Chapter One
A Tuesday night in April … Three A.M.
Like a fluorescent glaring in an empty warehouse at the late night hour, Dylan Kincaid’s
computer screen burned the dark. Guild files only opened after one a.m., and the best
flesh wasn’t posted until after two. This night there was nothing new to see… but still
good flix and pics of randy stripping off her suede suit, standing with feet wide on an
Oriental carpet and fingers clasped behind her neck in the pose of inspection. Tawny skin,
handsome but modest breasts with dark pert nipples rising to a hardened state of arousal.
Felt between the thighs, she’d sport a wet pussy and clenching cleft. randy looked perfect
collared. Thick, black leather suited her long neck and angular lines… Xena, Princess
Warrior, he thought every time he viewed another advertisement for her sexual services.
Dylan was looking for a more sensuous slave.
gia, the buxom redhead from New Orleans had been in the files for several months…
shopped around by owners looking for a sale not a loan. Dylan wasn’t ready to buy—but he
wasn’t interested in a loan either. Besides gia was not what he was looking for… he wanted
sensuous, unique, naïve, perhaps… or soulful… and the mysterious woman in his
imagination was not yet in this current catalog of available properties…
Powering down the computer, he went to bed.
Wednesday Afternoon …. Two P. M.
Justin Booker received his clients with a warmhearted grin and an extended hand.
“Good afternoon,” he ushered the two men to chairs before his opulent desk. They were
impressed by a view, six stories above the sidewalk and the city streets, looking out past
high-rises and squalid neighborhoods toward the greening hills. Focusing their eyes back
inside the office, they stared in wonder at the man behind the desk. Justin Booker was
perfectly impeccable… as immaculate as his office, but without the coldness that these
contemporary furnishings conveyed. He was a man of averages… height, weight, brown hair,
with no peculiar features, and no flaws. Altogether, he cut a picture of handsomeness that
would not stand out in a crowd, but that remained pleasing on its own. And while charm
oozed through every smiling pore, he left the trained eye and the untrained heart to
wonder if his unburdened grace clouded something treacherous beneath the perfect surface.
George Claravoy peered over his thin-rimmed glasses—he was a man of the same
inclinations as Justin Booker; just a little older, greying, with a gentle sag to his
attractive face.
“The prospectus is exactly what we were looking for,” he announced with an air of
finality.
“Good,” Justin replied confidently. He looked toward Earl Heartsell seeking the same
confirmation.
Earl was a less gracious man—a frowning burly sort with eyes that narrowed, a forehead
that wrinkled in thought, and lips that rarely formed a smile. He nodded his approval
rather than voicing an opinion. “There was that other matter,” he finally added with his
face lighting beyond its dour expression.
“Yes, of course,” Justin replied, anxious himself to get on with the ‘other matter’. He
picked up the phone, buzzed his secretary, and after delivering his message, let the
receiver fall back into the cradle with a gentle clatter.
George Claravoy looked obviously impatient, while Earl Heartsell remained as passive as
before. And yet, when brit opened the office door both men looked her way, watching
attentively as the raven-haired secretary walked toward her employer’s desk. Her dark hair
had been brushed into a neat bun, with a few stray wisps falling free to soften what was,
on first impression, an austere demeanor. Her clothes were modest and appropriate for the
office—a plain grey suit with a shorter than average skirt and a thin but well-hidden pink
blouse underneath her smartly-styled jacket. The only distinctive accessory to her subtle
feminine statement was the three-quarter inch choker she wore around her neck. The silver
band fit snug, was engraved with an intricate design, and closed so flawlessly that the
clasp could not be detected without a close inspection.
For a second brit fingered the collar, then she took her place to Justin’s left, with
her hands clasped lightly in front of her. She gazed down—on nothing in particular. With
each successive second her prim manners eased until she was so meek it appeared as if
she’d blow away with one simple puff of air. While her shoulders remained proudly posed,
they relaxed; her eyes melted and the energy in her demure body thawed so that she
breathed with another kind of life and exuded satisfaction and contentment. The
transformation was effortless, as though she’d executed the metamorphosis many times. All
three men were amazed—including Justin who had seen it many times. He was the author of
this submissive attitude and it made him proud, even surprised every time he experienced
the beautiful sight.
“You keep her closely guarded,” George decided as he admired the presentation.
“It helps to have her working as my secretary,” Justin agreed.
“But no one knows her position?” Earl grumbled as his narrowed eyes inspected the woman.
“I’m a married man, gentlemen. I don’t dabble in affairs. I have slaves. While most
people would understand common infidelity few would understand the life I lead.”
“How true,” George agreed. “Your situation is unique, I think.”
“It’s what I’ve created. I hate dabbling in dungeons and at parties… this suits me much
better.” He made a thoughtful perusal of the quivering brit, seeing the normal signs of
apprehension and excitement in her otherwise calm appearance. His erection made an
impressive jolt, warming and enlarging as his thoughts took flight in fantasy.
“And what does your wife say?” Earl wondered.
“She doesn’t know.”
“About none of this?”
“No. And she won’t.”
“Have you suggested it to her?” George wondered.
“I felt her out,” Justin smiled at the pun. “Early in our marriage, but there was not
one inkling of interest in my alternative lifestyle… so I do this in secret.” He smiled
broadly. “Secrets make it all the more enticing for me. You aim to make your wife your
slave?” he asked George—a trace of biting sarcasm in the delivery.
“She knows my predilection.”
“But not the facts.”
“Sometimes we actually play with bondage,” he admitted.
“But simple bondage isn’t enough for me,” Justin replied. “I don’t play those games with
the women I master—I want to master them, own them, they are my property. Anything less
feels false and unsatisfying.”
“Well, I give you credit for creating this glorious creature.” George could hardly take
his eyes from the yielding woman.
“brit, remove your clothes for my friends,” Justin ordered.
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