“I’ll lend you a copy sometime.” They were quiet for a while longer until she said, “I’m twenty-four.”
“I know.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Does it bother you?”
“A little.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s sort of creepy.”
“I don’t see how.”
“When I was six you were sixteen,” she pointed out.
Was that a smile she saw on his face? “You’ve managed to make it creepy now.”
In their leisure walk, she’d forgotten all about the blisters forming on her feet. The distance from earlier slowly vanished as they moved closer. His arm touched her arm. Abigail had an urge to wrap her fingers around his, show the entire city who owned her, but she held back. They weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend.
“Are you Greek?”
“What gave it away?”
“You’re into Greek mythology and you listen to their music.”
“Hmm. My father was Greek.”
“Was?”
“He died a few years back.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It’s part of life.” He shrugged in an uncaring way that showed just how much he cared. Just how deep and alive that wound was.
Preston followed her up the stairs to her townhome. She wasn’t upset anymore, but she wouldn’t invite him in. Her house was her sanctuary. She did anything she wanted and didn’t get reprimanded for it because she made the rules.
“You scare me sometimes,” she confessed. “How I haven’t met Lauren because you hurt her. How you know so much about me…”
“I know things about you because of who your mother is. It’s called Google search. That’s public knowledge. That’s not stalking. That’s not controlling your life.”
It did not go past Abigail how Preston ignored her Lauren comment. “You controlled it tonight.”
“I don’t see how. And even if I was trying to control your life outside of our arrangement, it’s not as if you wouldn’t like it. I know the thought of me going crazy to the point of physically hurting you outside of your limits, makes you wet. That’s why you haven’t set them. I haven’t lied to you. You’ve known from the start who I was as I’ve known you’re a masochist, not just a submissive.”
“And you’re a sadist, not just a dominant.”
“Some might say that’s the perfect relationship.”
“Some? What would you say?”
He stepped closer to her. His breath touched her face as he said, “I would say it’s the most profound relationship. I would say we should run from each other because surely one will end up dead. I’m hoping it’s not me,” he whispered the last part.
She raised her chin. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted him to hurt her, really hurt her. She wanted to bleed.
Preston leaned forward and pecked her lips with a quick kiss. “I’ll see you soon. Goodnight, Abigail.”
“Goodnight, Preston.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“You’re leaving?” Lincoln asked, poking his black curls into her office.
Abigail’s coat rested on her shoulders. Her oversized purse hung from her fingers as she packed her laptop.
“Yes. I have somewhere to be. Can’t be late.” Abigail looked at the clock above the bookshelf that faced her desk.
5:30 pm. Does that classify as evening?
She was cutting it close. Too close for Master Trice’s comfort.
Lincoln worried his upper lip. Shifting his feet from side to side, he played with something he held behind his back. Abigail knew the mannerism too well. She dreaded what she knew he was hiding.
“No, Linc,” she whined.
“Yes, Miss Bennett. It just came in and it needs to be edited by Monday.”
She knew she wouldn’t have any time to edit the manuscript on the weekend.
Abigail was in a great position, working at a company owned by her mother. Because of this, she didn’t slack off, rather, she worked harder than anyone in the office. Extra hours reading extra books was what brought her to the dilemma she was currently battling.
Her purse hit the floor as she deflated like an air-less balloon on the chair. She closed her eyes and extended her hand to the manuscript.
She’d been working as an editor for so long, she could tell the number of words in a manuscript by the weight of it. This one was sixty-five thousand words give or take. This would take her hours to read and edit. Hours she didn’t have. Hours that would earn her nice beatings.
“I could stay and help. I honestly don’t mind.”
Lincoln Smith wasn’t a typical teenager. Abigail loved to point that out to him—the teenage part. He was nineteen. She always told him that even if he had graduated high school, he was a teenager as long as his age bracket carried the suffix teen.
He was an old soul trapped in a young man’s body. His voice was deep like he’d just reached puberty. He listened to sixties music and read the classics. Lincoln treated women with chivalry, as well. He opened doors. He let them walk first. And it wasn’t because the staff was mostly women. It came off naturally for him to do so.
Sinclair Press was a feminist publishing company. They published books with strong female characters, whether it be fiction, non-fiction, fantasy, you name it. It also meant most people who worked there were feminists themselves. Men and women.
Women could open their own doors. It was something Abigail told him the first time he extended the gesture to her. He said he’d keep that in mind but kept doing it, nonetheless. Abigail suggested he start opening doors for men, too, not just women.
It was all about manners for Lincoln whereas for Abigail, it was all about equality.
He was a comely, lively man who unlike most his age, didn’t let his looks overshadow his personality. Though he wasn’t as muscular as Master Trice, leaning more on the lanky side, his height toppled over hers in an awkward way almost as if he wasn’t comfortable with his stature.
If for a flirtatious second, Abigail wondered if he was a virgin and what it would feel like to fuck him. The things she could teach him. The noises he’d make as her flesh touched his. Was his dick average and skinny like his posture or was it long and thick like her master’s?
She released the thought as soon as it popped into her head. She needed to shift her focus to the manuscript on the desk or else she’d have to wait longer to have her master inside her.
“No. It’s fine. I’ll finish faster on my own. Thank you, though.”
“Have a nice weekend, Miss Bennett.”
“You too, Linc.” She waved goodbye and watched him leave. When she heard the front door close, she let out a sigh.
Abigail considered calling Preston to give him a heads up, but she didn’t have his phone number. Instead, she pulled out a pen from her desk and read the first page. The sooner she got this done, the sooner she’d be on her knees. She spent the majority of the peacock ink unlinking two independent clauses with a semicolon or period.
By six forty in the evening, Sinclair Press had emptied. The sky was dark gray, and the faint light of the moon created monstrous shadows on the wooden floor. She let out a groan and arched her aching back. Sitting in the same position for over an hour was murdering her spinal cord. Her eyes felt dry, and her hands were chapped and stiff, smudged in blue ink.
Bending over, she reached for the inside of her purse and retrieved a bottled lotion. As she slowly bent to her original position, a dark shadow blinded her vision. It extended, got longer, wider. The air suddenly felt thin, emptying out the room. All the blood in her body rushed to the only place it did when he was around.
Pushing her fears aside, she looked up.
“Jesus Christ! Preston, you scared the living shit out of me.”
He arched an amusing eyebrow as if he’d achieved his goal. Leaning on the doorway, he casually said, his hands on his pockets, “It’s time to stop working, Abigail.”
Flabbergasted, she stayed quiet and blatantly stared with her lips apart. His eyes bore into hers, tightening the noose around her neck. Her left hand came up to touch her collarbone as she wondered why Master Trice had yet to collar her.
If he said she was his, why not clasp a collar around her neck? Why not show the world she was owned?
She licked her suddenly dry lips. She had an urge to crawl to him, kiss his shoes, beg for forgiveness.
“I wish I could. Look” she said, holding up the one-hundred pages that were left to edit. “It’s due Monday. I can’t leave until it’s all edited.”
“You’ll have time to edit the manuscript Sunday night when you get home. Let’s go. I won’t say it again. I won’t wait one more second.”
Without another word, she picked up the manuscript and placed it in her purse. She shrugged on the coat that hid her large breasts and walked behind him.
She knew the first words out of her mouth had to be I’m sorry, Master Trice. I’m sorry for making you wait. But there was something in the air that gave her the courage to speak out of turn. Abigail blamed it on the inspiring quotes of courageous women writers that decorated the foyer. Though it was partially due to a man she’d met yesterday...and a part of her wanted to pester him.
“I thought you weren’t a stalker. How did you know I was here?”
“You weren’t home. There’s only one other place you’d be.”
“I was going to text you, but I don’t have your number.”
He ignored her comment and rounded the car. Soon after Abigail was seated, Kenneth eased into traffic and Preston Trice turned into Master Trice.
“Kenneth.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Remind me, what day is it?”
“Friday, Sir.”
“Hmm. What time is it?”
“Almost seven in the evening.”
“Evening, you say?” Kenneth nodded. The wrinkle between his brows gave away his confusion. “Ah, so today is Friday evening, is that what you’re saying?”
Oh, boy.
Her panties instantly damped. Now she knew where he was going, and she couldn’t wait for him to get there.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Do you agree, whore?” He drew his attention to her.
She squirmed in her seat. “Yes, Master Trice.”
“Excellent.”
Suddenly, his ankles hooked around hers. His fingers wrapped around her delicate neck. Next thing she knew, she was over his lap. Her hair curtained her view. Her knees scraped against the car’s carpet. Her ass hung in the air as her heart readied to escape as soon as her mouth opened.
Expert fingers unzipped the floral pencil skirt she wore, displaying yet another one of her lace panties. Abigail cringed on the inside when he caressed the fabric between his skilled fingers.
As a disappointed father would, he let out a weightless breath. She shook her bangs from her eyes and tilted her head to him.
He rubbed his forehead. “When will you learn?”
He ripped her panties with an effortless tug. Teasingly, he pulled the soft fabric along her wet slit. Master Trice caressed her cheek with an opened palm, kneading it this way and that way. Each time, her clit grazed against the rigid muscles on his thigh, bringing her closer and closer to the cliff.
“Have you ever had anal sex?”
“No, Master Trice.”
“Did you hear that, Kenneth? A virgin.”
Kenneth gave a hoarse groan. “I sure love them tight.”
Master Trice leaned forward, his chest touching her back. He whispered sinisterly in her ear, “Kenneth loves to fuck virgins. Me? Not so much. Should I let him take your ass?”
“As you wish,” she quoted her favorite movie. Had she done so on purpose, or had she forgotten the true meaning behind the words?
“Suck.”
Abigail spread her lips, wrapped her tongue around his thumb, and sucked it into her mouth. She moaned with gusto as she bobbed her head, picturing his cock in her mouth, not his finger. With every lick, his cock jerked beneath her.
“Enough.” He slipped his finger from her mouth with a pop!
Her thighs unconsciously opened wide when she felt him at her entrance. Then his finger moved up and she froze at the sudden invasion.
“I’m going to fuck you here soon. You must be ready.”
Master Trice pushed forward with his finger. It felt strange. She didn’t know what to think of it. All she knew was she’d been wanting to be fucked in the ass for a long time. Now her fantasy would become reality. She did not know how he managed to do so, but Master Trice was able to make all her dreams come true.
Something cold entered her moist pussy and her walls expanded instantly, accepting the intrusion. Having both her holes filled made her feel full. In and out he thrust his thumb deeper in a simultaneous motion that had her pushing back.
With her clit grinding on his thigh, she was soon out of breath, clenching around the silver egg inside her and drawing his thumb deeper. She knew Kenneth was listening and probably watching her getting fucked in the back seat. The audience made for the waves to build higher and higher. For her moans to grow louder and louder.
“Come.” It was all she needed for the waves to crash against rocks. Over and over they collided, leaving residual splashes on her inner thighs.
The pleasure consumed her wholly to where she didn’t notice the silver egg wasn’t inside her pussy until she felt the tip enter her taut hole.
“Don’t fight back. Relax, whore. Breathe.”
Her obedience and recent orgasm made for the plug to easily slide inside her. It stung at first as the plug was bigger than his thumb and it took Abigail a minute to adjust to the size.
“Don’t clench around it. You must relax.”
“O—Okay, Master Trice.”
He zipped up her skirt and gave her a smack on the ass that pushed the plug further inside. He then allowed her to sit next to him.
“This will stay inside you until next week when I increase the size. You will ask my permission to use the toilet.”
She felt the blood in her pussy rush to her cheeks. Was that really necessary?
“Everyone shits, whore. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Duh.
She rolled her eyes.
She might not know much about BDSM, but she knew human anatomy. Defecating was just another of the many things people never talked about like picking their noses and masturbating.
“I know. I just thought maybe you were like Kim Jong-un.” She snickered.
His lips twitched. Was that a smile he was hiding? It was at that moment, Abigail made it her mission to make him laugh, really laugh.
They took the elevator to his penthouse. All eighty-seven floors. Through the ride, Abigail closed her eyes and focused on the plug inside her, clenching her muscles.
Pain was her coping mechanism. The intensity of it gave her the ability to discount agonizing events. If the pain she inflicted on herself was stronger than the emotional one she was suffering from, she only had that to focus on.
Once in the foyer of Master Trice’s home, she undressed and took a cold shower. With the same hand towel as last time, she made an unsuccessful attempt to dry herself.
Note to self: bring snacks and a human-sized towel.
Semi-dried, she crawled to her master who waited for her in the armchair that faced the fireplace. She didn’t know if the specks of red on his pupils were from the reflection of the fire or because something was troubling him.
Had something upset him? Had she unknowingly done something wrong?
As a submissive, Abigail had an intense desire to care for her master. It wasn’t all about her needs. It was also about his. By giving him absolute power, she gave him pleasure and showed him how much she cared.
She knelt before him and massaged his thighs, moving her hands up and down his taut muscles. He closed his eyes and breathed out, allowing himself to be worshipped lik
e the king he was. Seeing that as a sign of approval, she unzipped his pants. His semi-erect cock sprung free.
Planting a kiss on his piercing, she took him fully into her mouth with one bob. His brutal groan shook her skeleton. She continued to suck him. In and out. Swiveling her tongue around the head and massaging his balls with her hand.
He stilled and came with four more licks. It happened so fast, it made her feel useful that she’d helped her master through whatever it was he was going through.
He’s probably lonely.
This house was too big for a bachelor. The bigger the space the emptier the heart. That was a fact.
“Follow me.” He stood, zipped up his pants, and took long strides she could never compete with on all fours. She knew she’d end up with bruises on her knees after today. She was okay with that.
Once in The National Torture Museum of Master Trice or his den, as he liked to call it, Master Trice commanded his whore into position. If memory served right, this was the part of their scene where he lectured her on all the wrong things she had done over the week.
“Let’s talk about Thursday," he began, walking around the room, opening and closing drawers.
“You dressed like a whore. You let others—men, see what I own without my permission. You danced with them. Let them touch you. You disobeyed me, whore, all because you were too horny to wait another day. What was it you said?” he feigned ignorance. “Ah, you wanted me to hear you come all the way from my penthouse.”
“Yes, Master Trice,” she whispered, her eyes down.
“Come.”
She crawled to the middle of the room where he stood. Out of the inside pocket of his slacks, he pulled out a piece of fabric. He tied the black silk around her eyes, obscuring her view.
He maneuvered her like a boneless rag doll. Wherever he wanted her, he placed her. Pushing her this way and that way. With one of her senses gone, her sense of touch magnified. The floor beneath her felt rigid and cold against her back. Her arms were pulled and tied as were her ankles. The rope around them tightened on her skin the harder she tugged to get free.
Collared (Masters of Desires Book 1) Page 13
