Collared (Masters of Desires Book 1)

by Paula Dickson

  No, it wasn’t. But he wouldn’t say so because it was better to have her than to not have her at all. And so, for the first time in his life, Preston swallowed his words, tucked them in his pocket, hopelessly hoping she would one day be ready to hear them.

  He swept a hair strand behind her ear and kissed her cheek so sweetly, he felt her melt against his caress.

  “I’m going to hurt you all day long, Abigail. You’re going to scream so fucking much. You’re going to beg me to stop and I won’t listen. I won’t stop until you cry blood. I won’t stop until you say rainbow.”

  He kissed her so slow time stood still. When his tongue swept against hers, he felt the weirdest tickling sensation on his spine. The feeling so prevalent, he never wanted it to ever stop.

  He picked her up and placed her on her desk. Pencils and papers fell on the floor but neither cared. Their lips never broke contact, instead, the kiss intensified. It felt like the first time he’d ever been kissed, and he wanted her lips to be the only ones he’d ever kiss again.

  To avoid anoxia, they both pulled away. He nuzzled her nose with his, breathing hard against her lips. The familiar glint of fear and lust in her eyes made his cock throb.

  “Why?” she asked breathlessly.

  “You took something that wasn’t yours to take.”

  “I didn’t take anything. I—”

  “Shh, it’s too late to return it, Abigail. The damage has already been done. Remember Newton’s Law? This is my reaction to your theft.”

  “I trust you.”

  “I know you do.” He only wished she’d trust him with her heart, too.

  He kissed her forehead. “Are you ready to leave?”

  “All I need are five minutes to send a few emails.”

  He nodded sagely and scratched his chin. “Every minute wasted is a spank earned.”

  “I’ll be sure to take my time.” She winked.

  “It’ll be my pleasure.”

  She smiled in a way that suggested the pleasure was all hers.

  Preston scanned the cluttered space, looking for a seat.

  The flower-patterned loveseat in the room was covered in books and papers. Good. He wouldn’t be caught dead sitting on that awful thing, anyway. The wooden coffee table had a similar chaotic feel, filled with magazines and envelopes.

  Not having a place to sit, he roamed the nicely sized office freely, or as freely as he could with the mess she had. He shook his head. How did she get any work done?

  This was his definition of Hell.

  How can such a beautiful woman be this unorganized? If this was what her office looked like he could only imagine what her house was like. He quickly removed the thought from his mind, afraid a migraine would strain his temples.

  “Ever thought about cleaning this place? It’s awfully messy.” He picked up an empty beer bottle with tulips inside.

  “It’s not messy, it’s Bohemian.”

  “It’s not Bohemian, it’s hoarding.”

  “It’s not hoarding, it’s...table art,” she shot back.

  She not only needed a spanking for speaking back but a lesson on contrasting recyclable items versus decorative art.

  Intrigued by her interest in literature, Preston made his way to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, bumping into the rope pots that hung from the ceiling. Jesus fuck! Really? He could hear her giggling behind him. That earned her ten extra spankings.

  He thrummed his index finger on the colorful spines of diverse books.

  Anne Rice, Nawal El Saadawi, Tiffany Reisz, and Chris Kraus were among the many authors he saw along with a collection of books edited by her. The eclectic taste in books didn’t surprise him a bit. The books that startled him the most were the mythologies written by Edith Hamilton, Hesiod, and Robert Fagles.

  He pulled out a copy of Theogony/Works and Days.

  “Did you read this?”

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes only going to him for a second. Her fingers didn’t stop typing.

  “What did you think about it?”

  “I enjoyed it. I think Prometheus might be one of my favorite Titans. I read a lot of his mythology after taking a class for college. Although it was hard to understand most of the poetry. I found myself reading the dictionary more than the book itself.”

  “Prometheus, really? He’s the mythological version of Lucifer.” He went on to say, “And if you were Greek, you’d know the etymology of most words.”

  She laughed. “That’s your biased opinion because you’re half-Greek. And Prometheus isn’t Lucifer! He is our creator. He made us out of mud and stood for what he believed in.”

  “He didn’t create us. He created men, Angel, not women.”

  “Oh, please.” She went on to talk about Pandora and the anti-feminism behind Hesiod’s words. Her opinionated views on mythology turned him on. He sent a silent thanks to Hephaestus for creating such a beautiful creation and to Zeus for ordering him to create women.

  “Are you done?” he asked with a lopsided grin.

  “Yes,” she said defiantly, her arms crossed.

  “Good because it’s time to play.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Master Trice leisurely unleashed the beast inside him.

  He unscrewed the cufflinks on his wrists, rolled the sleeves of his crisp white shirt up to the elbows, and loosened his tie. He unbuttoned the top four buttons of his shirt as he sat on his throne. His eyes on his slave.

  A crook of his finger had his slave crawling to him. The sensual movements of her hips were of a ravenous cheetah. His legs spread, welcoming the voracious creature to his most prevalent buffet.

  He offered orgasms, satisfaction, and safety. It was when she felt safe, she let her guard down. And it was when her guard was down, he’d strike.

  He stroked her hair idly, feeling her heartbeat slow in repose, waiting for the right moment to attack. When her head rested on his thigh and her eyes closed in a deep sigh, he wrapped her braid around his wrist and pulled.

  Master Trice dragged her across the room, relinquishing a deep breath as he heard the squeak of her skin burning against the dry floor. The image of her porcelain skin turning a shade of pink made it hard to focus on his next move.

  She was thrown on a wooden table. Her vision was blinded by his silver tie. His fingers shook uncontrollably, anxious to get the preliminaries done with so he could start hurting her. He weaved a hemp rope around her ankles, using the Ryo Tekubi technique taught to him by a Japanese friend. Making sure the diamond knots were firm enough, he clasped the remnants of the rope in the four carabiners that hung from the ceiling.

  His slave gasped as her lower body was elevated. Her hands gripped onto the wooden edges of the table with treacherous fear. He could see the beat of her heart through the thin skin of her neck.

  But Master Trice had just gotten started.

  He circled another rope around her thighs, using the extra pieces to tie her wrists at her sides. Now she had nothing to hold onto. Lastly, he wrapped a piece of the hemp around her knees, attaching the remains to her neck. If she straightened her legs only an inch, she’d choke.

  He stepped back, admiring the Kinbaku he’d created. Now, this was table art.

  With her legs raised high, her pussy was bare for him to see. Her pink folds glistened with arousal.

  He ran a finger down her wet slit.

  Her body trembled. His touch electric.

  He pushed three fingers inside her, evoking a moan from her lips. He worked them in and out, his thumb teasing her clitoris. He waited patiently for her to get close to orgasm. The peristaltic contractions of her body gave her away and he stopped right before she jumped off the cliff.

  “Ten minutes of waiting constitutes ten spanks. Five more for being untidy. Ten for speaking back to me. Ten for not having me in your schedule. And just because I’m a generous man, I’ll add five more.”

  “Use your manners,” he urged after she didn’t show him her gratitude.

>   “Thank you, Master Trice.”

  A sinister grin took control of his lips as he put on his vampire gloves. The leather gloves were lined with tiny spikes along the thumb and fingers. If used cautiously there would be no blood just mere bruises that would heal in a week or two.

  He found no need to be cautious.

  He caressed her ass with the gloves, getting her acquainted with the texture. With his thumb, he pressed down on her clit. The tiny spikes left a snake’s bite on the sensitive area. Had her legs been open, he would’ve licked the blood off.

  “Count,” he said as he slapped her ass.

  “One!”

  The spanks that followed the first strike were delivered successively on the back of her upper thighs and buttocks. Red stained his white shirt as with every slap, blood splattered onto his chest. His once black gloves were now tainted crimson. A trickle of blood flowed down her opening. It was so red, so vibrant, reminding him Abigail was alive, reminding him he held her life in his hands.

  The ultimate human power turned his cock to stone.

  It’d been too long since he’d let himself go. Part of the reason was due to Lauren. When she was around, he reserved his needs to appease hers. Knowing she found his sexual desires appalling, didn’t allow such desire to brew.

  Now Lauren wasn’t around, he lost himself in Abigail.

  He was fire and she was the fuel that built his desire. Together they were explosive. Dynamite.

  “Thirty,” she breathed. “Please, stop.”

  Her pleads encouraged him to keep going.

  He spanked her as hard as he could, digging the spikes further into her skin. He gave his hand a twist as he gritted through his teeth, “You have no permission to speak. Shut. The. Fuck. Up!”

  When all the slaps were delivered, he threw the bloody gloves on the floor. It was time to castigate another part of her body and because she looked majestic on her hands and knees, he wanted to make sure she spent the rest of the weekend like the animal she was.

  Ready to perform another one of his favorite Greek tortures, Master Trice walked to the far wall where a plethora of apparatuses hung neatly on hooks.

  He removed one of his many rods.

  His slave’s tender soles had been taunting him all evening, begging to be struck. Backing a foot, he aimed the rod at the arches of her feet and delivered the first blow.

  Her feet shifted violently in a frail attempt to get away.

  “Count down to fifty. If you miss a number, I’ll start over. If you flinch, I’ll start over.”

  He started slowly across the toes and heels of her feet, making sure she counted correctly. He was meticulous with his blows, avoiding the bone structure in the balls of her feet. When he reached the fiftieth blow and Abigail counted two instead of zero, he knew she’d done it on purpose.

  It was his duty as a dominant to attend to his submissive’s needs, so he was more than happy to comply. This time, he used the end of the rod to rub up and done the soles of her feet, intensifying her pleasure. If Abigail miscounted, he didn’t notice. He was too enthralled in the dark magenta squares decorating the cheeks of her butt.

  His cock dented his pants. His balls ached for release. All he wanted was to feel her clench around him.

  When he heard zero, he let the rod drop to the floor.

  His pants weren’t fully unzipped before he slid inside her. His eyes closed in great satisfaction. He stayed inside her for minutes, deriving in the pleasure of being this close to her. He tilted his lips to the area just below her twined ankles and gave it a soft caress, her lips too far to kiss.

  Pulling out of her was ghastly.

  Pushing inside her was wondrous.

  With one last thrust, he came with a groan of pure agony.

  This woman was unadulterated poison. She absorbed the fucking life out of him. And he’d die a satisfied man if he had to.

  He pulled out of her poisonous body slowly.

  And because he wanted to show her just how much he loved her, he slid the table from under her.

  She gasped.

  She screamed.

  She trembled in the air as her body dangled from the ceiling.

  A vertical cut to the rope that connected her knees and neck allowed for her body to fully hang upside down. His cum slid down her thighs. Crimson drops trickled down the curves of her body. It went over her stomach and down her neck, sliding down her nose and eyelids.

  When her face turned a shade of red, he pulled the silver ring down.

  Her body now on the floor, he unclasped the carabiners and cut the ropes that bundled her body. A spiral beaded pattern imprinted the areas where the ropes had been, leaving a temporary tattoo that would last past the day.

  He unblinded her and said, “Go shower. You’re as filthy as your office.”

  She raised from her knees but fell to the floor as she tried to carry her body on the injured soles of her feet.

  “I—I can’t walk.”

  “Use your fucking knees.”

  She tried once more but failed, her arms too weak to hold her upper body. The longer he stayed and watched, the more her struggle tugged at his heart. In a pure mindless act, he picked her up.

  “Fuck it,” he murmured.

  He cradled her exhausted body in his arms, trying as hard as he could to avoid contact with her butt and thighs. It was a convoluted task he failed at miserably, but he didn’t stop trying. He’d never stop trying when it came to her. And so, with the top of his shoe, he gave the door a push as he made his way to his bedroom. There he’d bathe her, dry her, feed her, and spend the night talking about myths. It’d be when she’d fall sound asleep, he’d tell her how sorry he was for falling for her because it meant she’d let him go and her ultimate desire would go unfulfilled.

  “Why didn’t you say your safeword?” he wondered.

  “I didn’t want it to stop.” She rested her damp face on the hollow of his neck. “And I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

  “That’s dangerous, Abigail. That’s reckless. Using your safeword doesn’t make you a bad sub or less of a masochist.” He kissed the top of her head. “You’ll forever be the strongest woman I’ve ever known.”

  Preston was a foot away from his door when he heard Lauren’s voice at the end of the hall.

  “Pre—” she cleared her throat, fixing her mistake. “Master Trice, what happened to her?”

  He tightened his grip around her. “She can’t walk.”

  Lauren traveled to him. Her hips swayed seductively with every step. Her nipple rings glittered with the reflection of the moon. Her hands rested on the same arms he used to hold Abigail, urging him to let go.

  “Let me heal her,” she said.

  His biceps flexed, wanting to push her away—to protect Abigail from Lauren’s demanding grip.

  He’d made a promise to himself long ago not to give another soul away. He wasn’t going to break that promise. This was where Abigail belonged. This was where he wanted her to stay for the rest of her life.

  An ignorant young boy, he was no more. He was now resilient, powerful enough to stand his ground with his own two feet. He had no need, nor did he have the desire to let her go.

  But he owed it to Lauren to let Abigail go. He couldn’t give up on her either, so he compromised.

  “Okay,” he said, defeated.

  With Lauren following behind, he carried Abigail to their room. Walking into their shared bathroom, he noticed the bathtub had already been filled with water and natural herbs that added to the aroma in the room. The bamboo caddy held the essentials for healing—a cup of tea, Aloe Vera, capsules of zinc, and medicinal body wash to sterilize the wounds.

  He turned to Lauren, wondering how long she’d been in the house.

  She squared her shoulders and stood taller, daring him to confront her.

  He didn’t.

  Instead, he chastised himself for believing he was capable of taking care of Abigail when he didn’t know the fi
rst thing of aftercare. He wasn’t aware of her body’s needs or her emotional state after their scenes. He’d thought a simple bubble bath would cure her injuries. He’d thought wrapping his arms around her would heal her.

  He’d been wrong.

  Although it wasn’t a competition, he felt as though Lauren had won the battle today. And at that moment, he felt defeated. He’d failed Abigail as her master, refusing to give her the care she deserved for being a valiant warrior. Of course, she didn’t love him. How could she when he hadn’t allowed for a deeper bond to form between them?

  Abigail had given him everything he’d ever asked for, he’d ever needed, he’d ever wanted. Had he done the same for her?

  As he lowered her into the water, he said, “I’ve failed you and I will forever regret it.”

  She interrupted his declaration, digging into his back as she tried to climb his body. “Please, it’s too hot.”

  “It will only sting for a minute.” He kissed the top of her head. “I promise.”

  “Please, no,” she begged.

  Though his compassion made an appearance, his patience grew thin.

  “Abigail, you need to let go. Now.” Without further preamble, she let go of her grip around him.

  She sank into the water with a low plop!

  Her body shook as if she were bathing in ice water. Her arms crossed over her breasts as she drew her legs up in a fetal position.

  Preston squatted on the floor, wanting to do something, anything to help her but he didn’t know how or what. He was lost. Should he offer her tea? Should he squirt the soap on a cloth or use his hands to soothe her shoulders?

  As an editor, he hoped she’d appreciate his words instead. “I need your help. I need you to help me help you. I don’t know what to do, Angel.”

  He swept an unruly strand behind her ear, wanting to see those big gray eyes. Under other circumstances, she’d lean closer to his touch. She’d close her eyes or would look intently at his, thinking of the words she daren’t say aloud. Today, she did neither. Her eyes remained stoic, focused on the rim of the tub as she strained from his touch.

  “Tell me what to do,” he urged but she remained silent. “Don’t do this, Abigail. Don’t shut me out.”