From the Grandmistress of B&D! Mark is obsessed with a beautiful movie star, following her career, her life, her every move. He dreams of turning her into his ideal sex slave. Executing a flawlessly planned kidnap, he’s certain she\\'ll come to love him once she understands how pure and intense his passion is for her. Not surprisingly, she doesn\\'t respond as he\\'d hoped... Claire Thompson\\'s dark exploration of obsession reveals what compels a man to take his fantasies to such an extreme. Emily, the object of his desire is at first terrified into obedience. Over time, showered with both love and cruel control, she begins a metamorphosis into willing sex slave, or so it would seem. What develops is an intense, if conflicted, BDSM love story. Be prepared to submerge yourself in a dangerous sensual journey of self-discovery on the parts of both the Master and the slave. With a very personal introductory note from the author. (Published in a shorter, much different version as The Stalker.) Cover Art: T. L. Davison
EXTRACT
CHAPTER ONE
Emily was naked, her wrists strung high above her head, pulling her
body taut. Her legs were spread wide, held in place by a long bar of
gleaming metal, with an attached metal cuff securing each ankle. The
room was empty, suffused with a white light from ceiling to floor.
Emily's head had dropped forward, her dark shiny hair tussled and
damp with perspiration. The sound of the whip cracked against her soft
supple flesh. Mark's heavy flogger struck her body again and again,
coiling around her thigh, her belly, the perfect globes of her ass.
Her cries echoed in the empty room.
Mark lay on the bed, his hand on his cock as he watched her on the
screen. The flat screen high definition TV didn't do her justice.
Emily Hunter was laughing toward him, her dark blue eyes beckoning to
him as he sighed. His recurring fantasy of whipping his bound slave,
just before he let her down to fuck her, remained in the back of his
mind as he watched the movie star on the screen.
Mark shifted a little in anticipation of her next scene. In a few
moments the male character would begin to unbutton Emily's blouse.
Mark moaned. He should be the only one to do that. Soon he would be
– soon Emily Hunter, adored by millions, would belong to Mark and only
Mark.
He would be able to touch that lovely face, to kiss those luscious
lips. As Mark watched Emily close her eyes, surrendering herself to
her on-screen lover in the climactic final scene of the adventure-love
story that had catapulted the then relatively-unknown young actress to
stardom, he felt longing dragging like a knife through his gut. Oh,
to be kissed by that mouth, to feel those soft lips brush against his
in shy hesitation before he crushed her to him, before he took what
should belong to him – Mark groaned as his hand flew over his cock,
pumping himself in time to the movements of the lovers on the screen.
Her lips were like ripe fruit waiting to be bitten. As Mark's lust
raged, it wrenched an audible sigh from his own unkissed mouth.
Emily had been compared to Lauren Bacall and with good reason. There
was something of that sultry `I dare you` quality in her expression,
but Mark knew she was an innocent. He'd followed her career for the
past seven years with avid attention. Beyond the movies, he read
every interview, bought every magazine on which she was featured and
wrote for several online blogs of devoted Emily Hunter fans. But it
was two years ago, when he'd managed to get tickets to the screening
of her latest movie, that he'd decided to stop living on the sidelines
of Emily Hunter's life.
Seeing her in person had been thrilling. She had worn a simple but
elegant silky blue dress that clung alluringly to her perfect curves.
With that easy, pelvis first gait she had, she'd walked confidently
along the receiving line, stopping every few feet to be photographed
and to meet her fans. When she'd turned her dazzling smile on Mark,
those haunting eyes staring into his own, he'd felt the electricity
pass between them. Though she turned away a moment later to smile at
the next fan, somehow Mark knew they'd shared something unique. It
was at that moment he began to devise his plan.
The credits began to roll across Mark's very expensive TV and he
still hadn't come. Closing his eyes, he let his favorite fantasy
again roll through his head … Emily raised her head, trying to focus
those violet-blue eyes on her lover. Her breasts heaved as she tried
to catch her breath. `Thank you, sir,` she managed, her voice sultry.
`For what?` Mark demanded. She had to say it properly. `For
whipping me, sir. I needed it, sir. I need you, sir. Fuck me…` Mark
could almost feel Emily in the room with him as he furiously pumped
his cocked, shooting his seed over his chest with a cry of passion.
Once he owned her, she would lick him clean.
The autumn day was crisp. That morning there had been the slightest
hint of snow in the air. Mark stood across the street from the studio
where Emily Hunter was having her photo shoot for a women's fashion
magazine. It should have been over by now. Impatiently he glanced at
his watch. He recognized her driver's car, the nondescript black
sedan, its back windows tinted to keep out prying eyes. It was parked
near the back entrance of the studio on a narrow side street, ready to
whisk away the woman of his dreams.
His heart leapt as the door opened and Emily came out, tossing her
dark hair out of her face as she pulled her leather jacket more
tightly around herself. She strode quickly toward the parked car.
The passenger door was opened from inside and she slipped in, shutting
out any would-be autograph seekers or paparazzi before anyone even
realized she was there.
Mark knew where she was going. It being midday in Manhattan, he knew
he would get there as fast, if not faster, on foot, with no snarled
traffic to fight. Today she would be meeting with Lisa Carter, her
personal assistant, for lunch at Caliente, the little Mexican place on
6th Avenue in Greenwich Village. After lunch, she would go for her
massage at Chez Paul, and then off to the studio to rehearse or do
whatever she did in there. So far, he hadn't been able to get into
that studio – damn security was too tight. He didn't care, though.
What did it matter – he knew where she lived.
Mark Stratton knew as much about Emily Hunter as anyone alive. He
knew she had been born in Galveston, Texas, and her parents still
lived in Houston. He knew her father was a doctor and her mother was
a writer and illustrator of children's books. He knew about her older
sister who lived in Dallas with two children, a husband and three
dogs.
He knew she kept an apartment in the city, but spent several months a
year filming in Los Angeles, where she owned a small house in Malibu.
He had seen all twelve movies she had been in, even the first one,
where she had a bit part as the star's little sister. He owned the
nine movies out on DVD. He knew she had just been cast in a romantic
comedy with Tim Rutherford as her co-star. He knew they were not
romantically involved, despite those ridiculous rumors to the contrary
in the tabloids and on the blogs. She couldn't possibly be involved
with that fool.
As he hurried along the crowded streets of New York, he almost
tripped over a disheveled man who was dozing, slumped over against the
wall of a building. A dirty hand clutched an empty bottle of MD
20-20. Mark cursed softly under his breath as he hurried past the
bum. Mark hated the city. He had only moved here a few months before
from his peaceful life in Orange County, New York, to be closer to
her. And to make his plans easier to carry out. Luckily, his job as
a programmer with a small computer company was going quite well – they
paid him a lot and didn't mind when he came in, as long as the work
got done. He was their `creative genius` or so they told him. As
long as they continued to pay him handsomely for his services, he
didn't care what they called him. That money was a means to an end.
He was nearly ready to put his plan into action and to save his
darling Emily from the turmoil of public life.
