Collared (Masters of Desires)

Sunday morning arrived and Abigail woke with a startling bang on the bedroom door followed by a whispered curse.

She sat up on the floor and looked at the neatly made bed next to hers. The fact she was able to see it clearly told her it was morning. By the way the sun hugged her shoulders she guessed late morning or early afternoon.

“Shit.”

Hurriedly, she removed the comforter from her body and opened the door, following the cautious footsteps of her master.

She winced with every step and every abrasive chafe of the blister that decorated her clitoral hood. She doubted her body would ever orgasm again after the assault it’d been put through yesterday.

Abigail placed the discomfort aside. Right now, she had other things to focus on like where her master went to Sunday mornings that he couldn’t grace her with a proper goodbye?

When she found him in the kitchen and read the time on the stove, her heart deflated in a sea of anguish.

12:01 pm.

If only she’d woken up a minute earlier. She would’ve been able to beg him to stay and he would’ve stayed. After all, dominants always listened to their submissive’s requests.

Now her master was leaving, again, and she couldn’t do anything about it because it was officially Sunday afternoon. Their arrangement vanished like ashes in the wind, carried to the ocean, never to be found again. After her little outburst Thursday or Friday, she wasn’t going to be a hypocrite and ask him to stay.

Why did she have to sleep like a log? She never slept this late, but he’d put her body through such strenuous activities that she’d slept for more than eight hours, giving him enough time to leave without her knowledge to oversee whatever errand he had to run.

Her eyes widen at a possibility.

Was he religious? Did he go to church every Sunday to confess and repent the sins he’d committed on Friday and Saturday?

Last Sunday she’d spent hours contemplating his whereabouts just as she did today. She’d created fictional scenarios in her head, combining stories she’d read with her own endeavors.

She imagined Preston sitting in his massive office with a spectacular view as he sketched an even more spectacular and exclusive design for the richest man in the European Union.

She saw Master Trice in his club, flogging another submissive, one with years of experience. Lauren, perhaps?

Abigail wondered what she looked like, making a failed attempt at imaging her. She knew nothing of the woman. The possibilities were truly endless. When one had too many choices it was impossible to decide on one.

Did she have big or small breasts? Was she blonde or brunette? Was she petite or tall like her master—their master?

She hated the caveat.

It was petty to be jealous of another woman—another woman she hadn’t met and was expected to have sex with. She hoped Lauren was nice and not as jealous as she was of her.

Unaware of her presence, Preston took a sip of coffee and turned to the elevators. She enjoyed the view. Enjoyed watching him when he didn’t know he was being watched. It made her feel powerful to watch his mannerisms, study them like rats in a laboratory, and hypothesize his next move.

“Go back to bed, Abigail.” She rolled her eyes.

“You’re leaving,” she said, her voice trembling with anger and nostalgia.

He kept walking as if she hadn’t uttered a single word. To be ignored by a person who was beginning to mean more, gutted her. In the split of a second, she took that emotion in before it sank into the sea of woe that was her heart.

Was that what Preston was to her—someone who meant more?

Was it love she felt? Surely not.

She wouldn’t know what love was even if she held it in her womb for nine months, gave birth to it, and nursed it for eighteen years.

She wasn’t with Preston because she desired a boyfriend, much less love. If she wanted that she would’ve signed up for one of those crappy-cupid websites. Instead, she searched books, websites, clubs, and the streets of New York City for a master for many, many years. And it’d taken her to a place she now referred to as heaven on earth. A place where she found her true identity, if merely for the fact it was taken from her when she was dominated.

Abigail never had a desire for love. She’d never cared enough for a person to want more unless more meant ruthless actions, hurtful words, and cruel beatings. That kind of more she always wanted, and until recently, no one was ever able to offer it.

Everything a sane woman didn’t want she found in Master Trice. In most books she’d read, the heroine always tried to change the male protagonist. Even as he told her from the very start he wouldn’t change, yet she tried and by the end of the story, he always did. The heroine molded the man, turning him into a fairytale Prince Charming—into a total phony.

Abigail didn’t have to do that to Preston “Master” Trice because he was perfect in her eyes, a little standoffish and too serious at times, nevertheless, perfect.

She might not know love, but she knew gratitude, and she was grateful to him for giving her what she most desired. Not only sexually but mentally, as well. He made her feel normal and unashamed.

“Where are you going?” she asked as he waited for the elevator.

“Doesn’t matter. Do as you’re told.”

“I don’t have to. It’s past twelve. I don’t have to listen to your commands.” She raised her chin defiantly.

He nodded sagely. “You’re right. Suffice to say, it won’t erase my memory of your disobedience. I thought you’d gathered such facts yesterday.” His eyes went to her pussy.

His punishment hadn’t been about the club as much as the disrespect she’d given him and maybe, just maybe a pinch of alpha-male jealousy.

Abigail resisted the urge to cover herself. “Take me with you.”

Preston wasn’t wearing his usual office attire, trading slacks for dark jeans. His traditional crisp dress shirt was no more, instead, a quarter sleeve shirt covered his muscular biceps. His suit jacket was gone too, replaced with cargo over his shoulders. She wanted to tear his clothes, piece by piece as she praised him with dollar bills.

This only meant one thing.

“I know where you’re going. Take me with you.” Licking her dry lips, she stepped forward. “Please.” She felt the need to add the last word. It was the cherry on top, completing the sentence.

Abigail shifted from side to side at Preston’s silence.

He gave her a stern look that prompted her full attention. “If I take you with me, you must follow my every word. I don’t want any ‘it’s Sunday afternoon, not Sunday morning’ bullshit.”

“Deal.”

“I’m serious, Abigail. You will respect me in front of others. You will do as you’re told because I swear to God if you don’t…” His words lingering in the air with threat and promise.

“I’ll listen to whatever you say. I swear.”

“Get ready and get the papers I left for you on the kitchen island.” He looked at his wrist. “You have three minutes. If you’re not here when the doors open, I’m leaving without you.”

Abigail wasted no time.

She rushed to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and washed her face. On her way back to the main room, she rapidly stopped by the kitchen to gather everything Preston had left for her. In the foyer, she dressed in the same clothes she’d worn to work—floral pencil-skirt and long-sleeved white blouse. As she slipped on her coat, the elevator yawned.

The plug inside her didn’t sting as it did Friday evening, so Abigail bit her tongue until she swallowed blood.

“Elevators,” Preston said out of nowhere.

“Huh?”

“What is it about elevators that scares you?”

“I don’t like to be trapped in a small space for more than necessary. I get sweaty. See?” She gathered her hair in a ponytail and showed him the dampness on the back of her neck.

She expected him to choke her and that’s exactly what she needed to focus on something other than the ride. Instead, Preston ran his thumb over the moist skin. It elicited shivers from her body. And then he kissed her temple. It was a gesture she had equated with malice but the one he gave her was different.

“We’ll be down soon.”

The gesture became her new source of pain until Preston surged into New York traffic with a hidden smile on his face.

Abigail didn’t have to look at the streets of the city to know what she would find: busy streets, crowded sidewalks, obnoxious tourists. Instead, she focused her attention to the envelope on her lap.

“You need this by today, right?” He nodded. She knew it’d take them a minimum of an hour to get to his club, so she pulled a pen from her purse and opened the envelope.

Whore,

It pleases me to hear you’ve enjoyed your first week with me, and that you’re following my commands by being bluntly honest with your words in writing.

Because of that, I’ll reward you by allowing you to call me by my name outside of our arrangement (which you’ve already done without my consent).

That being said, when I pick you up from wherever I do, and it is Friday evening you are to refer to me as Master Trice. You refused to do so on Friday when I picked you up from work. Friday morning, I let it go because as you said, it was, after all, “Thursday” to you.

What is this, you asked? This is a piece of paper. It’s made out of wood pulp. I’d tell you all the details, but it’ll take most of the paper. However, you can always Google “How is paper made?”

We can’t talk like normal people do because you and I aren’t what society would constitute as “normal” and until you start believing that you are normal, we will continue to set your limits through paper and ink.

Yes, as a dominant I should care for you after every scene but as I said before I don’t do that. It’s an intimate act. I don’t do intimacy. It’s the only thing I’m not good at. Shocker, right?

Lauren has informed me of her current health. You’ll meet her next week and she’ll give you the intimacy you so desperately desire.

You are allowed to speak whenever you please, however, you must know Newton’s Third Law. Your words will result in my actions. It is up to you to determine if they will be equal or opposite.

If in the middle of a scene you have a question you can simply ask, Abigail.

When you signed the papers without reading them, you gave me total control and total trust. No other person has ever done so, and trust me when I say, I’ll try never to break it.

She was curious to read what she had signed that night, so she made a mental note to read the contract when she got home. Before she continued reading what her master had written in response, it dawned on her that she did not have a copy of their contract.

“Can I get a copy of the contract?”

“What contract?” he asked, genuinely confused.

Abigail turned in her seat. “The contract I signed when we first met at your club, remember?”

“If you ever see a dominant legally binding their sub to be with them, do the sub a favor and report them to the NYPD. That’s along the lines of human trafficking.”

“Are you calling yourself a human trafficker then because you made me sign one?”

“Oh, Abigail, it was so easy to fool you. What you signed was a non-disclosure agreement and I didn’t make you sign it. In fact, I remember you signed it willingly. I made it seem like it was more to scare you, to test you, to see if you really wanted what I so badly wanted to give you. It was all about fear and relinquishment for you. I knew it since I saw you.”

She worried her lip, feeling cheated suddenly. “So, you lied?”

“No. I never lied to you. You never read the non-disclosure agreement. I’m an architect. You’re in my home at least two days a week. You will eventually see projects I’m working on and could tell others.”

“Do you really think I’d do that?”

“Don’t take it personally. I didn’t know you back then. I’ve been around investors and architects my entire career some of who have stolen my ideas. If you would’ve read the papers, you’d have known what you were signing.”

Abigail felt dumb and stupid and small, not in a sexual way but in a human way. She’d given him her complete trust the night they met, and he hadn’t reciprocated it.

“Can I at least read what I signed?”

He nodded, his eyes on the road. “It’s in my office at the club.”

“I’m an editor, you know. I read exclusive books and might talk to you about them. You don’t see me asking you to sign any papers.”

“I’m not going to apologize for your mistake. It’s done. Build a fucking bridge.”

How satisfying would it be to bash his forehead against the dashboard and make him bleed for a change? With such an image in mind, Abigail continued reading.

The reason why we’re doing this like we are, without setting limits before each scene, is because you’re new to this.

I could tell by your eagerness when we first met that you’ve been wanting this for a while, meaning you, at some point, were scared. If I were to explain everything I plan on doing before I do it, you’ll be apprehensive about most things and miss out on great pleasures. It’s much easier to say no to the unknown than to step forward, hold its hand, and walk by its side.

BDSM isn’t just about bondage, domination, and submission. It’s also about S & M. Let’s not neglect the part that represents us. I know what you need. I know what you want, and you know it, too.

So, to answer your question fully, if you don’t trust me then you may stop a scene to ask a question by simply using your safeword. I’ll always honor that word, even if I say I won’t.

PS: I knew you’d get my connotations and now that you’ve checked chosen food, I’ll be sure to feed you my cum for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Sincerely,

Master Trice

The sea of anguish that had grown inside her earlier began to rock her emotions. Why did she feel the need to cry?

Preston, Trice, Master Trice whatever fucking persona he liked to refer to knew her better than she knew herself. A part of her had known since the day she met him he was the one to break her barriers and set her free.

As the daughter of Melissa Sinclair, she knew about contracts and non-disclosure agreements. She knew what Preston said was true. It was her ignorance’s doing, not his. She’d signed the paper on her own accord because she’d seen the same glint in his eyes that stared back at her every time she looked in the mirror.

She wanted to unbuckle her belt and straddle his lap for being everything she’d always wanted. But that would probably result in both their deaths or the deaths of others, so she stayed buckled and discreetly wiped a tear as she answered her master back.

1. Of the following done to the submissive thus far, which is the submissive willing to try again? (check all that apply; unchecked boxes indicate the submissive will NOT like to try again)

✓post-orgasm torture

✓mild blood-play

Additional comments/questions: Thank you.

Always,

Your Whore.