know why she thinks I would have. She’s not seen me with one single man since we’ve been friends. This has something to do with the fact that I don’t do men. Clearly, I do do men. I do men quite a lot actually, but I do them on my terms, which usually involves a hotel, no exchanging of numbers, and a quick thanks very much. None of which I tell her about.
“He’s research. And quite a gentleman, Bree. I’ve got to get this right. I’m not writing a bad one.”
“How would you know what’s bad or not?” she replies immediately, ever the logical and direct friend that she is. And she’s got a point, one which makes me nod my head in acceptance of that very fact. It’s one of the reasons I’m doing this research after all. “Not sure why you’re not letting him show you properly. How do you expect to get accurate data unless you try it out for size?” The second part of her argument makes me frown at such a thought, regardless of his good looks. It might be a sensible thought process some ways, but it’s not for me. I laugh, trying to lighten the moment as she stares at me, one hand on her dark tattooed arm that she’s scratching, the other still flicking through her phone. “Seriously, Lana. How do you expect to be able to edit your way through the actuality of sensation when you’ve never experienced it? Sure, we can all write romance, but from what I’m gathering, being whipped ain’t the same, you know?”
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