If she ever found him, she swore she’d give him everything.
Her attempts at finding the perfect master had been frail. She’d only gone to two other events besides this one. Just thinking about her most recent one made vile rise in the pit of her stomach. The event was amateur and filled with old balding men and women. After being there for five minutes, she fled.
She hoped to the heavens this place wasn’t one of those because if it was, she’d finally stop searching for him.
A shiver ran down her spine as a gust of January wind ruffled the emerald coat her brother had given her a few weeks back. Abigail didn’t care if this wasn’t proper attire for a place like this. If the club was anything like the events she’d been to, she’d be out of there in no time. No point in going all out if she needed to catch a cab later.
With a flick of her thumb and index finger, Abigail turned the little black card in her hand.
124 Orchard Street, NYC
That’s all it read.
She looked at the green sign on the sidewalk that read Orchard.
This was it, she was in the right place, so why was she hesitant?
The shame. The guilt. That’s why it felt wrong.
Shame for being a woman who wanted to be dominated by a man. Guilt for betraying her gender.
She needed to stop thinking of unwarranted opinions. If people could have resolutions to lose weight, why couldn’t she have one too, even if hers was to be fucked in as many ways as her body allowed with a man who controlled her every move?
She took one last breath before taking the last steps that would seal her life forever...and then froze.
Was she really doing this? Why was she so nervous when she’d longed for this and had been to BDSM clubs before? Maybe because the other clubs were so popular, they weren’t authentic? It had been too easy to find them with a simple Google search.
This one, however, wasn’t easy at all. This place was so secluded it scared the living shit out of her. There was no sign at the front door, so she had no idea what she was walking into. And even if the street name was the same as the one on the card, Abigail wasn’t one hundred percent sure she was at the right place.
It was one thing to desire something she knew she’d never have the guts to do, and it was something completely different to actually do it.
Just one night, she told herself, and with that, she mustered up the Super Woman courage her mother taught her and took a step. Then another. And another. Until she was standing in front of a rusty iron door.
Her first instinct was to reach for the knob but there was none. She balled her fingers into a fist and just as she was about to knock on the door, a masculine voice halted her movement.
“Password,” it said. She jumped at the sudden voice, reaching for her chest to make sure her heart hadn’t escaped.
Password? The woman who’d given her the card hadn't said anything about a password.
She closed her eyes and willed herself to think back to last month when she went to that awful event, to the day the nameless woman gave her the black card she held in her hand.
“Um...mythology?”
“Turn around and leave.”
The other events hadn’t had a guard outside, let alone a password to enter. This was real, she felt it in her bones and the thought of not being able to see what laid inside because of a stupid password made her eyes water.
Think harder, Abigail, come on.
“Wait,” she said, more like pleaded. “Sirens.”
The night went silent. The rustle of iron doors was the only sound that grazed her ears. Goosebumps rained over her skin. Abigail blamed it on the breeze and not the cocktail of fear and excitement inside her. She was more than ready to live her fantasies, if only for a night. She was ready to be fucked, abused, assaulted, but mostly she was ready to be her true self without the fear of being judged.
CHAPTER THREE
The doors opened to a rectangular foyer with incandescent lights rooted on the floor. Abigail didn’t let the simplicity of the room belittle the trust she had given the dominatrix. She made a promise to give her last try a fighting chance. She’d give it her all and if it didn’t work out, she’d settle.
The pathway of lights led to a massive floor-to-ceiling door. The fibrous material brought a historic feel to the ambiance. The dark wood added a mixture of elegance and danger, much as the man she dreamt of. The pads of her fingers grazed the black spikes that decorated the perimeter of the patterned door. She only hoped he stood behind it.
The spikes were sharp.
Sharp enough to draw blood.
Sharp enough to hurt like hell.
Sharp enough to make her horny.
What would it feel like to be fucked against them? Would the spikes pierce her buttocks? How much blood would they draw?
A throat cleared in the background. The sound was so loud in her ears, it brought her out of the sorcery the door had entrapped her in. Her attention now settled on the rest of the room.
It was decorated with gold, black, and red undertones that catered to the ambiance of the room. The specks of crimson looked like droplets of blood scattered across the room.
The walls surrounding the enchanting door were painted gold in an intricate pattern that made them look tufted. Twenty tables in total were covered with black tablecloths. With each holding one red candle, it was the only light that illuminated the room.
Some tables had chairs that seated men and women, others were used to hold the arms of chatters. There was a soft foreign piece playing in the background. Maybe Hebrew or Greek?
Men dressed in their most expensive suits while women wore their most elegant red-carpet gowns. Their braided hair was kept up nicely by a bottle of hairspray.
Abigail looked down at her black pants and emerald coat. She’d missed the memo.
She heard the same throat clear and walked over to the man behind a booth that housed an ample variety of beverages.
“Virgin cosmopolitan?” he asked without making eye contact. It was the same voice that minutes ago had asked for a password.
She nodded and went to sit on the one stool that stood in front of the vicinity. It was almost as if it had been placed solely for her comfort.
The bartender prepared the cocktail in no time. His muscular arms shook the mixer before he poured it into a martini glass. He plopped three raspberries inside the glass and handed it to her.
Accepting the cocktail, she took a much-needed swallow of the cranberry juice. She moaned a little as it chilled her dry throat.
She wasn’t a big drinker, and after the many times her mother had warned her of the dangers of accepting drinks from strangers or drinking too much, Abigail kept from having any alcoholic beverage unless it was in the company of family members or close friends.
She might be into rough sex and roleplay, but she wasn’t stupid enough to not follow her mother’s advice. The sensible ones, of course. One drink was all it took to make someone do something incredibly stupid.
The man raised a blonde eyebrow that matched his curly hair. “Good?”
“Very,” she hummed. Her lips parted by the glass.
Feeling comfortable now that she wasn’t in the middle of a room filled with strangers, she relaxed into the chair and fell, once more, into the entrapment of her surroundings.
A large clock hung on the wall opposite her. The tick-tock could be heard above the classical symphony. It didn’t surprise her the Greek numerals were red or that the top of the hands were colored red.
It was clear the designer loved drawing blood. A smile grazed her lips as she finally released a sigh of relief. The dominatrix hadn’t failed her after all.
The clock wasn’t as ample as the door but possessed half of the wall. It was odd, really. The hands moved the opposite way instead of the usual clockwise motion.
“I think there’s something wrong with that clock.”
The bartender looked up from wiping the counter
top. He pouted for a second before shaking his head. “No. It’s counting down. Seems right to me.”
“Counting down?”
“To when the doors open.”
She didn’t ask what he meant. Although it was obvious it was her first time there, she didn’t want to make it known. Most things aren’t known unless said aloud.
After a few minutes, she had finished half her drink and was having a pleasant conversation with the bartender whose name she found out was Ashton. It wasn’t a conversation as much as it was an interview for a job she had not applied for but desired to have.
“So, how did you find out about this place?” Ashton was being nonchalant about his questions. One wouldn’t know this was what he was hired for.
Abigail didn’t want to snitch on the woman who’d given her the card. It felt wrong and she didn’t want her to get in trouble, though she doubted she’d get in much.
Her shoulders shrugged. “I found the card at another event. Thought I should check it out.”
“Hmm. Do you remember the name of the event?”
“Not really. It happened so long ago.”
“How long ago?”
“You know, I really can’t remember. You make a good virgin cosmo.”
“Do you mind if I see your ID?”
She straightened her back. “ID? What for? I thought this club ran on anonymity.”
“It does. However, we take care of our people. We must make sure everyone here is safe and has no criminal record. It will only take five minutes. In the meantime—” he took out a book from somewhere inside the booth, “—you should get acquainted with our rules.”
Hesitantly, she traded her license for the small book. Ashton took it and left through a small gap in the wall.
Basic Etiquette
*1. You must be over 21 years old to enter.
2. Confidentiality is a must. What happens here, stays here.
3. No alcoholic drinks or drugs are allowed inside.
4. Don’t touch without asking.
5. Do not, under any circumstances, interrupt a scene.
6. Keep it SSC (safe, sane, and consensual)
7. If you have any concerns for your safety, approach a Dungeon Keeper.
*If you are a BDSM virgin, we suggest you run. This isn’t a place for you.
Failure to abide by these rules will result in expulsion.
Abigail swallowed the last drop of cranberry juice that remained at the bottom of her glass, wishing it was alcohol.
She was a BDSM virgin, but she didn’t want to run. Honestly, she couldn’t even if she wanted to. The Louboutins were too high. Plus, she had no idea where she’d run to. Home? That place was overrated.
Confidence was the key to life. If she pretended she belonged in this world, no one would doubt her.
Ashton came back with her license. “All clear.” With a quick flick of his blue eyes, he looked at the clock before asking, “Do you have any questions?”
Oh, did she but she swallowed those questions with a gulp. She was too close to her muted desires to jeopardize them by uttering questions that made her seem ignorant.
She shook her head no just as the music died, the candles blew, and the massive door opened, demanding the shedding of beauty and the resurrection of beasts. Conversation ceased to exist as the occupants removed their clothes, exchanging riches for latex, leather, and nudity.
Men and women who but mere seconds back looked as if they owned the city, remained dignified in a choker. Majestically, they crawled on leather-covered knees as their Mistress or Master guided them to the entrance. Others didn’t crawl, walking right past the peasants.
Before removing her clothes, Abigail looked around the shifted ambiance, wanting to remember the moment her fantasies sprouted from a lone seed to a blossomed flower.
As her emerald coat joined the thousands of dollars discarded on the Greek fret floor, she noticed not a single eye on her.
But for the man who intently watched from above, Abigail was a rose in a hayfield.
CHAPTER FOUR
So much could be discovered about a person with a simple glance at their driver’s license. Their full name, height, weight, address.
Everything Preston needed to know about Jane Doe was in a two by three plastic card.
He didn’t feel an iota of remorse for demanding Ashton to lure her into the bar and make her comfortable enough she handed him her license without many queries. He needed to know who this woman was. Now he finally did.
“Abigail Bennett,” Preston said aloud, letting the name roll off the tip of his tongue. Enjoying the taste of her name on his lips. Hating the way his cock stirred under his trousers.
Jesus, he wasn’t a teenager.
He’d been with numerous women in his thirty-four years. He’d fucked models and actresses. He’d fucked women of all races and cultural backgrounds. They were all the same— tits, pussy, ass.
Nothing more. Nothing less. Nothing special.
So why did all the blood in his body rush to his cock when he thought of this woman? Why did it stand proud as if she owned it?
He stared at the small picture that hinted at the color of her eyes and hair.
She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. The bangs that covered her forehead made her look younger than twenty-four. The smile that grazed her full lips made her gray eyes wrinkle in the most innocent way.
It wasn’t often Preston was taken aback by a woman’s physical appearance. He was overly cautious of sirens and didn’t let them rule his business or sexual affairs. Yet that was exactly what Abigail Bennett was doing. She’d come into his business as if she owned it and his body was subconsciously reacting to hers.
He hated it, and he wanted to slap that smile off her jovial face.
A knock brought his attention to the door. It wasn’t a knock he knew, which only meant one thing. Scrubbing his face with his hands, he quickly pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of the driver’s license before handing it back to Ashton.
“Not a word about this to anyone. Make sure Joe keeps an eye on her.”
“Yes, Sir,” answered Ashton like the good little boy he was. He opened the door to leave and in came Elliott dressed in black slacks and a button-down shirt.
Preston stared in disbelief as the blonde walked into his office as if he owned it.
He made his way to the liquor cabinet Preston kept on the far left of the room and poured himself a considerable amount. With the drink in hand, Elliott plopped into the leather chair opposite Preston’s desk and propped his ankles on the mahogany.
Preston gaped at his friend who was more like a brother.
The brother he never wished to have.
Elliott James and Preston Trice had known each other for as long as they both could remember. They grew up together as siblings after their mothers made a futile pact to get pregnant at the same time so their children would become best friends just like them.
It was a stupid plan concocted by two dimwitted women. As expected, said plan didn’t turn out well. Not where Preston was concerned.
Elliott was like a nightmare he couldn’t stop seeing. He was everything Preston wasn’t. Polar opposites. Where Preston was tall with dark features, Elliott was short with blonde hair and light eyes. He was also the most annoying man he’d ever met. At thirty-four, Elliott didn’t have a job, living off his parents’ fortune like the spoiled brat he was.
Preston angrily swatted Elliott’s feet from his desk. Startled, Elliott’s drink toppled in his hand almost landing on his white shirt. Preston suppressed a chuckle.
“Dude!” Elliott shouted in astonishment.
“What the fuck are you doing here? I’m surprised you were polite enough to knock before barging into my office like it’s your fucking penthouse on the Upper East Side.”
Elliott wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “I saw that little white boy of yours come inside and thought maybe you were doing something naughty.” He
said the word naughty with a hideous English accent that made Preston want to laugh at how stupid his best friend was.
Preston scoffed, taking the glass from his hand, and swallowing the liquid inside.
“Man, was the blowjob that bad? Maybe try to have a heart-to-heart next time.”
“Get the fuck out, Ellie.”
Like any brother-brother relationship, they loved to push each other’s buttons. While Preston’s mother thought he would never find a partner, Elliott’s had given her son the girliest nickname that made him the laughingstock of their high school basketball team.
Just like their mothers, they had an agreement that consisted of Preston never calling him Ellie, and Elliott never bringing up the fact Mrs. Trice thought her son was aromantic.
Like an idiot, Elliott always seemed to forget about their pact, infuriating Preston more than he already was. Or did he remember and did it to spite him? Had he forgotten his best friend was a sadist?
“What’s gotten into your ass?” There went another snarky comment that made Preston want to tie Elliott to a Slave Driver and watch as the sex machine fucked him hard in the ass, except he’d enjoy that far too much. The man had no limits.
“Nothing.” He let out a breath, trying to calm the emotions he swore he didn’t own. It wasn’t good when Preston was this tense, especially on a night like tonight. On a night where anything and everything went.
“Something’s clearly wrong. Spill it, dude.”
Elliott was of the few who knew the sadistic side of Preston and above all his flaws, one thing he admired most about his friend was his loyalty.
They’d been together their entire lives. They lived two blocks from each other and went to the same schools through college.
It was impossible for Preston to keep anything to himself with such a nosy roommate. But when Preston confessed his kinks, Elliott didn’t judge him. Instead, he helped him create the most luxurious BDSM club in New York City.
Elliott was a walking, breathing, living nightmare that didn’t go away, but he was Preston’s nightmare and although he’d never admit it, he wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Collared (Masters of Desires Book 1) Page 2
