Collared
Paula Dickson
Copyright © 2021 Paula Dickson
Cover design: Kellie Dennis at Book Cover by Design
All rights reserved. Published by Paula Dickson [email protected]
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events entirely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
ISBN 13: 979-8-7098-6126-8
To all of my readers.
You made this possible.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
COLLARED
PROLOGUE
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
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Books By This Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank every single one of you for supporting this story throughout this beautiful journey. It has truly been a pleasure and a dream of mine to write Abigail’s and Preston’s story. For years I had these two in my head. I’d wake up and go to sleep with them, thinking about their life until one day I decided to put those thoughts to paper.
I didn’t care about the money, recognition, or fame that came with Collared because I was writing this story for Abigail and Preston, not for myself or anyone else. But I am so happy and utterly shocked at how many of you have liked it and have shared it with your friends, at how many votes, reviews, and reads it’s gotten on Wattpad and Inkitt.
I thought I’d share very quickly with you—as quickly as a writer can—how this story came about.
In my third year at University, the movie Fifty Shades of Grey came out. There was so much buzz about this movie that I went to the movie theater to watch it, even though I had never heard a thing about the books. I came out of the theater in love with Ana’s and Christian’s story and this little acronym called BDSM.
Enthralled in their story and wanting to know if Ana and Christian got back together, I purchased and read all three books. This was my first introduction to BDSM and the whole erotic romance genre.
Despite many negative reviews, Fifty Shades of Grey was what made me love reading and got me into writing. After I read the trilogy, I read a ton, and when I say a ton, I mean a ton of BDSM/romance/erotic books on my Kindle.
After a while, all the storylines seemed repetitive and cliché. Feeling like I had read all the BDSM books out there, I created a Wattpad account (I read the After series by Anna Todd and that’s how I found out about Wattpad) with the sole purpose of reading something new.
It was a huge disappointment when I couldn’t find anything interesting or something I felt like I hadn’t read before. So, I gave up reading for a while and even closed my Wattpad account.
With nothing to read every day before I went to bed, I used my imagination to rock myself into sleep. I thought of a woman and a man, what they looked like, their mannerisms and characteristics. I thought of how they’d meet, what they’d argue about, and their life in the future. I thought about these two strangers since my third year in University, which was back in 2015. Then one day, I stopped thinking about them and started writing about them. And that’s pretty much how Abigail and Preston were born.
Thank you so much for all of your support!
COLLARED
Book #1
Masters of Desires
BY
PAULA DICKSON
PROLOGUE
In the outskirts of the city, a young woman sagged her shoulders in disappointment as she made her way out of a club.
No pedestrians were in sight this late at night, and so she snuggled into her jacket and began walking, hoping she’d walk far enough to catch a cab back to the city.
She rolled her eyes at her ignorance.
These streets were notorious for sexual encounters...consensual or not. No one knew of her whereabouts. If heaven forbid, she got murdered, no one would know until the following day when she didn’t show up to work. Even then, her colleagues might think she went on vacation or took a sick day. It could take weeks before the police found her deteriorating corpse.
The brunette quickened her pace.
She was smarter than this, but desperation had made her do the dumbest thing. An enticement for total submission had brought her to a secluded event she ached to be more but wasn’t—much like her sex life.
“Not your type of club?” an unfamiliar voice asked from behind her.
The brunette cautiously turned her head toward the sound. She cleared her throat, finding the right words to deem herself worthy enough to speak to the woman before her.
She exemplified a dominatrix. The latex jumpsuit she wore hoisted her breasts in a way that made them look fake. Her blonde hair was raised in a long ponytail and the winged eyeliner atop the bed of her lids complimented her ruby lips.
The submissive harbored within the brunette wished to bow to her feet and kiss her six-inch heels.
For years she’d craved domination and wanted to know what it felt like to be powerless, gagged, and told how to act. She’d waited so long for this moment, she didn’t care if the dominant was male or female.
She couldn’t help the dismay in her voice as she said, “No, not really.”
The bottom of the domme’s chin kissed the arch of her breasts as she exami
ned the brunette the way a critic does a fine piece of art—appreciative, yet dubious.
The brunette felt small under such scrutiny, which made her insides swell with ardent need. If the woman told her to strip naked, she’d do it willingly. She silently begged her to.
“What do you mean?” the dominatrix asked, moving a step toward her.
“I thought this was going to be different. That’s all.” She was vague in her response.
“Different?” the blonde asked, tasting the word on her tongue. “How so?”
The brunette answered with utmost honesty, “Everyone here seems to be playing a character. I thought the scenes would be real, feel real. I thought the masters would know what I wanted without me having to tell them. I also wish the men weren’t my father’s age.”
The woman nodded slightly as if agreeing with everything she’d said. She stepped forward but backed away all in the same motion as if unsure of what do to or what to say. With a shake of her head, she gave in. “Do you enjoy Greek mythology?”
The brunette wasn’t taken aback by the sudden change in conversation. At this point, she’d answer anything, do anything, the woman told her to do. “I read a few myths for a class in college. Why—”
“Who lured sailors to shipwreck with their songs?”
“Sirens.” She stopped answering when the blonde walked away. “Hey, you dropped something!” she shouted as a piece of paper slipped past her jumpsuit.
124 Orchard St. NYC, the card read.
CHAPTER ONE
Preston Trice wasn’t the type of man who fell head over heels for a woman.
He’d hurt her.
He’d fuck her.
He never did roses, let alone romance.
He didn’t date.
He didn’t go to family gatherings unless his mother badgered him. And badger him Mrs. Trice did.
Could anyone blame her?
Preston was her only son and she loved him deeply. He reminded her of her late husband, Mr. Dimitriou. They had the same statue—a moping 6’3 to their frames. Black hair and eyes as dark as the terrain on a wet day. No one had ever denied their resemblance as father and son.
Maybe that’s why Mrs. Trice meddled so much in his personal life. She thought she could persuade her son as easily as she’d done her husband.
As Preston stared at the woman on his computer screen something within him stirred. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew what it wasn’t.
It wasn’t love.
Such thing was a rarity in his world. Love wasn’t a feeling as much as a word overly used to express gratitude. Love was a ploy for jewelry stores to extort their customers.
Oh, no. Preston didn’t feel love for the woman who obtrusively stood outside his establishment. Although he couldn’t deny her beauty, he didn’t feel absolute lust.
He adjusted the camera and switched to another angle.
Jane Doe was an amateur. Of that he was certain.
Her black pants were amiss in a place of leather and nudity. The way she styled her hair to rest behind her back instead of braids gave her away. The one thing she got right was her Louboutins.
What the fuck was this woman doing here?
Preston fisted his hand as his nostrils grew with every staggered breath. How could members throw his name around like dollar bills at a strip club? No one knew of this place. He made sure of it. Members knew of the club by word of mouth only and there was no way a girl like this knew a tenant of this lifestyle.
For a mischievous second, Preston thought of what it would be like to own her. Punish her for her obtrusiveness. He’d snake her hair around his wrist while she bowed her knees and sucked him off. He enjoyed the image of his cum on her plump lips, dripping onto her chest as her eyes watered from choking on his girth.
He was already thinking of her naked, of the many ways he could fill her, and the lullabies her screams would create.
The woman, he came to find out, elicited the sadist in him to stand proud and hunt like a starved lion.
Those who didn’t know Preston called him a chauvinistic asshole. A bigot who loved to suppress women, and they wouldn’t be wrong, for the most part. Preston never claimed to be anything less, or anything more.
But those who knew him knew he admired women. He had a mother for goodness’ sake and a sister who gave him three beautiful nieces. He respected women, much more the ones that willingly came to him for pain. He never did anything that wasn’t consensual. He never did anything unless they begged.
Oh, Lord did they beg.
Would Jane Doe cry if he scared her? If he pushed her against the brick wall and kissed a blade to her throat, how sweet would her tears taste? Would she beg for him to stop or keep going?
The image made his cock swell through his trousers. He gripped it harshly. Years ago, that grip would have been met with disgust, but today it was met with acceptance.
There was a time when he’d hated being the way he was. He’d hated how the thought of tears made him hard. He despised the color crimson because it made him come, especially when it came from living flesh. Most of all, he’d hated how degrading others aroused him.
Not today.
He’d come to accept his urges and had given the middle finger to the world years ago. He’d finally accepted himself because if he didn’t, who the fuck would?
The woman looked at the card again as if making sure she’d gotten the address right. To an outsider, the black card looked like a small piece of construction paper. If someone were to see it, they wouldn’t mind much about it and throw it away. No one could blame them. The card was practically empty.
But for the few that knew about this place, the card said more than enough.
She blew out a shaken breath, making smoke clouds out of the night’s air. She was trembling and it wasn’t just from the cold.
Preston smiled.
She was already pleasing him, and she hadn’t a clue.
Willing his tendencies to die down, he poured himself a glass of scotch. He wouldn’t be able to contain himself if she decided to step inside. Mentally asking her to turn around and save herself, he swallowed the timber.
The liquid lingered in the middle of his tongue. He swiveled it around like mouthwash before throwing it back. It tickled his throat in a sweet way that was addicting. He could only compare the sensation to how he felt about her.
As the brunette took another step toward the iron doors, Preston promised himself he’d train her like the good little bitch she was. He’d reward her like any good owner. And if she ever disobeyed him...may the Lord have mercy upon his soul.
CHAPTER TWO
Something was terribly broken within Abigail Bennett. Something was marvelously wrong. Somehow, the wires in her head hadn’t aligned properly and the part of the brain used for reasoning hadn’t developed. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that. Abigail had known this for a long time.
She knew it when she was a little girl and dry-humped the teddy bear her dad gave her for her seventh birthday. Although she didn’t know what she was doing, she knew it was inappropriate enough not to do it in front of others, though the desire was never lost.
She knew it when the sight of the purple and green bruises left on her knees from humping against the marble floors made her pussy clench at such an early age.
She knew it when she turned eleven and realized she didn’t have to dry-hump more of her toys because she could get herself off with a hard tweak of her nipples.
She also knew it after she fucked Jackson O’Brien for the first time and rushed to the bathroom to give herself a proper orgasm. From under the sink, she’d gathered a used candle and lighter. She saw as the fire melted the candlestick, creating droplets of wax down her breasts, stomach, and inner thighs. With the melted wax leaving tiny blisters on her skin, she inserted three fingers inside her pussy and pushed forward until she came after the disappointment her boyfriend had been for a lover.
After giving herself p
leasure for years, she thought real sex would be as explosive as the orgasms she’d given herself. It turned out they weren’t, lasting only mere seconds. Hers always lasted longer. They were waves of pleasure that made her back come off the bed and her toes curl in ecstasy.
Early on she figured she had to settle for a missionary sex life because the type of shit she was into only happened in erotic books.
There was no Christian Grey waiting to be interviewed by a closeted masochist.
There was also no way that the daughter of Melissa Sinclair—women’s rights activist—had the desire to be flogged, gagged, and fucked by a chauvinistic asshole whispering what a dirty little whore she was.
If Mrs. Sinclair ever found out what her daughter was into or what she was about to do, she’d lock Abigail in her townhouse and throw the keys down the Empire State Building, never to be found again.
Because of this, Abigail gave up dating…and fucking.
Why explain her need to be gagged to a stranger she was never going to see again to later have to explain herself to another stranger the following weekend?
With all the sexual assault charges going around, men didn’t want to get in any trouble, even if she assured them it was consensual.
The little pussies.
She wasn’t an expert when it came to sex. She could count the number of men she’d slept with on one hand. Sexual desire, that she specialized in. She’d been desiring something more her entire life. Not plain old boring vanilla sex but the whole damn sundae with sprinkles and whipped cream on top.
Abigail needed a man—a real man. One who took without asking. One who made her scream, not out of pleasure but out of agonizing pain. A man that elicited tears to pool in her eyes, not from an intense orgasm but from having his dick shoved so far into her mouth she couldn’t breathe. She craved a man who fucked in search of his pleasure because the thought of being used was enough to set her off. More than anything, she yearned for a man who knew of her desires and made her feel normal.
Collared (Masters of Desires Book 1) Page 1
