Collared (Masters of Desires)

A bigail Bennett was going to be the death of Preston Trice. He could already see the salacious breaking news.

TWENTY-FOUR-YEAR-OLD FEMALE MURDERS NEW YORK’S MOST ELIGIBLE ARCHITECT, PRESTON TRICE.

PRESTON TRICE: DECEASED

CAUSE OF DEATH: ABIGAIL BENNETT

He’d been at The Blue Oyster for almost an hour, shooing all the men who attempted to flirt with him while Elliott did whatever Elliott did at a gay club.

Meanwhile, Preston’s eyes were focused on the one person he was trying to escape. Preston felt like a stalker as he watched Abigail strut into the club in whore’s clothing. The sinful dress she wore was murderous, exposing her breasts every which direction she moved. The thigh-high boots were the sexiest thing he’d ever seen on a woman.

Her dress moved with every step she took up the stairs to oversee her brother’s empire. Preston could never forget the proud smile on her face as she looked down at the club her brother had built. He could tell they were close, and for a second, he thought of what it would feel like to be that close to her. To hug her in a room full of strangers. To make her smile. To make her happy. To make her proud.

Although his memory suggested The Blue Oyster was a gay club, his hands ignored the signal, turning into fists at the man who flirted with her behind the bar. When she accepted his hand to dance, the beast he was trying to tame growled loudly. Would the blonde apologize for flirting with his property without his approval?

She and Elliott seemed to be having a good time whilst Preston was not. His hairline began to sweat. His left eye started getting poked by an annoying migraine. Suddenly, the night turned into a competition he needed to win. There was only one problem. A competition could not be won if the participant was not allowed to play.

Albeit Preston had broken many rules where Abigail was concerned, their scheduled agreement withstood. If he continued to break rules, he’d lose control and things would get very dangerous. He wouldn’t allow that.

Preston waited patiently, as patiently as Preston Trice did, for the clock to strike twelve.

11:56 pm.

He ordered another glass of bourbon.

11:57 pm.

11:58 pm.

Through the rim of the glass, he watched her hips sensually sway. Mocking him.

11:59 pm.

One more fucking minute.

One more treacherous minute.

12:00 pm.

He chugged down the rest of the bourbon and made his way to Abigail.

He was going to show her who the God in her life was. Who not only controlled but owned her.

When Preston got close enough to smell her addictive scent of cotton candy, he couldn’t help but reach out. He wrapped an arm around her hip, drawing her close to him. She grinded on his bulge for ecstasy filled minutes. Her hands came back, wrapping around his neck as she twisted her own for him to kiss. The beating of her heart sent vibrations straight to his dick.

Was she wet? He had to know.

His hand hitched the bottom of her dress, under lace panties, and inside a wet, warm, pussy. He growled and tugged her earlobe with his teeth. “What is it you think you’re doing, whore?”

She stilled but recovered soon enough to turn around. Her eyes widened with shock.

“I—” she stumbled on her words.

Satisfied by her frightful eyes, Master Trice gripped the back of her neck. It was so small, so fragile, he could snap it with a quick jerk if he wanted to.

“Walk.”

She swallowed and followed his command but not without being her impertinent self and enquiring, “Where are we going?” She sounded scared. Her voice was distant over the loudspeakers.

“Restroom.” He tightened his hold on her nape and pushed her forward.

Pushing open the door, they stepped inside the restroom that looked more like a waiting room than a lavatory. Chairs, couches, snacks, and a relaxing tempo played from the speakers. Just as he’d guessed, it was empty.

Abigail stood on wobbly knees, ready for her master to chastise her.

“What the fuck were you doing out there acting like a slut?” He flickered her dress like it was a dirty rag. “Wearing this.”

She giggled and twirled, opening her arms wide. Her dress showed her entire ass. Her hair fanned over her shoulders.

With her eyes closed she sang, “Today, today is Thursday, not Friday, meaning I don’t have to follow your rules. Meaning, I am allowed to fuck whoever I desire as much as I desire.”

Abigail wasn’t aware today was technically Friday. He decided to keep it that way. Mind tricks were his favorite sadistic weapon. Ignorance was bliss, and he’d make sure tonight was a blissful punishment.

Her eyes opened, though they weren’t looking at him. Probably the door behind him. She pointed a finger that was supposed to be directed at him but instead pointed at the wall. “Your rules, not mine. Seeing as you didn’t let me come for three whole days, I decided to go to a club and get thoroughly fucked. And I was going to make sure you’d hear me come all the way from your penthouse.”

He jumped her. Literally jumped. Like a cheetah does when she sees a lost fawn. He pinned her against the wall with a harsh smack to the back of her head. Maybe now she’d remember who she was talking to.

Wrapping both hands around her neck, he pressed hard on her airway. Her hands came up, scratching his neck as she tried to save herself. Silly girl. She had no chance.

His grip didn’t falter when her heart rate started to decrease or when her face lost its sunny hue, turning as white as the snow that rained over New York. Just as Abigail’s gray eyes began to close, losing the glint that’d been there before, he slowly released her neck. She fell against the vanity, gasping and choking on air. Not letting her compose herself, he grabbed her hips, adjoining her ass with the dent in his pants.

“Do you think any other man would make you come as I will?” He unbuckled his belt with strong determination to show her just what his dick could do to her pussy.

“I wouldn’t know,” she coughed. “I’m starting to think you’ve denied me because you can’t make a woman orgasm.”

They locked eyes through the mirror in front of them. Her brow was arched in defiance, daring him to hurt her. Her brown hair was tousled in a way that made it look as if she’d been fucked. Her breasts were thrust against the vanity and her areola peeked underneath her dress.

Master Trice had never wanted to hurt another human being as much as he wanted to hurt Abigail. It wasn’t due to sexual pleasure and that fact frightened him.

Giving out a heavy breath, he ran a hand over his temples and reasoned with himself.

She was testing him.

She didn’t know what she was saying.

He was stronger than his urges.

He wouldn’t let her win.

And he didn’t.

He paid her no mind because if he did, he was afraid he’d hurt her, really hurt her. He ignored her words, but not before slapping her ass with his belt.

“Ow!” She made a frail attempt to get away. He came down harder with the second slap.

He wrapped the belt around her neck and drew her arms back, tightening the leather around her elbows all the way to her wrists. If she struggled to get away, if she moved her arms, she’d choke herself.

He opened her legs with his thigh and hitched her dress up. Her black panties barely covered the red slashes he’d given her days before.

“Have I not told you not to wear lace?”

“Have you not checked a calendar?”

He shook his head. “No, whore. That’s not how this works. If I am there, whether it be a Monday, Wednesday, or Thursday, you’re mine. You’re mine until I say you’re not.”

With a jerk, he ripped her panties, exposing her swollen pussy to him. He lowered his zipper and pushed his hips forward. They both moaned at the contact of skin to skin.

He teased her with his girth, slipping through her slippery folds so that her clit touched his piercing. Then he drew back achingly slow. Never entering. Always teasing her. Abigail’s lips moved but Preston didn’t hear a syllable she uttered.

Her body was his and seeing as her scars had started to faint, he needed to brand her again.

Pulling out a pocketknife, he dragged the blade over her damp skin. He ran it across her jaw, loving the way her body squirmed in fear. He rasped it across her cheek in search of the tear that slid down to her upper lip.

“This is not how I expected today to be.” He continued slipping in and out of her folds. “I thought it would be another boring night out with a friend. But then I saw you being a slutty whore and I couldn’t resist your invitation to play.”

“Please.” Her eyes shone with shed tears.

The blade took a leisure walk up and down her body as he spoke in a collected matter.

“Whore, if you think this is all a charade for me it isn’t. This is who I am. I take it very seriously when others touch what’s mine without my consent. I’ve injured women. I’ve sent them to the hospital bleeding out because they’ve tested my patience. Is that how you envision your future? Bleeding out in a bed with doctors around you?”

“No.”

“Then why must you test me?” He thrust forward, merely missing her entrance.

“I don’t understand. Today is Thursday. You said I could sleep with whoever I wanted.”

“I did, didn’t I?” She nodded furiously but stopped as the belt tightened around her neck. “But is that what was written? Hmm, I guess you wouldn’t know. You never read our agreement.”

Tracing her ass with the blade, he pressed the tip to her asshole.

She whimpered.

“Shh, shh. Try not to move lest you want to strangle yourself.”

He dragged the knife lower, so low it glistened with her arousal. “Do you know what they do to women like you in some African countries?” He pulled her shoulders back when she didn’t answer him. “Answer me!”

“No.” Abigail’s bottom lip quivered.

“They perform a brutal procedure called Female Genital Mutilation.” He pressed the blade on her clit. “They remove the clitoris so that a woman finds no pleasure. They narrow the vaginal opening so that her only hole is used for urination. Is that something you’re keen on?”

“Stop. You’re scaring me.”

“No, whore. Stop doesn’t work for me. And as you pointed out the day of the week so many fucking times, neither does your safeword. Listen to me carefully. Word by fucking word. The next time you decide to twerk your ass on other men’s dicks without my consent, think again.”

“They’re gay!”

“Does that mutilate their dicks and balls? No. Now, I’m going to show you just how many times I can make a woman come.”

With unsteady fingers, he placed the knife aside, hoping Abigail wouldn’t use her safeword. It was all about inflicting fear for him, and because Abigail derived pleasure from fear, she made it easy for him to slide wholly inside her.

She cried in pleasure. Her spine arched. Her eyes shut. Her head fell forward, hitting the marble vanity. It took her a minute to adjust to his large size. He felt her walls expand, pulling him further inside her.

Master Trice rotated his hips, lost in the feeling of being inside her. He slowly drew back and pushed angrily forward. Everything around him faded. His migraine was long gone. The tempo around them got replaced with sexual sounds of skin slapping against skin. The anger he housed earlier, got replaced with the need to hurt her, the need to come.

He couldn’t be prouder of Abigail for seeing the masochist in her come alive as she pushed back with all her might and coughed for air. Wrapping his hands around her hair, he drew her neck back and kissed her.

She whispered against his lips, “Stop. Stop. I’m going to p—” Her movements got sloppy but precise.

He let go of her lips and thrust deeper, faster, longer. Her cries were melodious, his new favorite song. He felt her walls clench around him. The feeling intensifying greatly. Abigail was on the brink of coming and so was Master Trice.

“I—I don’t know how to stop it.”

He circled her clit. “Come, whore. Come as many times as you’d like.”

And she did.

Master Trice saw as she used his body for her own pleasure. Over and over, she trembled in front of him. He felt a gust of water leave her like an opened faucet as it slid down both their thighs.

“Oh, God!” she shouted.

Not many things impressed Preston Trice.

Seeing the Mona Lisa at the Louvre, eh. Walking the streets of Jerusalem where Jesus lived, whatever. Having dinner with Presidents and Kings, boring. Bringing Abigail such an intense orgasm to the point of squirting, unforgettable. Fucking memorable.

It was his turn to curse as he came. “Fucking hell, Abigail.” He pounded into her with exquisite pumps, eliciting another wave of pleasure from her and his own. He was spent, shocked, and in heaven but he wouldn’t let her see that.

He pulled out of her and zipped his pants. Releasing the belt from her arms and neck, he looped it through his pants. It was when he was fixing his tie, he noticed a wet spot on his slacks.

Abigail cleared her throat, a shy blush tainting her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

“You’re a squirter,” he confessed.

“I—what?”

“You’re a squirter.”

“I heard what you said.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

She gnawed her lower lip. “I thought I’d peed.”

What the fuck?

He got close to her. Even with her heels, he toppled over her. She looked up at him. “That’s never happened before.”

“No. You’re the first man it’s happened with.”

Correction. “I’m the only man it will ever happen with.”

The smile that spread her lips was sensual and mischievous. “Yes, Master Trice.”

He had to taste her. Tilting her chin further, he pressed his lips against hers. His lips parted to suck on her upper lip. His tongue caressed hers with the utmost admiration. It was the softest kiss he’d ever given. The most grateful kiss he’d ever received. He felt it everywhere. In places he was sure he didn’t have.

Her hips jutted forward to graze on his new erection. He wanted her again but in a different setting. “You’re coming home with me.”

“I have to say goodbye.”

“Five minutes. I’ll wait for you outside.” He turned and left.

Elliott could find his own ride home.