by Tara Rose
Portraits of Submission 1
Abigail’s Acquiescence
When Abigail Dawson is compelled by forces she can’t understand to buy an erotic painting in an antique store, she discovers it’s actually a portal to an alternate universe. Once there, she’s forced to become a sex slave to princes Jarrett and Colton, but quickly gives her heart to them as well as her body.
Jarrett and Colton are descended from one of the true kings of Ashdown. They belong to an elite group of princes who use the magick of the erotic paintings discovered centuries ago to lure women into their world for their unique sexual perversions. But as they take what is their birthright from Abigail, each man loses his heart to her in the process.
When an ancient threat from Ashdown’s enemies turns out to be within their castle walls, Jarrett and Colton become deadly pawns in a race against politics and time to save the woman they love.
Genre: BDSM, Contemporary, Fantasy, Ménage a Trois/Quatre
Length: 40,870 words
ABIGAIL’S ACQUIESCENCE
Portraits of Submission 1
Tara Rose
SIREN SENSATIONS
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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IMPRINT: Siren Sensations
ABIGAIL’S ACQUIESCENCE
Copyright © 2015 by Tara Rose
E-book ISBN: 978-1-63258-997-2
First E-book Publication: February 2015
Cover design by Harris Channing
All art and logo copyright © 2015 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
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www.SirenPublishing.com
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DEDICATION
Walk with me, dear readers. We’re on a fantasy journey this time…
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
About the Author
ABIGAIL’S ACQUIESCENCE
Portraits of Submission 1
TARA ROSE
Copyright © 2015
Chapter One
Abigail Dawson wasn’t one to go poking around in out-of-the-way antique shops on a Saturday afternoon, but she’d passed this place last month on her way home from a party with friends, and had been intrigued by the erotic portrait in the front window. This was the first time since then that she’d had a few free moments to stop by and take a closer look.
The smell inside antique shops normally bothered her, but someone had lit candles or had some serious aromatherapy going on, because instead of old dust and mold, the soothing combo of vanilla and lavender filled the air as Abigail stepped inside.
She walked up to the portrait and swallowed hard at the image of a woman, wrists cuffed behind her back, head bowed, on her knees awaiting her punishment. Or was it pleasure she hoped for? Abigail spotted goose bumps on the woman’s skin, and she could almost feel her delicious anticipation.
Once upon a time, she’d have given anything to be that woman, but Clive wasn’t kinky. It had taken her three years of their five-year marriage to even confess her fantasies to him, and he’d laughed at her and called her a freak. She’d never brought up the subject again.
“It’s intriguing, isn’t it?” The shop owner’s hopeful tone of voice pulled Abigail out of her reverie.
“It’s mesmerizing.” She touched the frame, pulling her hand back when it gave her a tiny shock.
“Static electricity. It’s so dry in here.”
“It’s that time of year.” Abigail wiped her hand on her sweater and tried again. She didn’t receive a shock, but withdrew her hand anyway because the wood seemed alive. That was the best way she could describe it. It moved under her touch. Either the owner hadn’t seen it or she’d decided not to comment this time, because she started chattering away about the properties of ash wood.
“It’s rare to see a frame made from that kind of wood. Most are made from oak, poplar, or walnut.”
“How old is it?”
“I have no idea. The person I bought this shop from last year acquired it. I found it stacked up in the back room with other paintings. There was no tag on it, and when I asked her about it she said she didn’t even remember buying it.”
“How odd.” Abigail moved to the left slightly to allow the light to hit the center of the picture. “It’s oil paint, right?”
“Yes. My sources told me it’s about two hundred years old, but the frame pre-dates that by another two hundred years or so.”
“Maybe the artist used an old frame?”
“Maybe. But even then, they used spruce or pine for the secondary pieces, and another fruit wood su
ch as pear or plum for the main construction. Chestnut, elm, and basswood were also common woods. I’ve never seen one made from ash. It’s an interesting piece.”
Another customer walked in, and Abigail told the woman she wanted to look around a bit more before deciding. She left her to take care of the new customer, and Abigail strolled through the shop, but her attention was focused on the painting. From this angle, about ten feet away, the faint shadow of a tall figure standing to the left of the women was visible. She hadn’t noticed that before.
If she’d brought something like this home when she and Clive were still married, he’d have sold it while she was at work. She had nothing this valuable or rare left. When she’d finally taken her head out of her ass and realized her husband was stealing everything in the house and pawning it to feed his gambling addiction, she had only been able to save what he hadn’t lifted by renting a storage unit and moving those items into it.
She’d have taken her possessions to her parents’ house if the pair hadn’t been so critical of her choice of husbands. Even now, after she’d divorced Clive, they still couldn’t let it go that she’d married the wrong man.
She returned to the painting again, and now that her eye had caught the man she could see him this close, as well. He’d been painted only as a shadow. He had no discernible face, and she couldn’t even tell what he wore. The woman was completely naked except for her blindfold.
The painting called to her in a way nothing had for a long time. In her day-to-day work, she had no opportunity to do something as peaceful as study a painting. As an IT analyst, her job was tedious and detailed. It fed her need for order and logic, but the artistic side of her soul had dried up a long time ago. Her marriage hadn’t helped.
“I want you,” she whispered. The painting didn’t talk back, for which she was grateful, but she did experience that same sense of the wood being alive that she had earlier. She made a mental note to Google ash wood. Maybe it had certain properties that would explain the odd sensations? Then again, maybe she really was as crazy as her family said, and all of this was nothing more than a delusion?
Abigail picked up the painting and carried it to the counter. As she laid it down, she swore she heard it sigh.
She made several stops on the way home, and by the time she finally carried it into her condo, she was edgy and couldn’t figure out why. She’d eaten enough that morning, and she wasn’t overly tired. It was Saturday afternoon and she planned to make a huge salad for dinner and then open a bottle of wine. Great combo. She’d have to do extra reps at the gym tomorrow but with all the overtime she’d been putting in lately, she deserved a quiet evening watching mindless shows on TV.
She walked around with the painting, holding it up against various empty places on the walls, but couldn’t decide where the light would best hit it to show the subtle variations in the picture. Finally, she propped it up against the wall next to her bed and went downstairs to make dinner.
While she ate her salad and drank a glass of wine in front of the TV, Abigail couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything. Not that she watched a lot of TV, but this was ridiculous. I must be working too hard. No kidding. She always worked too hard, but it came with the territory.
The painting kept popping up in her mind. The details of the picture, the color of the frame, and the way certain shading brought out additional elements of the picture. After she put her salad bowl and fork in the dishwasher, she poured another glass of wine and went upstairs. She propped the painting up on a chair and studied it, sipping her wine.
Was that a second man on the woman’s right? She hadn’t noticed that before. Abigail turned on the lamp closest to it, and then strolled past the picture, back and forth, trying to bring out the shadow she’d just seen. When she was ready to give up and blame the second glass of wine for making her hallucinate, there he was. Just like that.
He was no longer in shadow, and neither was the man on the woman’s left.
The stem of her glass started to slip from her hands, so she placed the wine on the dresser and took several deep breaths. “You’re done for tonight,” she whispered.
She blinked several times, but the men were still there, dressed in old-fashioned clothing. Billowy shirts, breeches, and plain boots. Was it a trick of the oils used, or had it been the lighting in the antique shop that hadn’t allowed her to see them in this much detail?
Bullshit. They weren’t there when you first looked at it.
Abigail knew it was true. The only figure in the painting when she’d first walked into the shop was the woman. It wasn’t until she’d crossed the shop and glanced back that she saw the first man. And it wasn’t until now that she’d seen the second one, or the clothing on both.
It wasn’t possible. Images in paintings didn’t appear as time went on.
And yet, in this one, they had.
Abigail picked up the portrait and her wine glass to carry both downstairs. She placed the painting in the hallway, next to the garage door. Tomorrow she’d take it back to the shop with some excuse. Surely something this rare and unusual would sell again.
She finished cleaning up in the kitchen, made sure twice all the extra lights were off and the doors were locked, then went upstairs to brush her teeth and wash her face. Her evening routine always reminded her of Clive only because he used to get a kick out of the fact that she couldn’t even lie down to take a nap without first brushing her teeth and washing her face.
How long would it be before she stopped remembering shit like that? Would she ever stop, or would the good things like that haunt her for the rest of her life? When Clive hadn’t been stealing things to gamble, he was quite charming and easy to be with. It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried. Three years of empty promises from him that he’d get help, and two and a half years of Gam-Anon for her, but nothing had changed. He’d actually become worse during that time.
She snuggled up against the pillows and picked up a book, but hadn’t read more than a couple of pages when she heard a noise downstairs. A noise she couldn’t identify. Half her mind told her it was nothing, but since it wasn’t even eight in the evening and she still had plenty of time to read before falling asleep, she decided to investigate.
The nights were still a bit chilly this time of year so she threw a robe on over her tank top and shorts, then padded barefoot down the stairs and listened. There it was again. An odd swooshing sound, like someone was swinging a piece of leather or thick rope. Was it coming from outside?
She peered out the windows as she walked through the rooms downstairs. The moon was full, and it cast an eerie glow on the pavement, but the street out front and the courtyard in the back were as quiet and deserted as they usually were. She lived near the most elusive neighbors on the planet.
The sound became louder as she made her way to the hallway that led to the garage. Abigail stopped, gasping as she remembered she’d put the painting in this hallway.
No… It can’t be…
She should have been afraid, but she wasn’t. Instead, she was merely…curious. A force she didn’t understand compelled her to enter the hallway. Flipping on the overhead lights, she moved toward the painting. Before she stood in front of it, she could already see it moving, and yet she kept advancing.
There was no uneasiness this time as there had been upstairs when she’d spotted the second man and realized she could also see the clothing on both. Instead, she’d decided to discover what made that sound. It was as inevitable as the tides. She couldn’t have stopped this if she’d wanted to. As those thoughts entered her mind, a peaceful sensation slipped over Abigail, as if she’d just solved a problem that had been plaguing her for months.
Abigail stood in front of the portrait, watching the man on the left throw a flogger. That’s what made the noise. She’d only seen them in clandestine online searches for toys. No way would she have bought one and asked Clive to use it on her. Not after the humiliation of being called a freak. But oh the fantasies she�
��d had…
The more she watched, the closer she drew to the painting. Her hallway lights grew dim, and a tiny voice in her head told her to be careful or she’d fall, but Abigail didn’t understand how she could fall in her own home, on a flat floor.
But then she was falling. And it was dark, cold, and silent. The only thing she could still hear was her own screaming…
Chapter Two
Jarrett, son of Atheron and direct descendant of King Reginald I, approached the castle as twilight set in, riding side by side with his second cousin, Colton. The two had accompanied a scouting party through the western woods because there had been reports of spies from the neighboring kingdom of Enfield trying to scale the wall once again. It was an old problem, but one which the princes took turns addressing. This month was his and Colton’s turn.
Colton glanced up at the stars. “They bear a mysterious omen tonight.”
“You’ve never been able to read them.”
“I’m not a stargazer.”
“No, you’re not. So stop trying to pretend you are.”
Colton gave him a droll look and Jarrett chuckled. The men had been friends since they could walk, but that never stopped them from teasing each other about their shortcomings. “Why do you think they bear a mysterious omen, as you call it?”
“I feel something in the air.”
Colton might not be a stargazer, but he was sensitive to subtle changes in the energy around the castle, so at his words a shiver ran down Jarrett’s spine. “Do you think it has to do with the people of Enfield?”
