The Drake Restrained Collection: Part 1 and 2 (The Drake Series Book 3)

by Lund, S. E.

  THE DRAKE RESTRAINED COLLECTION

  PART 1 AND 2

  Copyright 2014 S. E. LUND

  First Edition

  DEDICATION

  Dedicated to Suzanne, my first editor and the first other writer to consider my writing seriously and offer an honest constructive critique. Without your critical eye and supportive words, I would never have seen both the potential in my work and where it needed improvement. You gave me the courage to continue writing despite difficulties in the early years. You will be missed.

  R. I. P.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to my family and friends who supported me during the long hours when I would lock myself into my office with my computer jammed in my face, writing. Without your tolerance, my books would never have been written or finished, but my house would have been a lot cleaner! Many thanks to my editor Michelle Saunders for all her hard work – any remaining mistakes are all mine!

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  There are three things you should understand about neurosurgeons.

  Huge balls. Laser-like focus. Hero Complex.

  Cutting into the human skull to operate on the brain required nothing less.

  I stood at the sinks in the anteroom outside the operating theater at New York Presbyterian, cleaning my knuckles with a scrub brush. My new neurosurgery resident, Stuart, stood beside me, the plain blue cap and scrubs, safety glasses and binoculars giving away little about his personality, but he was a neurosurgeon and that pretty much said it all.

  This was our first real surgery together since he started and I was interested in watching him perform. He would do all the grunt work – the incision, sawing the bone to remove a piece of the skull, then sewing up after. I’d do the parts requiring greater finesse – mapping the location in the brain using the CT scanner, threading the electrode into the brain and adjusting the voltage, ensuring we had it in exactly the right place. I’d oversee it all to ensure he did it properly.

  I turned to him and watched as he scrubbed in.

  “My nurses tell me you’re one of the youngest neurosurgery residents at NYP.”

  “Besides you, you mean?” he said and gave me a smile, which was visible only as a narrowing of his eyes over his surgical mask. “You were even younger than me when you did your residency.”

  I nodded. “I graduated high school early and finished my undergrad in two and a half years.”

  “You were one of the youngest medical students at Columbia ever. Even more ambitious than me.”

  I laughed. “From the looks of your CV, you’re no slouch.”

  I felt Stuart’s eyes on me. "You know the nurses call you Dr. D."

  I raised my eyebrows. After being at NYP for only a few days, Stuart felt secure enough in his status to bring up the OR nursing staff's pet name for me.

  "Dr. Delish, right?" I said, grinning. "I've heard it all."

  "Dr. Dangerous."

  I laughed at that. "I’m surprised its not Dr. Demon. You must have been talking to my ex-wife’s friends. They hate me.”

  “Oh, take my word for it – these nurses did not seem to hate you. Not at all,” Stuart said, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “They seemed to see the dangerous moniker as a definite plus. There was a lot of snickering going on.” Stuart shook his head. "The ladies do love a bad boy."

  I shook my head. "That they do. But you know, bad boys are just really really good at making women feel a little wild."

  "Your dad was a legendary bad boy," Stuart said as he ran clear water over his soapy arms. "Flying planes, playing in a band, parachuting. Shock-trauma surgeon at U of Maryland. You're a lot like your father. The acorn really doesn't fall far from the tree…"

  "I'm not like my father," I said, a bit too firmly. "And I'm not a bad boy. I'm a very good boy. Trust me. That's just their very active imaginations." I gave him a grin, holding up my hands and backing through the doors into the operating theatre.

  Once inside, I was pleased that my favorite circulating nurse, Ellen, had my sixties music mix playing over the sound system. The nurses and technicians were moving their heads to the backbeat, which was such an important part of the British Invasion era music.

  "On top of things, as usual," I said to Ellen and saw her brown eyes widen behind her surgical mask.

  "Was there ever any doubt? " She handed me a sterile towel. “You have me well trained.”

  "There was never any doubt,” I replied. “And it’s the other way around, Ellen. You have me well trained."

  She laughed at that. "Whatever you say, Dr. D…"

  Dr. D…

  I was used to the friendly ribbing from the OR nurses I worked with on a regular basis. I never knew which moniker they meant by it. I hoped it was Delish. She winked at me, obviously having overheard Stuart and not Demon, but you never knew.

  Inside the OR and in the halls of NYP, I was Dr. D, but outside, I was someone else entirely. Master D, to those who knew my secret life, a Dominant in Manhattan's BDSM community, specializing in B&D – bondage and dominance. I made the mistake of becoming involved in a BDSM relationship with a nurse when I first entered the lifestyle five years earlier, and that had almost ended in disaster.

  Never again.

  From then on, I kept my two personas separate, never letting them meet. My career in neurosurgery at NYP relied on it.

  A few selections from the Rolling Stones played over the speakers. I developed a love of all things 60s from my father, who was perhaps the biggest influence on my life despite the fact he did everything he could to avoid being a father. He died as he lived – fast and loose, his private plane crashing in the wilds of Africa while on a trip to Somalia doing work with Doctors Without Borders.

  Everything I was I attributed to my father’s influence. No matter how I tried to escape him, I wasn't successful but for one exception. My father thrived in chaos – first in a battlefield ER and then in a shock trauma ward back home. In contrast, I needed – demanded – complete calm and total control.

  That need for control extended to all aspects of my life – my work, my home and sex. The only place I allowed less than perfect control was my choice of music, which was always loose and wild. Psychedelic rock. Jazz. Vintage Punk. Grunge Metal. Everything else in my life had to be precise, planned, laid out in writing and in triplicate, if possible.

  Control was my thing. Dominance during sex was my kink.

  My bondage closet would fascinate a shrink.

  While Under My Thumb by the Stones played over the speakers, I considered Richard Graham, my patient with Parkinson's Disease. My team and I would implant electrodes deep in his brain that sent out pulses of electricity to very specific structures responsible for motor control. The operation would require total concentration on my part and that of my team of surgeons and nurses, but it was that control and focus that I loved.

  With Jagger singing in the background, my scrub nurse helped me gown and glove up. Once Stuart finished with his portion of the surgery, I approached the patient, examining the incisions before placing the electrodes.

  "How are you, Mr. Graham?" I said, keeping my voice firm but warm to reassure him. He was sedated, semi-reclining, but conscious and responsive so we could make sure we didn't damage any key areas of his brain.

  "Great tunes," Mr. Graham said. "You came through with the Stones."

  "Music relaxes patients. We do what we can to make this as stress-free as possible, considering that we have to keep you awake during the procedure."

  I consulted the CT images and
checked to make sure everything was in proper alignment before threading the electrode into precise position, guided by a CT-generated image of the man's brain on a screen beside the operating table. Stuart stood beside me, watching my every move.

  When I stimulated the section of the brain where the electrode has been placed, Mr. Graham's hand stopped shaking completely. His head was imprisoned in a metal cage designed to keep him still, so he could barely see his hand, but he could feel it and his response was why I did my job.

  "Holy Mary," he said, his voice filled with awe. "Would you look at that..."

  I smiled to myself, but didn't allow too much time for celebration. One moment where I lost focus and Mr. Graham could bleed or lose function. The success of the procedure was all down to how much skill I had guiding the electrode into the very specific part of Mr. Graham's brain that was responsible for motor movement. Even given my skill, there were still risks.

  Fortunately, my concentration was above average and the electrode was in proper place. The pulses of electricity would stop the errant movement in Mr. Graham's limbs. He'd be able to hold his own cup of coffee again, use his own spoon, fork and knife.

  When Mr. Graham’s surgery was finished, I bent down to look him in the eye.

  "Everything went really well," I said, squeezing his shoulder. "As we discussed, you'll still have the tremor until your surgical wound has healed, but once it has, you'll come back in and we'll activate the electrodes. You should be completely free of your tremor."

  "Thank you, Doctor," Mr. Graham said, tears in his eyes. "Thank you."

  I left the OR, removed my mask and gown and went directly to the waiting room to tell his wife and children about his surgery.

  His wife cried when I delivered the news that the operation was successful. When she held her arms out, I allowed her to hug me briefly. She was probably afraid she'd have to start feeding him herself, wiping his ass and changing his diaper.

  I loved my job. I'd do it for free.

  After I finished dictating my report, I left the hospital and drove to my apartment in Chelsea.

  Driving in Manhattan taught you two things: patience and ingenuity. When traffic was backed up, as it was that night, you had to either wait it out or find an alternate route. I decided to wait because, sometimes, a shortcut really did turn out to be a long journey, especially when everyone else had the same idea and the streets became one traffic jam after another.

  That evening, I was tired after a long day of teaching and surgery, so I was anxious to get to my apartment as soon as I could for a shower and bite to eat. As I waited for a tow truck to remove a car that had been involved in an accident on 57th Street, my cell chimed.

  ALERT: Appointment with Allie – MR.

  Allie was my current submissive. I went to her apartment three times a week, on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, ten o’clock sharp, for a ninety-minute session of bondage and dominance.

  Tonight's appointment wasn’t our usual scene where I tied her up, blindfolded her and tortured her with pleasure. MR meant ‘mock rape’.

  Mock rape wasn’t my personal preference. I didn’t respond to a woman’s fear or inflicting pain – quite the opposite. I responded to a woman’s trust to let me tie her up and blindfold her. I responded to her cries of pleasure. I chose my submissives carefully to ensure that they didn’t have inclinations for pain or humiliation. Although Allie and I had been together for eight months and I thought I knew her desires inside and out, I'd been wrong.

  I thought we had explored every kink we both had, so when she asked me to fulfill her secret fantasy after months of silence about it, I agreed because we were otherwise very compatible. Once every week or two, as a treat for being especially obedient the rest of our time together, I’d sneak into her apartment at a random time, chase her around, force her onto the bed, tie her up while talking dirty to her, and pretend to rape her. When I did, her orgasm would be explosive and that always made my own so much better.

  Before the light changed, I saw a text from Ken, my band mate and the best man at my wedding. He’d arranged an extra gig at O’Riley’s, his family's Irish Pub, for later that night, before our Friday gig at The Front. We had added some new songs to the usual sets we played. Playing at O’Riley’s would give us the extra practice.

  I considered – it would mean either canceling my appointment with Allie or seeing her earlier than 10:00, and I knew she’d be disappointed if I did. Still, my band came first and so I would have to postpone to another night or come by at 9:00 for a short scene. I texted her to let her know.

  Change in plans. Have another last-minute appointment at 10:00 and have only an hour. Will be by at 9:00 for a brief B&D session. Be ready.

  Next, I texted Ken that I’d be at O’Riley’s, 10:00 PM sharp. Enough time to get home, eat a light meal, take a shower, and head off to Allie’s place for a quick scene. Mock rape was off the agenda for the night. I knew Allie would be disappointed, but events were out of my control.

  At 8:30, I received a text from Allie as I was finishing a bowl of leftover pasta and tomato sauce I warmed up in the microwave.

  I’m at a restaurant with my friends. Can we make it 9:30 instead of 9:00?I wasn't expecting you until after 10:00…

  I noted with some irritation that she didn’t use the proper form of address. If I didn’t go until 9:30, I would have barely any time before heading out to O’Riley’s.

  No time for anything but vanilla, then. I want to find you kneeling by the front door, in your hose and garters, in proper position. Quick and dirty against the wall.

  She wasn’t pleased.

  What’s the rush? You know what I wanted…

  I did know what she wanted. But I couldn’t do a proper MR scene in less than half an hour. They always required greater aftercare and that took time to do properly.

  Allie, do I have to remind you about the terms of our contract? I have to come by early, or not at all.

  I waited for her response, but it didn’t come for a few moments.

  All right, Sir. I’ll be waiting.

  I texted right back.

  In proper position.

  She replied.

  In proper position, Sir.

  I exhaled, glad that she’d submitted despite her disappointment. I didn't need the trouble.

  Good girl. See you then. Be ready for me.

  I finished my pasta, had a quick shower, and dressed in jeans and a white linen button-down shirt. I stowed both my guitars in the back of my Mercedes GL450 SUV before driving to her apartment.

  I had a bad feeling about the night as I drove away. There was nothing I could do but face it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When I arrived at her tiny apartment in an old brownstone in the Upper East Side, she wasn't in proper position, on her knees by the entrance. Instead, she was in the kitchen pouring herself a shot of vodka, and talking on her cell. She was wearing street clothes – a black skirt and white blouse instead of her heels, garter belt and hose.

  She looked every inch the law clerk with her platinum blonde hair pulled back in a bun and wearing a pair of black horn rimmed glasses. In fact, she looked very much like Lara and I wondered if that wasn't why Lara chose her for me.

  Allie wasn't ready for me.

  I stopped in the hallway of the dingy little apartment with its dark parquet floors and tiny window letting in barely any ambient light. After putting my key to her apartment into my pocket, I shucked off my shoes and jacket. Then, I entered the cramped living room.

  Allie was a law student and there were books and papers and legal briefs all over her coffee table and sofa. Empty energy drink cans littered the windowsill. The room smelled of old coffee grounds.

  When Allie saw me, a moment passed between us and I knew what she wanted.

  Despite what we had agreed to earlier, quick and dirty against the wall, she wanted me to force her. Or punish her.

  I didn't like administering punishment. It did nothing f
or me, but I knew it did something for a lot of subs. I made it clear to Lara that I did not want to become involved with painsluts, for neither of us would be happy in the long run. I could administer a hard spanking when necessary, I knew how to use a flogger and cane, but doing so did nothing for me sexually or emotionally. Truthfully, it went against my oath as a physician – do no harm.

  I had planned on getting my shot of vodka while she knelt by the door waiting. I planned on standing in front of a kneeling Allie, her eyes downcast, her hands clasped behind her back so that her breasts jutted forward. Just the way I liked her to be.

  I wanted to order her to take me in her mouth and suck me into hardness while I held her hair in my hand, guiding her mouth. She'd let me, like a good submissive. I wanted to fuck her from behind, fast and hard until she came. Then, I wanted her to finish me in her mouth. It would be pure vanilla, but I only had fifteen minutes to get both of us off, which was far too quick for what I usually liked.

  She should have been waiting for me the way I liked. Instead, she was challenging me to make a choice: leave in anger, punish her immediately over my knee, or chase her into the bedroom and rip off her clothes before taking her hard and fast.

  I considered.

  If I left, I'd make it to the gig on time, with some time to spare, but it would be pretty much over between us. Despite being together for eight months with few bumps, insubordination like that, with me leaving, was not survivable.

  If I decided to punish her immediately for disobedience, I'd have to sit on the couch and demand that she present herself to me so I could spank her over my knee. I could then fuck her on the couch. She'd come very quickly if so, for she was always worked up after a spanking. She’d need a lot of aftercare, for she’d be fragile after my punishment, so I might be pushing the window in terms of time to do it all properly and would be late for the gig.