by Cynthia Dane
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Keep Up
Pursued
Almost A Year Ago
1: Rose Vines
2: Lock & Key
3: Her Gilded Cage
4: The Patron's Gift
5: Clipped Wings
6: The Wolf's Den
7: Love Letters
8: To Serve & Be Dominated
9: A Long Lost Release
10: Le Monstre
Thanks and Connect
Also Available
His Domination
#1
PURSUED
Cynthia Dane
BARACHOU PRESS
Pursued
HIS DOMINATION, #1
Copyright: Cynthia Dane
Published: August 7th, 2015
Publisher: Barachou Press
This is a work of fiction. Any and all similarities to any characters, settings, or situations are purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
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READING ORDER
1: Pursued
2: Caught
3: Healed
Pursued
Almost A Year Ago
The gun shook in Monica’s hand. She had never fired one before – she didn’t want today to be the day.
“You don’t get to play the games anymore.” Although her heart thumped in her chest, she had to be steady, cool. For the first time in her life, Monica had to look like she was in complete control in front of her nightmare.
A dozen pairs of eyes were on her. Jasmine, the woman she was trying to protect besides herself, and Jackson Lyle, the awful sack of shit who called himself her boyfriend, her Dom, her master… they were the only ones that mattered. Jasmine, scared out of her wits, and Jackson, who didn’t believe in a million years his demure submissive would ever actually shoot him.
“Now, my pet, that is a dangerous weapon you have there. You should put it down and give it to me.”
The bastard actually held his hand out. He can’t be serious. After so many years together... after all she had given him… after all he had done to her… he really thought he could say a few nice words and get her to back down? What kind of broken spine did he think she had?
“Don’t you dare call me your pet ever again. You don’t deserve to call me that. You lost that privilege when you started hurting me.” The gun was hot against her skin. She hadn’t even fired it – yet – and she was already anticipating the burn of revenge.
“Hurting you? What are you talking about?”
Monica’s lip trembled. Don’t cry in front of him! How many times had he made her cry? “I don’t have to tell you or anyone else here. You know damn well what you have done. I may be submissive, but I’m still a human being. I’m not sure about you anymore. I don’t think you’re human at all.”
“Monica.” A few yards away, Ethan, a friend and the man who had come to take his girlfriend Jasmine away from this terrifying situation said. “This isn’t necessary. Let’s go.”
Somehow Ethan coaxed the gun out of her hand, emptying the clip and showing how serious she had been as each bullet clattered on the floor. I would have done it. Her lip continued to tremble. This man stole my life. He would continue stealing the lives of other women until someone put him down.
Ethan took both women by the hand and drew them toward the front door of Jackson’s lavish mansion, the place Monica had called home for years. She also called it her prison.
This wasn’t what she had in mind for a jailbreak.
“You both will be nothing but whores for the rest of your lives,” Jackson called after them. “You may not be our whores, but girls like you can’t help themselves. You will always be somebody’s whore.”
Monica never expected it, but she was content with Ethan going up and punching the fucker right in the face.
***
“There must be something we can do…”
“He’s too powerful. It’s their word against his. That lawyer of his will do everything in his power to discredit Ms. Graham, especially. She pulled a gun on him. They’ll get her for being mentally ill, at best.”
“Do you have any idea what he did to her?”
“I saw the bruises, Mr. Cole. They would claim it’s a result of their lifestyle.”
“That’s not BDSM. That’s abuse.”
“Even so…”
“I’ll testify against him myself.”
“I can tell you care for these women very much, Mr. Cole, but I’m afraid it will never be that simple. As your lawyer, this is my advice. Drop it.”
***
One day went by. Two days went by. Soon enough a month had gone by, and Monica had no idea how to live life on her own.
Funny thing, being in a relationship with a Dom like Jackson for so long. He had controlled every aspect of her life. She liked it, at first. It was welcoming, and suited her wishes from that kind of relationship. Except her prince turned into a dragon over the years. The words, the smacks that were more pain than pleasure, and then the…
Other people would ask why she didn’t leave sooner. Wasn’t she strong enough? Didn’t she know her worth?
Love. I stayed for love. As toxic as Jackson had been, he was her Master… and Monica wanted nothing more from life than to love and serve her Master.
Now she was broken. A sub without a Master. Sure, she could move far away from him. Sure, she could rely on friends with connections for a while. And, sure, she could open her own business and stay busy… but her thoughts would always go back to that man, and her heart would always pine, hope, and dream.
Monica wanted to believe that there was something better out there. A better life, a better love…
Wasn’t that the same thing?
Chapter 1
Rose Vines
One rose in the bouquet was crooked. Monica stood in front of the long dining table, the late afternoon sunlight streaming across it and blinding the others while she remained determined to figure out how to make that blasted rose no longer crooked.
“It’s hardly noticeable,” said Sylvia, one of the girls who worked for her. That evening she wore a black cocktail dress accented with pearls, her makeup bright in the lips and smoky around the eyes. Sylvia fancied herself a 21st Century Flapper. Not that she ever got the terminology down… but she could quote The Great Gatsby until her patron rolled over and fell asleep in bed. “Nobody is going to care if a single rose is crooked.”
“I’ll care.” Monica reached for the stem and twisted it, the dewy red petals shifting into their new place. When she dropped her hand, however, one of the thorns nicked her fingertip
“Oh dear.” Sylvia shuffled to an antique coffee table at the edge of the dining room. One of the drawers opened. Sylvia pulled out a small first aid kit and fetched the smallest Band-Aid she could find. “Do you need alcohol?”
Yes. Not the kind Sylvia was thinking of, however. What Monica needed was a glass of wine or maybe some brandy to settle her nerves. “No thank you. The bandage is fine.”
She let her girl put the bandage on before dismissing her to the kitchen, where Sylvia was to find out the status of their dinner. One hour. This was the night Monica hated the most in her business. The night every patron and their invited guests came for a banquet of both the stomach and the loins.
Monica knew what she si
gned up for when she opened her house of sadomasochistic pleasure, especially when she catered to some of the most elite men in the country, let alone the world. The money was there. The desire was there. What was also there was a lot of planning, a lot of stress, and God knew a lot of little things that added up to fray Monica’s nerves. Like a damned rose too crooked to be in a bouquet.
None of the patrons would notice, sure. Just like they wouldn’t notice that one window had a smudge on it, or that the napkins weren’t neatly folded, or that one place setting had the forks on the wrong side. They wouldn’t notice because those mistakes were no longer there. From the moment they walked through the doors of Monica’s Château, they were treated like kings. Presidents. Gods. Everything was just right. Even the five women Monica employed as mistresses were about as perfect as they could get. Oh, they had their physical and emotional flaws like anyone else, but they were trained to give and receive pain of the highest order, depending on what the customer wanted. Every girl had customers she saw once or on a semi-regular basis. They also had patrons. Rich, powerful men who paid for specific privileges that the average man coming through the doors didn’t get to have.
All five patrons were coming tonight. Once a month the Château hosted a banquet for all five girls and their patrons. Usually only two or three came. Tonight was the first time since the Château opened its doors that all five decided to grace it with their presence at the same time.
For Monica, that meant more work making sure everything was prepared. The cooks had to be perfect on pain of firing. The maids had their outfits inspected multiple times. Monica even went so far as to hold their nails up to her eyes to make sure they weren’t too sharp or too dirty. The patrons weren’t allowed to touch them, but they had to look impeccable. These were men who were used to the world kowtowing to them, and Monica would not let them receive anything less.
It was business, but it was also personal. Monica was a sub. A Masterless sub, but a sub nonetheless. After spending the past ten years of her life living the existence of a full time sub, she knew nothing else. So when her last relationship ended, opening such a house of ill repute was all that mattered.
The Château was not a brothel. Everything was legal, although legalities were stretched. Police came by often to inspect the goings-on. Monica was ready for them too. So were some of her girls – as it turned out, most of the officers had some Dom in them.
“Chef says dinner is going as scheduled,” Sylvia said, waltzing in as if she were Monica’s #2. She likes to think she is. The girls were all equal in her eyes, although petty squabbles over who had the best patron and who would retire the richest happened during downtimes and days off. “Anything else I can do?”
“Prepare for your patron.” Sylvia couldn’t seriously think she was dressed for success that night. Her patron, Mr. Carlisle, was too used to Sylvia’s aesthetic. He probably didn’t know it, but he would soon grow tired if Sylvia didn’t mix it up once in a while. It’s my job to know that for him. Men liked it when women anticipated their needs and wants before they even had an inkling of them. Mind reader, they called her. No, Monica was observant, and many men were the same in lots of ways.
The hour passed quickly. In the end Monica was almost the one to embarrass them all when she wasn’t immediately there to meet Mr. Carlisle in the foyer. She was busy touching up the last of her makeup in the Ready Room at the top of the stairs. The Château was so large that it was ridiculous to expect any of the girls to run between their rooms and the front of the building. The Ready Room was where they kept backup supplies and could clean up if necessary. When Mr. Carlisle was announced, Monica nearly stabbed herself in the eye with her mascara.
She hurried to smooth out her dress, fluff her hair, and make sure she was steady in her shoes. When she reached the top of the grand staircase, however, she was the goddess of poise and the kind of grace her last Master expected of her. Don’t think of him here. To conjure that man’s image in her mind was to invite death into her heart.
“Mr. Carlisle,” she greeted, her hand extending to shake his. “You’re early tonight.”
“Sorry for the inconvenience.” He removed his outer coat and handed it to Sylvia, who took it with a graceful bow and hung it up in the wide closet by the door. “My guest canceled earlier today, so I came when I was ready. Don’t mind me, Madam. Sylvia will take good care of me.” He wrapped his arm around her midsection when she returned, planting a kiss on her cheek. “She always does.”
Still, Monica could not let them go without making sure Mr. Carlisle’s needs were tended to. Eventually she passed him to Sylvia’s care and escorted them to the Receiving Room adjacent to the dining room. The last thing Monica saw before closing the door was Sylvia pouring her patron a glass of liquor from one of the Château’s many wet bars.
“Mr. Witherspoon and Mr. Warren.” The doorman’s voice was steady. It helped that he was also the primary bouncer should a client get too rough. “Here to receive their salutations.”
“Shit,” Monica muttered. This is what she hated about them all showing up the same night. She wouldn’t rest until they left the next morning… if she got to rest at all. She also had no idea who this Mr. Warren was, and meeting new men in the Château could be risky. However, he was apparently the guest of Mr. Witherspoon, the patron of another girl named Chelsea. Sure enough, Chelsea, with her platinum blond hair and red cocktail dress, was there to take the coats of both her patron and his guest.
Sam Witherspoon was a nondescript man of many, many means. Old money. Stinking rich money that nobody could remember the origins of, but it was probably nefarious, and thus best buried in the annals of history. The man had a balding head but did his best to look presentable in a crisp Italian suit and some of the nicest cologne Monica had the pleasure of smelling.
His guest, on the other hand, was a stark contrast.
“This is my old friend Henry Warren,” Mr. Witherspoon said with a flourish to the tall man behind him. “We went to St. Mary’s together. I told you about St. Mary’s, right, Madam?”
Monica nodded. “Of course. Home of the best lacrosse team this coast has ever seen.”
“That’s right!” Monica hadn’t remembered jack. Mr. Witherspoon was the type of man who lived for his glory days, even if those days were in a private high school for elite sons. Almost all those boys played lacrosse. And every one of those schools had “the best lacrosse team on that coast.”
“You were introducing me to Mr. Warren?”
“Oh, of course, forgive me.” Mr. Witherspoon clapped his hand on his friend’s shoulder, which required an upward stretch to grab. “Henry and I are in similar fields of business. He was in town this weekend, so I told him he should come and live like a king for a night.”
As long as he doesn’t expect anything. With all the other patrons there, the girls were booked for the whole night. Usually guests could be relegated to girls whose patrons hadn’t shown up, assuming they liked each other enough. The girls worked there willingly, and if they didn’t like a prospective client, they were allowed to decline an invitation to rendezvous in her room, a lounge, or the crassly called Dungeon. Of course, a girl who turned down too many clients wasn’t any good to Monica. Yet there was one girl, Yvette, who turned down almost everybody except her rich patron who more than paid for her to stay there. She really should move out. As much as Monica liked the money, she liked having a thriving business more. A thriving business meant girls seeing many clients for spankings and dirty talk.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Warren. I hope you enjoy your stay here.”
“Please. Call me Henry.”
His voice surprised her, mostly because she was expecting something lighter from this man. But Mr. Warren’s – Henry’s – voice was deep and clean, the sort of voice that sounded wonderful to fall asleep to while also giving a vigorous lecture that stirred the hearts of passionate students.
Melting. That was a
good way to describe it, as if the tone of his voice melted on the air and nobody could make it solid again. Why would they? It was perfect the way it was.
“Henry. Of course.” Monica released his hand and averted her eyes from the blond hair that was so dark it was almost brown, and from the strong jawline that likewise melted in a seamless line to join his face and throat. Truth be told, most of the men who walked through that door weren’t much to look at. They were rich, charming, and sweet outside of the bedroom, but Monica would call few of them handsome. Maybe in their own ways, but… this Henry was the first man she met in her Château who made her heart flutter.
“Come this way, please.” Monica stepped away and motioned for the guests to follow.
One by one the other patrons and their guests arrived. The only other surprise that night was a female guest – to make it an even bigger surprise, it was the wife of the patron. Why does this surprise me? Monica knew which patrons were married. It wasn’t her place to judge as long as the men understood the risks, but to have one be open with his wife about a submissive mistress was surprising. To bring her to one of the monthly banquets? Not until they sat the table and she watched this woman of good standing leer into Miss Grace’s cleavage did Monica finally understand. I’ll have to consider couples as patrons. Surely there was even more money in that, if the girl was up for it. Grace was bisexual. She would probably be up for it.
“Gentlemen… and ladies.” Monica stood at the head of the table, wineglass in hand as she forced herself to look taller. Yet she was a petite woman in a room full of tall vixens and handsome strangers. Even in her five-inch heels she had to stand on the tips of her toes. If only I we were 5’11 instead of 5’1. “My extreme gratitude for everyone who could make it here tonight. As you are probably aware, this is the first time we’ve had all five patrons here for one of our festivities. Please, don’t be shy. Eat up, drink up, and make plenty of merry.” She raised her glass, and most of the guests and girls did as well.
