Chapter One

 

 

 

Now what?

Alana reminded herself she wanted this, needed this. This insanity, the trip, the vacation…  The entire thing had been all her idea, a grand adventure to sate the hunger burning deep inside her. Hunger? No, that wasn’t the right word. This wasn’t as simple as hunger; it was more like an obsession. Since she’d discovered Sir Ethan Kendall, she’d been unable to stop thinking about him; she’d been unable to stop wanting him. Learning about BDSM from any other man simply wouldn’t do. She had to have Ethan.

So, now, here she stood, an American on English soil, waiting, uncertain, frightened, and if she were honest, consumed by an unholy excitement that made her heart thump and her palms slick with cold sweat.

Her fellow passengers had claimed their bags from the carousel and exited the area nearly half an hour ago. She was the only one standing here, orphaned.

At this time of night, Heathrow was cold and lonely. A nasty wind battered the windows and a miserable drizzle spat on the panes. Yesterday in Florida, the sun had blazed across the afternoon sky, palm trees had swayed gently, the humidity had been blessedly low, and she had been running around in cut-off shorts and a tank top.

Now, she shivered. Instinctively she knew the sudden chill wasn’t from the dreary weather. It was from the mixture of anticipation and low-level fear.

Surely it wouldn’t be much longer until Ethan came to collect her.

Or perhaps it would be.

He could, would keep her waiting as long as he wanted. She was, by her own choice, totally, completely one hundred percent at his mercy for the next fortnight.

A man, tall, broad, and wearing a blue cap and yellow rain slicker pushed through the revolving door.

“Ms. Simmons?”

Her mouth suddenly dry, she nodded, instead of responding. Ethan? It could be, she supposed, since she had no idea what he looked like. Not that anyone did, really. He didn’t frequent her side of the pond and he had never been a player on the scene. Despite that, his reputation for working with submissives was legendary. It had taken her months to find him and make contact, which in its own way was remarkable. Among her numerous naughty sins, she was an excellent computer hacker. It would have taken slightly less time to contact the President of the United States on his private cell phone.

The man stopped near her. Water dripped from his slicker onto floor. Good God, let this be Ethan. Up close, this man was a hunk and a half. His eyes were blue, but not just an ordinary blue. They were an electrifying, stunning blue. She could imagine him capturing her gaze while he commanded her onto her knees.

His hands were large and just the thought of him touching her naked skin made her want to obey.

“I’ll be having the personal effects that Master requested you bring.”

Master?

Which meant this man wasn’t Ethan.

She exhaled. So who was he?

“Ms. Simmons?”

This was it.

Ethan’s e-mailed instructions had been very specific. She was to travel lightly. She should wear a skirt with stockings and a garter belt—no knickers, he’d said, and she’d had to learn that that translated into American panties—and the highest heels she could tolerate. Her blouse should button up the front. Surprising her, he’d added an instruction that she should wear a bra. As for suitcases, she’d need none. He would be supplying everything she needed.

She was allowed to travel with her prized handbag containing identification, credit cards, cash, passport, and, of course, the letter.

The unnamed man stood there, his hand extended. “Your personal effects, if you please,” he repeated.

There was something about being in a submissive state of mind that made Alana’s brain turn to mush. She was competent—more than competent—at her marketing job. She led her team in strategic ideas. But put her with a man who held sexual power over her, and she struggled to think straight.

“Ms Simmons? Do you need me to repeat the request?”

“No.” Her hands were shaky as she shrugged her purse from her shoulder and unzipped the bag’s main compartment.

She made a neat little pile on his extended palm.

“Keep the book,” he said. “Master didn’t request anything else.”

Oh-kay.

Master? It was the second time he’d used the word. Was this man a slave, much like she wanted to be? Surely not. As big, strong, and yummy as he was, he was probably just being respectful of Ethan’s British title.

Tucking her papers safely inside his slicker, he said, “Now dispose of the rest.”

“I beg your pardon? Throw away…?”

With infinite patience, and without a scowl forming between his brows, the man repeated the order.

“Are you mad? Do you have any idea how much I paid for this bag?” Ever since she’d been old enough to lust over fashion magazines, she’d wanted a purse that department stores kept safely locked in a glass case. Or, even better, one from a fashionable little store that discretely tucked price tags inside the bag. Alana had spent days bidding on this particular purse on an internet auction site. She’d wondered if her credit card would melt from the frenzy. “You’re kidding me, right? Tell me this is a bad joke.”

He said nothing.

Men.

Another drop of water dripped from his slicker onto the floor.

Then she realised this was the first test. Being bound and flogged was one thing. Throwing away a purse that cost a month’s salary was another, entirely.

With a sigh, she walked over to the nearest rubbish bin and tossed in her handbag. As if that wasn’t bad enough, it still contained her journal, the book she was quite enjoying, and worse, her toiletries, including her favourite tube of mascara.

Good God. Was she really ready for this? Ready to be stripped to her barest, basest level? For that’s what Ethan would demand from her.

The man, who still had not introduced himself, headed for the exit. She shrugged and then followed him.

In seconds, the inhospitable English weather had taken its toll. The rain drenched her, the wind whipped wet strands of hair onto her cheeks. Now she was cold, wet, tired, jet lagged, and minus one fine handbag. She could have booked a flight anywhere in the world. Bali, Tahiti, Puerto Vallarta, Maui. She could be baking in the sun, smiling her thanks to the subservient boys who brought her frozen, tropical drinks with colourful umbrellas stuck in them. But, no. She’d searched out a recluse and gleefully handed over her credit card number for an aeroplane ticket to England in January.

Mad. She was the one who was totally, completely, one hundred percent certifiably insane.

The man held open the back of a limo for her.

Well, this was a treat.

The inside was enormous. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all. She could warm up, relax, take a snooze, and maybe, just maybe, have a drink to steady her nerves before meeting Ethan.

She slid her drenched self onto the back seat of the dark limo, and the driver closed the door. She tipped back her head and sighed.

“On your knees.”

Her insides became a puddle of desire.

In the dark, she couldn’t make out much more than the silhouette of a broad man facing her. But his voice was rich, like brandy poured over velvet. It had the added, seductive elements of being precise and authoritative.

Ethan?

He’d personally come to collect her?

Exhaustion clobbered by a burst of adrenaline, Alana slid from the seat.

Being on her knees sounded like an easy order to follow, until she was on the uncomfortable floorboard, the short carpet chafing her knees.

She waited. And waited.

Was she expected to speak or just remain silent? Nerves made her babble. “Ethan? Thank you for accepting me. I mean, I know you don’t work with many slaves anymore and…” She trailed off.

The vehicle began to move, and yet her companion hadn’t said another word, hadn’t responded to anything she said.

If his intention was to keep her on tenterhooks, he’d succeeded.

Alana had to shift slightly as the car accelerated and merged onto the roadways.

She was hyperaware of the man in front of her, of the scent of raw, untamed North Sea.

As her heartbeat slowed and blood stopped pounding in her ears, she tuned into the secondary sounds, those of the rain splattering on the windows, the vehicle’s tyres splashing through the water on the motorway, the other cars zooming past, and most importantly, the breathing pattern of the man barely an arm’s reach away.

As they passed beneath the occasional streetlight, she caught shadowed glimpses of him. Dark hair. Intense eyes. Chiselled features.

He was resting on something. A cane?

She was consumed with curiosity, wanting to talk to him, ask him questions, anchor herself in some way to the man she’d given herself to.

“Remove your coat.”

Alana’s hands shook. She’d never felt more disoriented. She couldn’t see much, and she knew little of the man she was kneeling before. She’d played bondage games in the past; even some where she was blindfolded, not exactly tops of her list of favourite things.

But, even in those, she entered the club willingly with a partner of her choice. She’d seen the room, recognised all the torture devices hanging from the walls.

She folded her coat and placed it on the floorboard next to her. Unable to resist the vanity, she ran her hands through her rain-dampened hair before tucking strands behind her ears.

Anticipation making a knot of her stomach as she waited for his next instruction.

It was strange how she craved the sound of his voice, as if the rich, aristocratic cadence were a lifeline.

But the order didn’t come.

For all she knew, he’d totally forgotten about her.

She breathed deep, smelling the sharp scent of leather. The car’s interior, she wondered, or something else, like a whip or flogger? Or, better yet, the belt he wore?

And she once again inhaled his scent as well. She would come to know it well, she realised. It was the scent of her trainer, her master.

As time passed and city lights disappeared behind them, her knees became even more fatigued, and she had to fight the urge to rest on her haunches. So much for a comfy ride and a glass of wine. This, the silence, the uncertainty, was much more intense than she’d anticipated. He was wearing down her resistance, taking her completely out of her comfort zone, she knew. But that didn’t make it any easier.

If he’d have made her get naked and inspected her, she would have known how to act. Every article she’d read covered that. Everyone she talked to told her to expect that. But this? Uncertainty provided a much greater mind fuck than a detailed set of instructions would have.

“I trust you’re comfortable?”

“Err…” She hesitated. Was he expecting a “Yes, Sir?” Or the truth?

“Answer the question.” His tone was a whiplash and it jerked her fully upright again.

“No. No, Sir. I’m not comfortable.”

“I always want honesty from you, Alana. Lying will get you sent back to America immediately.”

She nodded, not that he would notice in the dark.

“If I have done my job correctly,” he said, his voice rich, measured, and paced, “the next time we take a ride in my car and you’re on your knees, tired and wet and hungry, you’ll be able to say you are comfortable.”

She cocked her head to one side. “Sir?”

“Submission,” he said. “The reason you’re here is to learn about submission.”

He was nobility, comfortable with giving commands and fully expecting to be obeyed. “Yes.”

“Submission,” he told her, “is about more than whips and chains, although you’ll certainly feel the bite of my leather.”

Alana had gotten an elicit thrill from their e-mail exchanges, but it was nothing compared to the reality of being here, close enough to smell him, to have his voice send shivers up her spine. Her arousal made her moist between the legs.

“Submission is more mental than physical. It’s about pleasure. It’s about—” He broke off. Using the cane for balance, he leaned towards her. “You tell me, Alana. Tell me about submission.”

“I told you in my first e-mail.”

“That was scripted.”

She swallowed. He was right. It had taken her several days to write that first e-mail. She’d had her friends in the scene read it; she’d used a dictionary and a thesaurus. Even though she wasn’t an English major, the letter had been good.

“Insulting, even. You’re lucky I didn’t delete it.”

Oh.

“Tell me about your journey to submission.”

“You’re right, it is mental. I think about it, fantasise about it. I have dreams about it.”

“Keep going.”

She would have to dig deep to give him want he demanded. “I used to have these fantasies of being spanked.” Good grief. She couldn’t believe she was actually telling him this. Her tongue suddenly felt too big for her mouth.

“Go on.”

Her knees were definitely hurting now. About five minutes ago, she’d passed fatigue and crossed into a dull ache. Her muscles strained as she struggled to keep her balance. Did he notice? Or care? “One night, I think I was about nineteen, I went to a birthday party at my friend’s house. There were a bunch of us, and after we sang Happy Birthday to her, her boyfriend told her she was going to get birthday spanks, one for every year.” She licked her lower lip.

The silence in the car became a palpable thing. Alana was hyperaware of the chauffeur also listening to every word.

“Instead of just spanking her while she stood there, he waited until all the adults were gone, and then he turned her over his knee. She fussed and had all these little cries, but with the way she was squirming and then moaning, you knew she was enjoying it. At home that night, I hardly slept at all.” She finally took a breath.

“You wanted to be her.”

“Yes. I would be the one to get a spanking. It would be an over-the-knee thing, like hers.”

“Bare-bottomed?”
“Back then, I didn’t think that far. Maybe over my clothes. But I never got the images out of my head. The fantasy changed, though. I added details. I wanted a bare-bottomed spanking.” She wished she could see him. She wanted to read his expression, wanted to know if her answers, her honesty pleased him. “But maybe I’d be wearing stockings and a garter belt. I’d be chastised for misbehaving.”

“And your punisher… Would he finger your clit or fuck you when he was done?”

Ethan’s blunt talk cut straight to the matter. With this man, there were no pleasantries. He hadn’t asked about her flight, or if she was hungry, or if she needed a drink. Instead, he went straight to the point…went about the business of establishing who was master. “No,” she responded. She took a deep breath. “He wouldn’t touch me at all. He’d leave me to think of my naughty ways.”

“He?”

She hungered for his man’s reaction. “In my fantasies, my punisher has always been a man, yes.”

“Perhaps it would be interesting to watch a woman give you a spanking.”

She shuddered. That wasn’t something she’d ever thought about.

“Alana?”

Honesty. He demanded honesty. “I’m strictly heterosexual, Sir.”

“I said perhaps it would be interesting to watch a woman give you a spanking. I did not ask if you wanted to be spanked by a woman. And…” He trailed off and leaned even closer towards her. “The correct answer is ‘if it pleases you, Sir’.”

She gulped.

She was completely out of her element.

Ethan wasn’t a player at the scene, someone who put on leather and assumed a role at night and then went back to his regularly scheduled life. This man was a master. In the past ten minutes, even though he hadn’t so much as touched her, she’d seen that. He’d been demanding and exacting, subtly outlining the rules, probing at her memories, testing her commitment. Dominance was woven into the fabric of his soul. He couldn’t be any other way.

And he was still waiting. “If it pleases you, Sir.”

“If I ask your opinion directly, I expect a straight answer.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You understand the difference?”

“Yes.” If asked a direct question, he required honesty. If he suggested something he’d like to do to her, the decision as to whether or not to do it was up to him.

“Did you ever get your spanking?”

“I did.” And the memory was there, fresh and real. “When I was about twenty-three. I met a man at a club. I’d had a drink or two and told him what I wanted. Since he was a Dom, he took me home and gave me a sound thrashing.”

Ethan didn’t ask questions, but his silence was both instruction and invitation. She continued, “It was hot. I, uhm, loved it. But then…” She trailed off, mucking around to find the right words. “I had this hunger to…I don’t know. Serve? I wanted to be on my knees, I wanted to kiss his hand. He wanted to fuck and then hold me in his arms.” She broke position to run her hand through her hair.

“Punishment is a part of submission,” he said. “And so is reward.”

“But—”

“But you weren’t craving just a spanking, little one. You were craving submission. Your Dom didn’t understand the mental angles. You wanted punishment and reward. You got punishment, but there was no crime to be punished for. Not even a made-up one. The psychological angles weren’t explored or exploited.” He captured her chin with his thumb and forefinger.

She felt his power, his strength.

She was glad she came. There was no place on the planet she’d rather be than on her knees in front of a man who did understand the psychology of what she craved.

“Therefore it was shallow. Meaningless. And it didn’t satisfy.”

“Yes.” That was it, what she herself had never comprehended.

“Your instincts were right, by the way. You should have had a deeper hunger to serve. You should have wanted to kiss his hand. That’s submission. Spanking and being tied up, that’s kink.”

“There’s nothing wrong with kink.”

“Quite right,” he agreed. “A little ‘tie me up, tie me down’ can be good for some. But for others, for submissives, it’s not enough.”

“For me, it’s not enough. Not that I don’t enjoy just being tied up and…”

“Say it.”

She ran her tongue across the front of her teeth. “Fucked.”

“Go on.”

“But I lay awake thinking that there has to be more.”

“A submissive finds pleasure from pleasing her master.”

And she wanted to please this man. She wanted to turn her head into his palm, wanted to kiss his hand. She had no idea if she pleased him at all. Did the way she stayed there, fighting for balance against the car’s sway, despite the fact her body ached, make him happy? Damn it! She had no idea if she was doing anything right.

“That said, that doesn’t mean you cannot or will not be punished, spanked, or flogged simply because I want to beat you. Seeing you writhe beneath my whip will give me pleasure.” Tightening his grip a bit, he added, “But it will never be meaningless.”

She wanted to lean into him, to surrender. The pad of his thumb felt rough, callused. This man was so much more than just a gentleman.

In the quiet, in the dark, he asked, “What do you want to do right now? What do you want to say?”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I want to thank you, and not just because that’s what a properly trained sub would do.” Her thanks came from the heart. This man, more than anyone she’d ever met, understood her. “Thank you for understanding, for helping me to understand.

“I want to kiss your hand because I know it will give me pleasure, as well as pain. And I want to press myself against you, begging for your touch.” Never had Alana been so boldly honest. This man she’d never met before tonight aroused her, tantalised her. She wanted him to possess her.

Yet she was still fully clothed.

He held her face prisoner still, and he tenderly stroked her cheekbone with his forefinger.

She tried to kiss him, but he forbade it. She closed her eyes. “I—”

“Is your pussy wet?”

“Yes.” And it was. Very wet.

“Show me.”

Alana frowned. Show him, how?

He released her and sat back in his seat.

Spreading her thighs even farther apart, she grabbed the hem of her skirt and pulled it up. She tucked it into her waistband to keep the material out of the way, and then reached between her legs to run her fingertips across her damp crotch.

She bit back an involuntary moan. Her entire body was sensitised, and even the lightest touch from her own fingers was enough to push her over the edge.

“Show me,” he repeated.

She held out her hand towards him. Resting on the cane, he once again leaned forward. He took her hand and raised it to his nose. There was no way to miss the sharp scent of her arousal. It filled the car. She thought she should be embarrassed, but, releasing her, he gave her no opportunity.

“Lick your fingers.”

What?

“Lick your fingers,” he repeated.

With a shudder, she forced herself to tamp down her instinctive rebellion and do as he instructed. She raised her hand, and then sucked her fingers into her mouth. Her juices were salty, but, she had to admit, not all that unpleasant.

“Do you want to orgasm?”

“Yes,” she whispered. The shame of the admission made her drop her head forward.

“You want to fuck yourself in front of me, where even Thomas can hear your every moan?”

So that was the driver’s name. Thomas.

“Alana?”

She wanted the orgasm.

She didn’t want an audience.

Being uninhibited in front of Ethan was one thing. He’d tolerate nothing less. But behaving that way in front of both men was another, especially since she was attracted to the driver. “I’ve never masturbated in front of anyone,” she confessed.

“Because?”

“I’ve never been an exhibitionist.” Something seemed particularly naughty about that.

“So you’d prefer to be denied an orgasm?”

“No,” she said quickly. She knew enough about the lifestyle to realise it wasn’t smart to turn down an offered orgasm. You never knew when you’d get another chance.

He turned on an interior light. But because of the way it was positioned, she didn’t get a better glimpse of him. “You have two minutes to bring yourself off.”

“Two minutes?” She couldn’t do anything in less than five.

“One minute and fifty-five seconds,” he amended.

“But—”

“Allow me to help.” He leaned forward and slapped her cunt, hard.

She jerked and cried out. Her breaths came in shocked, panting bursts. But once the burning sting receded, she was even wetter than before. Damn it. Damn him. He knew her so completely already.

“Fuck yourself,” he ordered.

Her fingers shook and her senses swam.

This couldn’t possibly be happening.

“I—” Feeling miserable, she parted her labia. From his smack, her clit was hardened and swollen. She pulled back the hood, exposing the nub so she could gently rub it.

This was more difficult than she could have imagined, letting go of her inhibitions long enough to masturbate herself to orgasm in front of two strangers, despite the fact she’d begged for the opportunity to come to England.

She worked her fingers against her clit, pushing them deep into her pussy, but the damned orgasm remained elusive.

So close…  Painfully close…  She jerked her hips, humping her hand. But she couldn’t quite…

Suddenly, Ethan dug his hand in her hair, simultaneously pulling and imprisoning her head as he said, “You’d do well to follow my orders, girl.” His breath was hot on her face. “If you don’t climax when given the opportunity, it will be a long time before you are given another chance.”

She nodded, but the motion pulled her hair tight and made her wince.

“I have a fairly good idea what kind of Doms you’ve been with in the past,” he added. “Weak. Players. Men who don’t understand submission. Do not confuse me with them.”

“No,” she said, “I won’t.”

“I told you to fuck yourself.”

Furiously, she kept working her pussy. Her senses were overloaded, her nerves were stretched to their limit, and her brain was unable to complete a rational thought.

“Time’s up,” he said.