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by Adrian Hunter, Chelsea Shepard
Category: Erotica/BDSM Erotica
Description: Newest from the award-winning B&D authors. Insanely wealthy Donovan Grant buys a private island in the Caribbean where he can pursue his not-so-private obsessions, like photographing young ladies tied and bound in expensive leather and posting the results on his no-cost web site. But when your sexual preference is dominance, nothing less than world domination will do. With the help of a wide-eyed apprentice from Glasgow, a ganja-sucking bodyguard, a jaded hacker, and a surly cheerleader-turned-dominatrix named Sindie, Grant is getting ready to launch his revenge on everyone who looks down on him. Like Carroll Farmer, an aspiring British journalist with a few axes to grind, preferably on whomever's tied to her bed tonight. Sparks (and other implements) fly when her editor/former flame sends her across the Atlantic to profile the reclusive Mr. Grant. Carroll is determined to uncover Donovan's secrets, but events and emotions conspire to expose a few of her own, resulting in a wild ride through the dark side of dreams made real. Dazzling, occasionally depraved and inevitably breathless, in Once Bitten award-winning authors Adrian Hunter and Chelsea Shepard have concocted a seriously-sexy caper that spans the globe in search of nice vice, twisted truths, cruel love and freedom in restraint. Fast, fun and funny, Once Bitten puts the "bon!" back into bondage ... where it belongs!
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler, 2004
eBookwise Release Date: July 2004
29 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [349 KB]
Reading time: 171-240 min.
"That's a funny name for a boat."
Debbie tipped her head back and gulped whatever was left in her plastic cup, her pink tongue darting out of her mouth to catch the last grains of nutmeg on her lips. "Painkillers" were going to be her very most favorite adult beverage from now on. So healthy too, with all that orange juice, coconut goop and pineapple--how could she have ever thought that dark rum was vile?
"It is a funny name, isn't it?" their strange new friend said with a smile. "But it's hard to forget, and it keeps the locals from accidentally 'borrowing' it when theirs run out of fuel."
"Whasha 'hobble skirt' anyway?" Michelle blurted drunkenly. She often made the mistake of matching Debbie drink for drink, even though her companion outweighed her by a good 20 pounds, all of them apparently packed into her breasts.
"A hobble skirt is a long leather dress that laces around the legs like a corset," he said. "Looks absolutely smashing on a girl with hips like yours."
Each woman thought the compliment had been directed specifically toward her, reducing Michelle to a fit of giggles that reminded Donovan of Betty Rubble having an illicit romp with Fred Flintstone.
But Debbie took the information in stride, if not a brisk trot.
"Which do you prefer, laces or buckles?" she asked.
"Oh, laces, absolutely," Donovan said, switching to his best sinister grin. "Half the fun is the cinching, and buckles tend to ruin the silhouette. All that nasty metal jutting out like warts on a nose or something."
He waved to the bartender. "Another Painkiller?"
"Sure!" Michelle squeaked before erupting into another giggle fit.
"Make it a light one, K.C. And you?"
"What are you drinking anyway?"
"Oh, something K.C. makes special for me. Want to try one?"
"Okay, why not?"
"K.C., I'll have another, and the same for--what did you say your name was?"
"I didn't, but it's Debbie. And this disaster in training is my best friend, Michelle."
"Well, Debbie and disaster," he said, his hand extended, "it's my pleasure and privilege to welcome you to the Krusty Conch, the best little sandbar on Jost Van Dyke, a proud member of the collection of volcanic residue known as the British Virgin Islands, the finest vacation destination in the entire Caribbean."
That's not much of a stretch, Debbie thought while she watched the bartender shake, rattle and pour several bottles of strange-looking potions into their glasses. It must be a law that all BVI beaches boast at least one shack with a couple of stools, a driftwood table, bad reggae on the boom box, and a worse name on the tree. She and Michelle had hit them all in their never-ending quest for a quick fuck with a tan stranger. Neither had had much luck, but this one might be promising--a nice smile, skin like chocolate, and getting stranger by the second.
Debbie raised her wrist and extended the back of her hand.
"And you are?"
"The name's Donovan. Donovan Grant. But my friends call me 'sir.'"
Michelle rolled her eyes.
"What, are you royalty or something?"
"Or something, yes. Ah, thank you, K.C., that's a good man. Tell me what you think, Debbie."
She lifted the cup to her lips and allowed a trickle of the milky liquid to enter her mouth.
"Whoa, that's good. What do you call this stuff?"
"That be a Pussy Clamp--Mr. Grant's favorite kind," K.C. said while he swept up another twenty from Donovan's pile of soggy American bills on the bar.
"Very cute--anyone ever tell you you're one seriously twisted dude, Don?"
"Ah, that's Donovan, and yes, quite often, in fact. But please don't be offended. It's just another silly tropical concoction with too much Pusser's rum in it."
He gulped the majority of his drink and gave Debbie a full-planet sensor sweep. Solid Midwestern build; fabulous grapefruit tits that were practically doing backflips out of a string bikini she definitely didn't buy in Toledo. Coppertone tan. Pepsodent teeth. Probably sucks cock as foreplay, never had it in the ass, wishes her boyfriend would give her an orgasm before he commenced with his spasmodic bellyflopping. Sun-streaked auburn hair just past her shoulders that's maybe a year out of style. Desperately wants a nose job, but doesn't really need it.
She would most definitely do. In fact, he had to consciously remind himself to not lick his chops.
As for Michelle, she was going to be lucky if she didn't pass out in the kitchen on her way to a prayer session with the porcelain god. Still, he was always a sucker for the skinny ones. They looked so good in rubber.
"So what brings you to our sandy corner of the cosmos in the off season?" he asked brightly. "Late vacation? Sales contest? Getting ready for Halloween? Or maybe just our fabulous sunsets?"
He pointed to the seascape behind him, huge billowing cumulus clouds reflecting more shades of purple and pink than a tour through Prince's closet.
As Debbie was about to launch into a chronicle of their two cheap weeks in the Caribbean, including their nightly excursions at Foxy's, the legendary party bar just around the bend, Michelle turned on her stool and stared at Donovan as if he had just announced he was her father.
"I know you--you're that guy."
K.C. shot Donovan a quizzical look, and put down the glass he was washing. "Here we go again," he mouthed silently.
"You--you're the software guy--who killed Vidiot!" she spluttered, her brain taking a hard right toward instant sobriety. "Downloading TV episodes off the Internet was so fucking cool, man."
"Alas, 'tis true," he replied calmly. "But you make it sound like I killed Jerry Seinfeld."
"Vidiot, like, ruled," Michelle continued in a rush. "Every show in the history of television, compressed to the size of a Britney Spears single, available for free! I had a complete collection of Dynasty and I was just starting to work on Charlie's Angels and The Avengers. And you fucked it up for everybody! Copyrights and royalties and all that corporate nonsense."
"Now, missy, doan be talkin' to Mr. Grant like dat in my bar--you kin haul that scrawny ass o' yours?"
"No prob, K.C., let her finish. She's not the first person to, ah, find fault with my accomplishments."
In fact, that was precisely the reason why Donovan had sold his loft in Manhattan's trendy SoHo neighborhood and headed south. Inventing the Internet's first foolproof copyright protection scheme for video content had not made him terribly popular with anyone who didn't have an executive title at a Hollywood movie studio. Although he had to admit that the income more than compensated for the occasional bummer scene like this one.
"C'mon, Debbie," said Michelle as she rose woozily to her feet. "Let's blow this slosh pit and find a place with men that don't breed with insects."
Donovan glanced at Debbie and noticed a sly smile creasing her lips. He returned the favor, then turned his attention back to Michelle, with whom he had suddenly become much more impressed. Anyone who collected Emma Peel, the original leather vixen from The Avengers, was certainly a friend of his.
"My dear Michelle, those 'free' TV shows of yours were anything but. Actors and directors and producers and writers dedicated their lives to create that content. And you watched it for free, thanks to advertising."
Easy there, boy, he warned himself. Don't scare them off. But he found himself drawn into familiar arguments he knew he could win.
"Sure, you could tape them on a VCR, but until digital shit like TiVo came along, there wasn't a convenient way to digitize them, much less trade them. You can't blame the networks for getting mad when they watched their property getting hurled around the Internet like so many nude photos of?"
"Whaddya talking about?" Michelle snarled, suddenly sober. "The networks made their money. So who was getting hurt? Crappy cable channels like Nickelodeon, maybe--all reruns, all the time. And a lot of people went out and bought DVDs of old shows after they saw a few on Vidiot. You people think you're soooo smart, trying to protect your almighty profit stream, but in the end, you shoot yourself in the foot for a penny when there's a dollar next to your shoe, just waiting to be picked up."
"You're right, the networks and studios did get awfully comfortable. So did the actors, for that matter. Does the cast of Friends really deserve a salary that's 100 times what we pay a brain surgeon, a fireman, or a teacher?"
"No! That's why Vidiot?"
"Look, I just invented some software that let people keep track of their content on the Internet. If they want to give it away to get people to buy DVDs, great. But others don't, and that's their right."
Donovan turned away and started counting to ten. Every religion needs a Satan, and he was the Internet's. He distracted himself by imagining Michelle's expression when he filled her mouth with the biggest ballgag he could find.
Debbie stayed quiet while her brain shifted into overdrive. She wasn't a geek Barbie like Michelle, but she remembered reading the articles about Vidiot getting sued by hotshot producers like Aaron Spelling, and then someone invented something that let networks get paid when someone downloaded their TV shows off the net. And that something had proven to be the key to true interactive television, where you could watch whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted, for like ten cents a show with a click of the mouse. Which people did almost compulsively nowadays. So, unless she had consumed one too many Painkillers or Pussy Clamps or whatever was in the plastic cup in front of her, this tall, dark, handsome stranger was also a genius along the lines of Bill Gates.
Very cool, she congratulated herself.
And she also recalled that someone was paid something close to a billion dollars by Sony, Viacom, Disney and the rest of the Hollywood suits for saving their collective asses from online anarchy.
"But those networks?" Michelle droned on.
"Had better figure out a new way to distribute their shows besides running them on Thursday nights at nine, that's true. But they will. There's always a market for convenience, which is why we still have record companies."
Donovan polished off his drink and stood up. Time to win the argument his way.
"Ladies, I'd love to debate the future of digital copyrights with you, but I'm late for an appointment with a coral reef that looks like a cross between Atlantis and heaven when the sun hits it in about 15 minutes. You're welcome to join me if you'd like. Otherwise, have a great rest of your vacation."
"C'mon, Debbie, let's go to Foxy's."
Debbie pretended not to hear her soon-to-be-ex best friend as her internal search engine spat up metatag matches to keywords like "single," "cute," and, to her thrilling surprise, "kinky."
She liked the idea of him lacing her into a hobble skirt, his fingers tugging the laces tighter and tighter around her hips. Bondage didn't scare her. The pain, the pleasure, the toys, the costumes, the make-believe abductions--she had always found it strangely appealing. Problem was, most of the boys she dated back home were lucky if they could tie their own shoes, much less their girlfriends.
Debbie's face went flush as she discovered her voice had ascended a full octave.
"What's your damage, Michelle?" Debbie chirped like an angry robin, then swiveled on her stool to face what could be the fling of her lifetime.
"Er, Mr. Grant--Donovan--sir."
She couldn't believe she just winked at him.
"I'd love to see the reef with you."
"Really?" Donovan replied, genuinely surprised. "Hey, that's wonderful. Great, great, great."
According to his central processor, she just said "sir" to him, while his short-term RAM noted that she winked.
"Tra la la la la," he hummed.
"Deb-bie! Get real," blasted Michelle with the subtlety of a mob of German tourists. "He's probably going to take you to some secluded inlet and rape you. Besides, I don't wanna go swimming. I wanna 'nuther Painthingie, then I want to go to Foxy's."
"K.C., set up our friend Michelle with whatever she needs while I show Debbie our special reef," Donovan said as he pushed the rest of his wad of greenbacks across the bar. "Including a water taxi to Foxy's, if that's what she wants."
"No probl'm, Mr. Grant."
Donovan reached out to Debbie and helped her off the barstool.
"Do you live around here, Donovan?" she asked as they waded into the water toward his gigantic powerboat, ecstatic to be free from the annoying whine of Michelle's whims.
"Not too far. Just around the corner--a little isolated, but pretty nice, I guess."
She wondered what "pretty nice" meant when your net worth is something close to the gross national product of half of Europe. If it was anything like his boat, she was in for one wild trip. The thing was huge, probably close to 50 feet long, with a hull that looked a bit like a catamaran and two--no, make that four--engines in the back. The cockpit was outfitted with white leather seats, but the rest of the monster was as black as Elvis Presley's hair.
"Nice ride. What kind is it, anyway?"
"Really? Thanks. It's a Nor-Tech Supercat. I think a drug dealer used to own it or something. I know, it's a bit over the top, but it's really just something to tool around the islands in. You know how it goes with boys and their toys."
It's now or never, girl, Debbie whispered to herself while Donovan fussed with the controls. Do you really want to spend another night watching Michelle flirt with fratboys from Arkansas?
"Maybe we could stop by your place and you could show me around after our swim," she said as he inserted the keys into the ignition.
"I'd really like to try on a hobble skirt."
She locked her eyes into his. No blinking. Good. Gulp.
"And pussy clamps, too."
The boat's four Yanmar diesel engines roared to life like angry dragons, drowning out the need for further discussion about the sudden change in their destination. He slipped on his sunglasses, twisted the steering wheel and mashed down the quadruple throttles 90 degrees, slamming them both deep into their seats as the Hobble Skirt took off like a Saturn V rocket that managed to get itself turned sideways.