by Ines Johnson
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I turn away from Zahara and answer the call immediately, not bothering to look at the caller ID.
“Cari?”
“No, it’s me. Your brother.”
I try to hold in my sigh. Arneis and I haven’t been on the best of terms these last couple of weeks. He wants to sell the family business, while I’ve been busting my ass to save it.
“She still with that creep?”
“He’s not a creep, Arneis. We both met him.”
“You saw how he couldn’t take his eyes off Cari. He acted like he owned her, like some Fifty Shades dominance crap.”
This time, I do let out my sigh. I watched Hadrian Serrano with my sister. He looked lost for her, hopelessly in love. He and Arneis had nearly come to blows when Arneis had suggested they put Cari into an institution after her latest daredevil stunt. But when I saw Cari and Hadrian together, I knew her time skydiving was over. When she looked up at him, she’d seemed grounded, settled.
“I think he’s good for her,” I say. “I just wish they hadn’t run away to get married.”
“Well, that’s not all he’s run away with. I just found out the Serranos have bought our debt.”
I go to take another step, but I can’t move. My heel is stuck in the fertile ground of the vineyard. Instead of pulling myself out of the earth, I stumble to grasp onto my brother’s words.
Unbeknownst to any of us, our father had taken out debt against the land. But he hadn’t gone the traditional, legal route. He’d taken loans from some unsavory people. Arneis found out before I did, and tried to handle it on his own. But whenever a politician gets in bed with criminals, it’s more often than not the lawmaker who suffers. Arneis’s once-promising career in local politics is now on shaky ground.
“The Serranos bought five million shares in Durand Incorporated. They own more than fifty percent of the company.”
Despite my heel coming free, I am still stuck in place. That simply is not possible. I had shut down all attempts for the bad seeds to buy the vineyard out. One of the local banks had given me weeks to come up with the money. By the end of the harvest, I would have it. But apparently, someone has already beaten me to it.
Not only has my sister’s new husband taken her away from me, he’s taken control of my livelihood. Little does he know, I am not the submissive sort. I never glance away from a man. Not only would I hold his gaze, but I’d also make him back down and give me back what is mine: my sister, and my business.
3
Gaius
I know I’m having a nightmare when my dick goes limp.
I’m normally in a perpetual state of readiness, even when I slumber. Legs spread, knees parted, dripping, quivering pussies come at me from everywhere I turn. My dreams are typically not much different than my waking hours. Both are filled with submissives eager for a taste of my cock.
My nightmares, when they come, are different.
Darkness falls as women close their legs. Their cries of delight hush into whispers that are then choked into a gurgled murmur. All falls silent as she comes to my bed.
Her white hair is stark against the dark sky, rivaling the moonlight. Her long, porcelain limbs are fine and appear breakable. Looks can be deceiving. Her blood-red lips are coated with the gloss of her latest victim. It’s the same red that coats the tips of her nails, which she reaches towards me.
I let my mouth slack in awe, though she’s never turned me on—likely because she has a habit of digging her nails into my balls and telling me how much I love it. It took a few decades but eventually, my mind made way for that pain to become—well, not pleasure, but something less than pain. Though I never became the pain slut Domitia wished me to be.
I know that is why she likes to play with me. She wants to break me of my dominance. For centuries, I allowed her to amuse herself with my body. I allowed her to test my limits.
She is my sire. She gave me this new, everlasting life. But she never broke my mind.
In my nightmare, before she can pounce on me and ensnare me in the cock ring she uses to keep me in check, I reach for her. My clever fingers begin their magic trick as I shove all five of them into her. I work my fist like my life depends on it. Because it does.
I pump into her, fisting her roughly, just the way she likes it. In a matter of moments, she is quivering beneath me, liking the pain as much as the pleasure. Maybe a little more.
Her orgasm is long, deep. I do not stop working my hands, using my free hand to pinch her nipples, her clit, to intensify her trembling. She shudders, in the throes of another orgasm. Even then, I do not stop. As long as she’s coming, she cannot strike. I do not stop until she is a quivering mess. All the while, my dick remains limp.
There’s a part of me, the conscious me, that wants to wrap my hand around her throat and squeeze until her pretty little head pops off. Only, I know that she would like that. All I want is out of the nightmare. I want to wake up to a world where Domitia no longer exists.
Instead of thinking of murdering my dead sire, I think pink. Because I’m all for women’s liberation. So, I think of all the pussies I’ve made quiver over the last month. Hell, all the pussies I made drip over the last few days should be enough to push thoughts of her pale, sadistic ass from my mind.
Once again in my dreams: thighs spread. Clitorises glisten. Nipples tighten. But there isn’t much pink that I’m seeing.
I see dark skin, the color of a golden sémillon grape. As a pussy connoisseur, I know that not all labia are colored in the same shade. I know that, with the touches of honey in her skin, her pussy will be darker, likely a ruddy brown. They say the darker the berry, the sweeter the pussy juices. I’m certain that Marechal’s pussy will be the sweetest I’ve tasted in a while.
I jerk in my sleep, but I don’t wake. I’ve been wanting Marechal Durand for some time now. It’s not the first time I’ve dreamed of her.
I take my time in peeling off that form-fitting skirt she likes to wear. I lose my patience at the buttoned-up shirt though, ripping the fabric apart to reveal nipples tipped with caramel morsels. The shoes, I leave on. She has a penchant for vintage French shoes. I know because not only am I a pussy connoisseur, I’m also a clothes whore. The shoes, she can keep. They’ll look fantastic thrown over my shoulder as I lick her pussy.
Before I dip my head to Marechal’s sweet cunny, I see a flash of porcelain in my peripheral vision. Her blood-red nails flying at me isn’t what makes my blood curdle. It’s that she goes for Marechal’s throat.
I’m gasping for air as I jolt awake. One hand bats at a pillow on my bed. The other is twined in the sheet, ripping it to shreds.
I blink a few times before my room comes into focus. There is a light shining over me. I never sleep in the dark, even though my eyesight is sharper than an owl’s.
I check every corner before I’ve convinced myself that she is not there. It’s been a long time since she’s invaded my nightmares. But over the last week, her presence in my life has returned. Not that she ever truly left the mind she’d tried to break for centuries. I may not have broken, but she’s definitely left me twisted.
I rise and dress for the day. My closet spans half the west wing of the mansion I share with my brothers, and is filled to the brim with decades of fashion. My body hasn’t changed in four hundred years. I could still wear the breeches made for me in the sixteenth century. Or the pantaloons from the seventeenth. Though I’m sure the mold of my dick and my ass would cause women on the streets to stop and stare. Instead of vintage French, I decide on tailored Italian.
It’s late in the evening by the time I emerge from my closet and am ready to greet the night. On my nightstand, my phone is beeping. I look down to see Marechal Durand’s number. My spirits instantly lift at the thought of seeing her tonight. Perhaps tonight will be the night I find out whether I’m right about the color of her nipples and pussy.
“Ms. Durand, I was just on my way over—”
“Cut th
e crap, Serrano. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Not the greeting I expected. But it’s been a while since I’ve had a challenge. I mentally adjust my timeline of having Marechal Durand’s thighs open by a few hours later this evening.
“You’ve got some balls on you, mister.”
She is right about that. Though I think agreeing with her will add a few hours to her thighs opening for me.
“First, you take my sister. And now my business.”
“I assure you that your sister is fine. As for your business, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I just learned you and your brothers bought my vineyard.”
I curse under my breath. When I find Hadrian, who is likely out in his sex dungeon burying his face between Carignan’s thighs right now, I’m going to stake him.
“Where are you?” I ask, already gathering my car keys to head to her vineyard. But first, I’ll need to tear my brother away from his bride and see where his head was at with this decision. We don’t have the capacity to take on another vineyard with this crop struggling as it is.
“I’m walking onto your estate right now. And I—ahhh!”
The sound of Marechal’s scream is the last thing I hear on the line before it goes dead. But the sound is still loud in my ear. It’s coming from outside, very near the dungeon at the side of the property. If Marechal happened across her newly turned sister, their family reunion would be deadly. I drop my phone and dash out the door.
4
Marechal
A sharp pain radiates up my ankle after my ass hits the ground. I look down, more concerned that I’ve damaged my heel than twisted my ankle. I’m relieved to see that my shoes are still intact, though there are dirt smudges on the fabric.
I let out a long sigh. It’s going to take me all night to get the specks of earth out. I’m usually not so careless as to walk into a vineyard in heels, but I’m not thinking clearly at the moment. What the hell am I doing out on this property in the night?
I’ve spent my life making rational decisions. I’ve had to. Women in this business aren’t often taken seriously, not even when our names are on the checks.
Despite being born into the family business, I had to fight for every position, every promotion, every share I earned in the Durand Vineyard. It was no matter that my father praised every single one of my efforts. I knew I had to earn my way to gain the respect of others. And I had. Only to be handed the reins of a failing business.
I’d had no idea of the debt we were in while my father was alive. I’d woken each day and done the job I’d earned to the fullest of my abilities. I’d thought I was making strides, yet my efforts were barely making a dent in the debt. And now, it is all gone.
The hell with that.
I push up on my elbows and try to get my feet under me. But my foot doesn’t budge. There is rope twisted around my ankle. I realize that’s what my foot caught on, and the reason why I fell.
Who would leave rope out in the middle of a driveway?
One of the irresponsible Serrano brothers, that’s who.
I’ve parked my car at the end of the drive. It was the only spot available after the line of expensive sports cars that scream that the owners have small manhoods. I would weep for my poor sister, but I know that the size of a man’s instrument has nothing to do with his skill in using it.
The few times I’ve come in contact with a penis left me certain that I have no use for a permanent one. Not even one with a battery compartment. I’d purchased a battery-operated boyfriend after my last relationship fizzled. The vibrations of the sex toy had not aided in me getting off. I’ve never gotten off. I’m sure all the women I’ve seen in porn videos are just faking it.
There is no such thing as a female orgasm. It’s just another lie made up by men to get women to drop their panties. Like tales of Santa Claus, or the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy: you have to be good, to give something up, in hopes that you will get a prize at the end. But I’d never had the patience to wait a whole year for Christmas presents. Chocolate eggs only lead to a trip to the dentist. Even as a child, I knew my baby teeth were more valuable than a couple of coins. So, I am not a believer.
But something about the rope against my foot, holding me down, sparks something in me. The knot that holds me still also eases something inside of me. For the first time in days—hell, it’s the first time in years—I am made to hold still.
I lower my elbows down until my back is pressed against the cool earth. I look up at the night sky and notice the stars twinkling down at me. All is quiet. All is still. Something cool rests against my skin. I think it might be called peace.
The sound of a pebble kicking up and landing snaps me back to the present. I am bound, trapped, unable to rise, and something is coming in the darkness.
A figure looms over me. Broad shoulders that block out the moon and cast me into darkness. A narrow waist that extends into two powerful legs standing over me. The legs end in an expensive pair of Italian shoes that I take a moment to admire before glancing back up.
Gaius Serrano is looking down at me. His lips part into a sly smile.
I catch my breath. I’m a tall woman. I’ve stood toe to toe with Gaius before, and his height dwarfs me. But having him tower over me makes me feel… breathless.
I inhale, and smell the spicy scent of him alongside the sweetness of the vines. I gaze up his strong, powerful thighs, and my gaze catches on the bulge in his pants. He crouches down and my gaze stays on the bulge as it comes to eye level with me.
“Ms. Durand.”
His voice is like Japanese plum wine. I hate the stuff because it is far too sweet, like confection candy. His words give me a sugar rush as his breath reaches my nose. He’s only said my name, but it feels as though it's echoing through my mind. His candied tone slides down my throat and warms my chest.
“Are you checking out the competition?”
I blink. “Competition?” Does he really think his wine is at all comparable to Durand’s? I scramble to get my legs under me so that I can be on a level with him. But I forget that I am trapped in the rope some careless person left out.
Gaius looks down and notes it. Something sparks in his eyes; something dark and possessive. Like he’s seen his pet trying to make a break for it. I expect him to yank on the lead and bring me to heel. I’m breathless as I wait.
This is insane. I have never been on any man or woman’s lead. I have always been the one holding the reins.
From his crouched position, Gaius’s large hand comes to my calf. I shiver from the heat of his touch. He doesn’t immediately free me. He runs his thumb between the rope and my skin.
I forget to struggle as I marvel at the different textures of the twine and the pad of his thumb. Again, a sense of relief washes over me. All of the stresses of the day—gone. The pile of bills and notices on my desk—forgotten. The worry over my brother and sister—a distant memory.
I have the sense that if I simply stay in this man’s grasp, all will be right with the world. It’s the most ridiculous notion I’ve ever heard of in my life. I give a kick to remove his hand and loosen the rope. The rope loosens, but his grip tightens.
Immediately, I stop my motion and come to heel.
5
Gaius
I look down at the treat that fate has delivered me. My incisors water at the sight. Marechal Durand is sprawled out on the ground. Her knees, which are usually trapped in her form-fitting skirts, are akimbo. I can’t quite see up her skirt, but my imagination runs wild as my gaze travels up the curvy pathway of her hips.
Her chest heaves in her white blouse. The top button has come undone, leaving the lapels askew. Her ample breasts rest lopsided under the fabric. They’re practically begging my hands to free them of the bra and set them straight.
Her hair, which I’ve only ever seen in a tight and tame bun, has a few strands loose and around her heart-shaped face. The dark locks curl around the na
pe of her neck the way a tongue would sample the salty-sweetness of a trickle of sweat there.
None of that is what makes my dick go hard.
I slide my gaze all the way back down to whence I began until my eyes come to rest on the length of rope that has bound her right ankle. The strands twine from the stem of her vintage heel, over her ankle, and end at her calf. I couldn’t have made a more artful design if I’d tied her up myself.
“Are you going to stand there and stare?” Marechal hisses. “Or are you going to help me?”
I put one knee to the ground, not giving a damn about the ruination of my expensive, tailored slacks. Even though I’m bent over, I still tower over her. She has to tilt her head back to gaze up at me. Her gaze is hooded in that way a woman has when she knows that a man has taken power over her.
I hold her gaze. The color of her eyes reminds me of Kyoho grape: a dark, black-purple fruit that appears fathomless. When you bite into the fruit, it’s pure sweetness, like plum wine.
I can sense that a part of her is uncomfortable. Marechal Durand is a woman used to being in complete control of herself and everything around her. I can scent that she is aroused. With my expert hearing, I can hear the brush of her pebbled nipples against the fine starch of her blouse.
“Mr. Serrano?” Her voice is breathless in her attempt to be in command. “Are you going to be a gentleman and help me, or not?”
“I think I’ll stare for another moment,” I say.
Her gaze goes wide. When it does, I note that her eyes aren’t as dark as I’d first thought. There are hints of gold at the edges, and a lighter shade of purple at the center. I’ve never seen the color before. I stare, mesmerized.
I reach for her—whether to lick the Sémillion gold of her skin or kiss the Kyoto purple in her eyes, I’m not sure. I’m not about to find out, either.
Marechal jerks back, away from my seeking fingers. But she can’t get far. She is bound and at my mercy. Just the way I like my women.
