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Category: Erotica/BDSM Erotica/Romance
Description: Swearing off men after her husband leaves her for another woman, Marissa turns to domination as a form of anger management. But she ends up punishing the wrong man and finds herself in danger as someone sets out to teach her a fatal lesson of their own. A run in with the law, not to mention two little boys, have made Dirk see the light. He's cleaned up his act and is determined to stay away from trouble, but how can he ignore the ice princess next door who makes him want to light a fire to melt her frozen heart?
eBook Publisher: Cobblestone Press, 2011
eBookwise Release Date: August 2011

10 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [215 KB]
Words: 46743
Reading time: 133-186 min.

Chapter One

The smell of fear and anticipation filled the room. Breath held, body clenched, waiting... The whip whistled through the air, then landed with a crack on the bare white buttocks peeking out from a pair of black leather chaps, the perfect ensemble for the masochist who enjoyed a good beating.

The masked dominatrix pulled the whip up with a fierce yank and let it fly again. Thwack. The nicely landed shot left a throbbing red line across her client's pasty skin.

"Thank you, Mistress," blubbered the leather-clad figure on his hands and knees--the only acceptable position for a submissive like him.

But he'd spoken. The nerve.

"Silence, worm!" she thundered. "I did not give you leave to speak in my presence. Just for that, I will forgo the treat I had planned for you." She actually hadn't planned anything extra--her fatigue pulled at her, making her eager to end the session. But just the thought of having displeased her made her pathetic subject squirm in contrition.

At least he showed brains enough not to reply this time, just ducking his leather-masked head down submissively, as if the mask could conceal his identity. Surprise, surprise. She'd easily figured out the identity of her masked slave at their first meeting. Only Zorro and Batman had ever successfully succeeded with that lame ploy.

Pathetic. She coiled up her whip. It would need a good cleaning and oiling later to keep the leather supple and in good whipping condition. She stored it inside her large hockey bag--more like her portable dungeon with all the easily carried tools of her trade: whip, flog, paddle, ball gags, rope, and a myriad of other painful-looking items. Slipping on her long black trench coat, she buttoned up to hide her eye-popping, head-to-toe ensemble consisting of a black lace corset, skintight leather pants and over-the-knee, supple leather, four-inch-high stiletto boots. When one played a part, one had to dress the part. The mask she left on--she never took it off until she hit the road and pulled her version of a Clark Kent.

"I will be back next week. Same time and place, but in the meantime you had better think about how you offended me. Do it again and maybe I'll never return."

A sob answered her along with a frantic head bob. About time he started obeying the training she'd subjected him to. She always made the rules clear from the beginning and expected strict obedience to them. The number-one rule being, "Don't speak unless ordered to." She had no interest in anything her clients had to say. They were just a means to an end.

Grabbing the thick envelope off the motel's scarred dresser, because after all nothing in life was free, not even a good beating, she shoved it inside the inner pocket of her trench coat and went out into the night.

God, the exhaustion threatened to drag her down, and she still had a twenty-minute drive to get home. Throwing her dungeon gear into the back of her cherry-red Beretta--old, perhaps, but still her baby--she put the car into gear and swung out onto the main road. Only once she hit a red light did she peel off her mask and pull out the envelope to check the amount. He knew better than to short-change her, but it always paid to check. Five hundred and fifty bucks. Not bad for an hour of beating the hell out of and berating some stuck-up suit. Usually she charged five notes, but it seemed her little toy had included a tip for a beating well done. As a professional dominatrix, she did not play sex games, and her subs were lifestyle pain worshippers. They got off on being humiliated and beaten by hand, whip or anything else her vicious mind could come up with.

Gross, some would say, but it sure helped out with her living expenses, and she enjoyed the position of control. After four years of pro Domming, she had managed to almost pay off her mortgage. Not a bad feat for a single woman living on the outskirts of a metropolitan city. It helped that she charged premium rates too. Five hundred dollars an hour or eight hundred for two. When she'd first started out, she'd been astonished at how much respectable men would pay to be treated like dirt. And she loved being the one to dish it out.

Her reputation for being merciless ensured she had a full stable of subs begging for her services. It seemed her endless supply of anger had finally become useful. The only problem was that no matter how much she hit and hurt, her deep well of rage remained bottomless.

Started as a form of therapy, Domming had ended up instead being a nice cash bonus each week. She even paid taxes on it, thus enabling her to claim all her expenses, because her freelancing as a Domme didn't come cheap. Leather and PVC outfits, quality ones, cost big bucks, as did the tools of her trade. Paddles, whips, canes, clamps, good rope, ball gags... And the list went on and on, depending on a domina's field of expertise or offered services.

The funniest part about it all, though, was no one knew. No one suspected that prim and proper Marissa Masters--the irony of her name didn't escape her--the efficient, no-nonsense city clerk by day, turned into a leather-clad cat woman at night. Good thing too. Most of her coworkers hated her--she strictly abided by the no-friends-in-the-workplace adage. If they even so much as guessed, they'd report her and have her fired. Unfair, but true. Oh, they'd come up with some bullshit excuse, but she'd get fired nevertheless. Never mind her professionalism and dedication to her work. Office politics always won out.

So like the mysterious Batman, she changed persona in secret and stalked the streets at night, under the cover of darkness, punishing the weak and, well, giving to herself.

Pulling into her driveway, she stifled a yawn and decided to leave her bag in the trunk. Time enough to deal with it later, once she'd rested. Or maybe she'd just leave it there. Her next appointment three days from now would require it, and the stupid thing weighed a ton.

Jaw cracking on a large yawn, she told her mind to take a break and stumbled off to bed, alone, just the way she liked it.

Across town...

A phone beeped, a glaring, ominous sound that signaled the much waited for incoming message. Right or wrong--time to find out.

Grabbing the silver iPhone from a polished wood table, quick fingers pressed and loaded the incoming e-mail with attachment.

In plain black and white, the text of the e-mail relayed nothing. "As per our arrangement, please view the attached video. Contact me if more research is required."

A click on the attachment icon and a little movie window popped up. A foot impatiently tapped away the seemingly interminable wait as the clip buffered into memory.

Time for the moment of truth.

The clip started to play, and with each stroke of the whip, a cracking sound that echoed loudly in the quiet of the room, the hand clenched tighter and tighter. At the end of it, silence reigned as the person absorbed the ramifications of what he or she had seen. Anger bubbled below the surface, the situation even worse than expected. This perversity would not do at all. So many hopes, dreams, ambitions--all of it ruined if the knowledge held in the damning video became public.

The phone went flying and hit the wall hard before falling to the floor--another victim of this folly.

No, this could not be allowed. It needed to be stopped. But how?

Perhaps, one of the parties could be made to see reason. Intimidation first, then onto stronger tactics. There could be no hesitation. Action had to be taken before all they'd worked for turned to dust and graced the front page of a newspaper tattle rag.

Retaliation and cleansing of the impure one would taste so sweet.