Knocked Up by the Dom

by Penelope Bloom

  The club scene wasn’t really for me, though. I prefer a more private relationship, and DomsList offered the opportunity to get exactly that. At first glance, the site looks like a dating service. It’s not though. The submissives on the site put themselves up for auction. A meeting is arranged, and if the submissive agrees to the dominant’s terms, he pays an initial sum, and then when the contract has been fulfilled makes the final payment finishing the transaction.

  I haven’t done more than browse the listings since I broke things off with Karen nearly a year ago. I still have needs. My body craves the power of taking complete control over a woman, of bringing her to the absolute brink of her limits and letting her ride the wave back down with me. But I’ve fought back the urge. I don’t feel like I deserve the release, so I’ve forced myself to abstain all this time.

  Karen was like all the women before her, but that was exactly why her death struck me so powerfully. I had tossed aside women countless times before, as if they were used up playthings. Once my interest faded, I removed them from my life and never looked back. I won’t do that again. Not ever again. I swore I wouldn’t step back into the scene until I thought I could be better. I’m still not sure if I’m ready to rise above my old habits, but I know the old hunger is getting so strong I can barely hold it back any longer.

  I don’t know why I put myself through the misery of looking at the site anymore. It just lights up the fire and makes me crave things I don’t trust myself to give in to. I read the listings, look at the profile pictures, and remind myself why it’s still too soon to place a bid and get back into the life.

  After a few minutes, I sigh, turning off the computer and standing. I need to get out of this office. It feels like I’m being suffocated by memories, desires, and old ghosts.

  I open the door to my office and find Dina waiting for me. Her hair is pulled back in a severe bun and she’s eyeing me from behind thick rimmed glasses. “Mr. Pierce, do you have a moment?”

  “No, actually,” I say, moving to pass her.

  “It’s just that I wanted to know what you thought of the piece by Jerry-Anne Lee. It was one of the most incredible submissions I’ve ever seen. I wanted to--”

  “I threw it in the trash. Really, Dina. I have to go.”

  She stops short, a look of shock on her face as I leave her standing outside my office. I don’t enjoy being a prick, but I have too much on my mind right now to sugar coat anything. Maybe throwing the manuscripts away was a rash move, but it’s my fucking business. If she wants to question how I run it, she’s barking up the wrong tree.

  “Mr. Pierce!” says Taylor, my assistant. “I have the report you wanted.”

  I snatch the papers from Taylor, not slowing my pace and forcing him to nearly jog to keep up as I head for the elevator. “Thanks,” I say dryly before tossing the papers onto a nearby desk.

  Taylor slows as I step into the elevator and hit the button for the garage.

  Once the doors close and I’m alone I rake a hand through my hair. “Fuck,” I growl. This isn’t me. Yeah, maybe I can be a little bit of an ass when provoked, but I’m not the kind of guy who treats his employees like this. I just can’t get my fucking mind right lately. Maybe it’s just been too long since I’ve had a woman the way I need. Too long since I’ve let the force of my will shape and mold a woman’s desires, since I’ve brought them to their knees with the slightest touch. Since I’ve dominated.

  I clench my fist, slamming it against the metal of the elevator as the conviction strikes me.

  I’m tired of running from who I am. I’m not a coward. I’m finally be ready to try again. It will be different this time, though. That’s for damn sure.

  I’ll never forgive myself for Karen. Never. But I can’t let what happened seep into my business too. I’ve spent long enough punishing myself for what happened. And the only way I can begin to move past it is to get back into the life. I’m going to place a bid. Soon. I’ll find myself a submissive, and I’ll work out the frustration and sexual tension I’ve been letting grow for close to a year now.

  I lick my lips in anticipation. It has been so long. Maybe what I need is a first-timer. A BDSM virgin to train and mold into my perfect submissive. The thought makes me grin with predatory excitement.

  Fuck. I’ve needed this so badly.

  I’m about to leave the building when a man in a dark coat bumps into me, hard. I’ve always been solid though, and his attempt to knock me aside only sends him bouncing off me and into the wall.

  “What the fuck?” I growl, advancing on him. I’m about to grip him by the coat when I see him casually flash a pistol tucked in the waistband of his pants.

  I freeze, suddenly aware that this part of the lobby is largely deserted. But I’m not getting shot today. Fuck that.

  I charge him and he moves to pull the gun free but I’m on him before he can, pinning his arms to his side against the wall.

  “Who are you?” I yell into his face, squeezing his arms until his face contorts with pain.

  “Fuck you,” he spits in a thick accent.

  I punch him hard across the face, nearly breaking his neck with the force of the blow. He crumples to the ground, and I strip the pistol from his pants and kick it across the lobby.

  “Hey, Steve,” I shout toward the security desk. “Get the cops down here to take this fucker in.”

  I step out into the cold evening air, replaying the sound of the man’s voice again and again. Why the hell did it sound so familiar? And what was he planning?

  42

  Brianne

  “What did you say this guy’s name was?”

  “Jackson Pierce,” I say.

  I’m lying face up on my bed, glaring at the ceiling in my dorm room. Lacey is on her bed at the other end of the room, playing on her phone.

  “Wow,” she says, a few seconds later. “Have you seen him?”

  “No,” I say. “Why?”

  She gets up and comes to kneel by my bed, holding her phone out for me to see.

  My throat goes dry when I see the picture. It’s a man in a suit walking down a staircase. It looks like a paparazzi shot. And he looks like a movie star. No. He looks better than a movie star. He has dark hair that’s cut short on the sides and longer on the top. But what captivates me are his eyes. There’s a deep darkness in them. A coldness. He’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on and yet he looks so broken.

  Prudish. Forgettable.

  His words echo in my mind and I remember to hate him. “Yeah, he’s not bad,” I grumble.

  Lacey looks at her phone again, quirking an eyebrow. “Uh. Not bad? This guy is like, Brad Pitt in “Fight Club” sexy. He’s like Thor-level sexy. You could spread him on a shoe and I’d eat it.”

  “Spread him on a… what?” I ask, giving her a disgusted look.

  Lacey sighs. “You know? That expression, like a sauce is so good you’d eat it off a shoe.”

  “Okay, I just don’t think… forget it. The point is he’s an asshole. No matter how good he may look. It’s not like it matters anyway.”

  Lacey purses her lips. “Hm. Well, I could cyber stalk him. Maybe you could find out where he gets his coffee or something and tell him off in person.”

  I sit up on the edge of the bed, watching as she pulls up more search tabs. “Why would I want to do that?” I ask. “If anything, I just want to bury my head in the sand and pretend none of this ever happened.”

  “You would want to do that because you’re a self-respecting woman who doesn’t let some guy determine her self-worth,” she says.

  “Listen to Miss Feminist Poster Girl over here,” I say, smirking.

  “Shut up. We’re going to find this guy--for science.”

  “It’s we now?”

  “Of course it’s we,” snaps Lacey. “The only thing you know how to do on the computer is type in Microsoft Word. Let me handle the detective work.”

  “You mean the stalking,” I correct.

&
nbsp; She sighs. “Judge not lest ye be the judge.”

  “It’s judge not lest ye be judged,” I say.

  Lacey glares up at me. “You know, this would be a lot easier if you agreed not to talk.”

  I plop down on the bed, quietly watching as she digs through article after article about Jackson Pierce. I’m indifferent at first, but some of the articles start to catch my eye. It's weird that he would be a target for the paparazzi, even being as good looking as he is, a publishing executive is hardly their usual target. He also has a long history of secretive, strange relationships. There are even rumors that he’s into BDSM, with several sources claiming to have been ex-lovers.

  The most interesting is an article about charges of murder that were briefly brought against him and later dropped. That was only a year ago, concerning a woman named Karen Kieland.

  “Jesus,” whispers Lacey, as she reads the article. “Think he did it?”

  “Probably,” I say. “He probably told her the sex was unoriginal and forgettable and then put two bullets in her head.”

  Lacey giggles. “Now you’re thinking about how you’d impress him in the bed if you can’t do it on paper?”

  “No,” I snap, face reddening.

  We learn a lot of useless facts about him that have been compiled by female admirers. He owns a yacht, which seems a little excessive to me. He owns a few ridiculously big houses throughout the country. He’s not just involved in publishing, either. He’s apparently a self-taught investor and has turned his already impressive fortune into an absurd amount of wealth through his skill in the stock market. He also has a network of female fans on the internet who basically stalk his every move.

  “Oh my God,” says Lacey. “I typed in his name and my phone autocorrected publishing to punishing, so I ended up typing Jackson Pierce punishing. Look what came up.”

  It’s some kind of online profile, almost like a dating site. Except Jackson is wearing a mask. Most of his face is covered, but it’s definitely him. “Why would he put his name out there on something like this?”

  “Looks like he didn’t. Another ex of his leaked this I guess. Apparently he didn’t care though. The profile is still active. It’s like some crazy BDSM site. Look,” she says.

  There’s a picture of a woman strapped in a helpless position while three men in full leather masks loom over her, whips and paddles in hand. The image gives me a dark thrill that starts in my chest and trickles down past my belly.

  I shift a little uncomfortably. Look at me. Miss Virgin getting turned on by hardcore, kinky sex. Of course I am. My body is so sexually starved I should probably even stay away from Animal Planet.

  “This is way beyond creepy, Lacey. I’m not going to keep cyber stalking this guy with you. Yes, someone should throat punch him for how rude he was about my submission, but I mean… Maybe it really was forgettable. I’m just one of thousands and thousands of college kids who want to be writers. You know how few people actually make it as authors? Even thinking I have a chance probably means I’m delusional.”

  Lacey grips my cheeks, smooshing them together until I probably look like a fish. “Bri, listen to me. All that writing stuff is important, sure, but right now, we need to focus. Do you see this man?” she asks, jabbing her finger at a picture of him wading into the ocean, broad back so muscular it could be chiseled from granite. “The universe has basically thrown this man in our laps. We have a unique opportunity to reach out to him, to--”

  “Lacey, you have a boyfriend, Remember? Forget Jackson. He’s just a guy. Making a fool out of myself to set eyes on some guy I can see perfectly fine right here is not on the top of my priority list. I think I’ll just have a long, painful evening with my laptop, trying to figure out how to make my writing less forgettable if that’s okay with you.”

  Lacey sighs dramatically, but I notice a mischievous glint in her eye as she watches me walk to my desk. I don’t like it. Not a bit. I’ve seen the look before, and it means she’s planning something. Probably something equal parts devious, bad idea, and definitely a hearty helping of recklessness.

  43

  Jackson

  I should really be working on the new stack of manuscripts that landed on my desk, but I’m not. Ever since I decided I was going to place a bid on a submissive, it has dominated my thoughts. That, and the sound of the man in the coat’s voice. I still can’t place why it sounds so familiar, but I wish I knew. It might give me some hint as to why he would confront me with a gun, at the least.

  I’ve been browsing the new postings, waiting for one that really catches my eye. I’m about to close my laptop and dive into the manuscripts when a notification appears. A direct message.

  VirginPrincess88: I have something you want.

  I frown at the message. She’s claiming to be a virgin. It’s an easy thing to claim, but it’s risky to lie. It’s not unheard of for a dominant to request the submissive go to a doctor for confirmation, not that even a doctor can be certain. Still, the request for verification alone usually weeds out the pretenders.

  Pierce: Would you allow a doctor to verify?

  There’s a lengthy delay. I wouldn’t actually subject a woman to that. All that matters is she is willing to be tested. That’s proof enough.

  VirginPrincess88: Yes. But I want to meet in person first.

  I look at the message for a few moments before closing the browser and running a hand through my hair.

  Fuck.

  Meeting a submissive in person is part of the thrill. That’s not what has me on edge about this “Virgin Princess”. What has me on edge is that I haven’t ever posted to the boards requesting a submissive. I haven’t even placed a bid in nearly a year. So when I receive direct messages like this, they are always from the strange women who have made a hobby out of stalking me through the internet.

  I must really be desperate, because I’m actually considering agreeing to meet this woman. I’m almost certain she’s just another fraud, but if she is really a virgin and a willing submissive, I don’t know if I can risk passing that up.

  I open my email and begin the drudgery of getting through the hundred or more emails that are waiting for me every morning. Some are notices about authors we have under contract reaching the bestseller lists, some are from our big name authors trying to throw their weight around to get better contracts or privileges. I’m about halfway through when I open an email from Brianne Hartley.

  Mr. Pierce,

  You seem to have something long and hard firmly lodged up your ass, so I expect this email will never actually reach you, but I thought I’d send it anyway. I’m one of the college students who submitted a sample to you last month. The purpose of our assignment was to see the kind of feedback we would get from a real publishing company and reflect on it.

  You couldn’t be bothered to tell me more than the fact that my submission was forgettable and prudish.

  Anyway, I wanted to just take a minute out of my day to say fuck you very much, Mr. Pierce. Your advice was the single most depressing, unhelpful piece of criticism I’ve ever received. I hope one day you grow a heart.

  Hatefully yours,

  Brianne Hartley

  I re-read the email, running the back of my thumb over my lips as a smile crosses them. This woman has some fucking nerve. I hardly remember reading those submissions. For all I know, I may have just been in a shit mood and I never even read the thing. Still, I’m so surrounded by people who just want to kiss my ass and women who just want to get into bed with me that her anger is actually refreshing.

  Unfortunately, my particular tastes between the sheets aren’t exactly mainstream. Even though this stranger’s email has me dreaming up punishments that have my cock stiffening, the chances that she would be the rare type of woman to appreciate it are abysmal. I’ve learned the hard way that very few women I meet in my everyday life are open to the kind of sex I need to get off. Very few.

  So even though the thought of meeting this woman and domin
ating her has my cock hard, I know it’s a pipe dream. She’d probably draw the line at light spanking, like most women.

  I think about the email during the entirety of my thirty minute drive to Fairfield's Center for the Mentally Disturbed. By the time I pull up to the guardhouse at the front gate, I’ve already dreamed up an image of this Brianne Hartley. Long legs, sultry lips, and eyes that burn with a defiant glint that I would have to spend weeks disciplining her for.

  “Evening, Mr. Hartley,” says Brandon. He’s a college kid who works the security gate. He’s always on his phone, even when he’s talking to me, but I like him well enough.

  “Evening.”

  “You know the drill,” he says, eyes still on his phone.

  I flash my ID and snag a sticker for my windshield from his extended hand. He doesn’t even look at my ID before waving me forward and sinking back into his chair, thumbs tapping rapidly at his phone.

  I move through the reception area and nod to the nurses, who don’t pay me much notice. The building was in slight disrepair when I first had to commit my sister here five years ago. The walls were yellowing, the floors were damaged, and the rooms were small and cramped. I made sure that was all fixed before my sister set foot inside. Now the building hums with electronics, clean lighting, and crisp white walls with enough decorations to lessen the sterile atmosphere. I had some original artwork brought in from my personal collection, hand-crafted carpets and rugs, and anything else I could find to make the place feel more like home for Sarah. If she knew how much of it was my doing, she never would have agreed to stay here. She has always turned away my help, but it just means I have to find more creative ways to give it.

  I find Sarah’s room and knock gently before letting myself in. The setting afternoon sun comes through her window, bathing everything in gold. She sits on the edge of her bed, looking out over the oaks and the hills that roll into a forest a few hundred yards away from the building. Her features are unreadable, as usual. Her eyes are distant and sad.