Holiday Submission EXCERPT
Caro Anderson feared two things...The wrong kind of sexual dominant—and never finding the right one.In her search for a loving yet severe master, a disastrous experience taught her to protect her body and emotions. Yet she longs for a stern master to love. Encouraged by a friend, Caro takes a chance with a handsome British Dom and agrees to spend one weekend exploring their darkest fantasies. Rhys Devlin believes he's finally found a submissive who desires the same sexual extremes he does. But when he get's perfect girl tied down for the weekend, he discovers he wants more than her body. He wants her carefully guarded heart. Together they discover how much is enough, and what they truly need. Get your dose of Hot Alpha Billionaire today!Holiday Submission Book Trailer **Mature Content** ******18+ ONLY*******
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Holiday Submission
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Excerpt:
England, present day.
The doorbell rang at eight o’clock Friday evening—the prearranged time for her holiday adventure to begin. Caro Anderson gathered her courage, rose from the chair near the fireplace, and walked across the carpeted floor to her destiny, at least for this wintery weekend.
With her hand poised on the knob, she glanced around the room one last time. Candles lit the cozy interior, leather-bound books lined the shelves, and a fire blazed in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the old-fashioned chair and sofa. Nothing modern spoiled the image of a quaint, eighteenth-century English cottage.
She glanced down at herself. Her blond hair hung loose, the ends just brushing the tips of her breasts. Her pierced nipples peeked over a red velvet corset, and below, a long open-front skirt showed only a glimpse of her thighs and shaved mound. She wore white stockings, tied with red ribbon just above her knees.
She’d dressed exactly as the agency said he’d requested. All the other details—the cottage and furnishings—were arranged by him also. And as she’d discovered when she arrived an hour ago, his choices were perfect. The setting suited her every desire. Now she would finally meet him in the flesh, and for the next two days live her darkest sexual dream—complete submission.
Pulling open the door, she drank in the sight of him. Dressed in a long black coat, black breeches, and an elegant white linen shirt, he looked the dashing nobleman—complete with shoulder-length, dark hair pulled back in a queue.
She blinked, awed by his good looks, then remembered to stand back and drop to a curtsy, eyes downcast. “My lord.”
Dry, fluffy snow swirled in around his booted feet when he entered. The door closed and she heard him bolt the lock. She stayed lowered and waited for his first command.
Her senses stirred, attuned to the whisper of satin lining as he shrugged out of his woolen coat and hung it on a peg. The grip of his hand around her arm raised her to stand in front of him.
Tipping her face up, he traced the edge of her bottom lip with his thumb. “You know why I’m here.”
Oh, dear god, his voice. His deep, sexy British voice.
She looked down. “To inspect your new mistress.” Her body shook with arousal.
Leaning close, he whispered, “I’ve come to inspect my property.” He threaded his hand into her hair and jerked her head back, keeping a merciless hold despite her startled gasp. “Mistress is a polite term for what you are and the use I plan for you. Always remember, you’re my servant now, my personal whore. A warm, wet female I can fuck any time, and in any fashion I choose.”
“Yes, as agreed, my lord.” Her cunt clenched, instantly ready for him.
She closed her eyes and felt his lips hover along her cheek, his breath warm on her skin. His mouth paused near hers, but he did not kiss her.
“First my cock, so you’ll understand your purpose.” He turned her, urging her to the kitchen and the large medieval butcher’s block—an innocuous, square surface, except for the chains and cuffs at every corner.
He pressed her down. “Bend over. I’ll start severely, as I intend to go on.”
With one hand on her back, he pinned her upper body to the smooth wood surface. Her head hung over one edge, her rear over the other. She kept perfectly still, docile while he moved around, buckling the cuffs on her wrists and ankles.
She felt him lift her skirt. Warm air from the kitchen stove whispered over her naked haunches. His hand caressed the curve of her of buttocks—a deceptively gentle moment she knew would not last. The tips of her anxious, stocking-covered toes flexed on the stone floor. Her hips writhed in anticipation. Only the ankle cuffs prevented her from widening her legs more to give him better access.
When he reached up to the cooking implements suspended from hooks in the ceiling, a woeful moan vibrated in her throat. He chose a long-handled wooden spoon and laid it on the block by her face.
“What does a slave need?” His question made her squirm.
“A master, my lord…and discipline.” She imagined his view of her quivering bottom, her moist sex and restless thighs.
“And fucking?” He stood behind her, kneading her bottom with strong, bruising hands.
“Yes.” Sweet sin, yes! This slave needs it!
He shifted away and she twisted her head to watch him take a small bottle of oil from a nearby cupboard. He rolled up his long, white sleeves.
“First the discipline.” Moving behind her again, he stroked his hand over the curve of her ass—then he slapped it.
“Unh.” She grunted at the impact. She had only a moment to recover before he picked up the spoon and delivered the next strike. The severity banished any doubts he’d be too soft with her.
“Brace, wench.” The third whack came harder still.
“Oh, god.” She cried out before she could stop herself.
Biting her lip, she bore his mastery for another four swats. On the fifth, he wrung a deep, anguished sound from her soul.
“Good.” His fingers touched the wet crease between her legs. He teased the hood of her clit, then dipped slightly into her cunt.
“Oh, please, my lord.” In mere minutes, he had her begging.
“Yes, your lord and master.” His palm connected to the underside of her rear, slapping the wet, swollen flesh of her labia too. She jerked against her chains, abandoning all reserve when pain and pleasure crashed together.
“Master, please.”
“I like your cries, little slave.” Without reprieve, the spoon followed, burning the same tender flesh with a sharper, focused sting. Three more times he whipped her with the wicked implement, until she screamed for him—until she squirmed and pleaded piteously.
He paused, and oil drizzled on her bottom. Then he delivered another strike.
“Oh god, Sir!” The oil made it worse. She struggled again, pulling uselessly against her bonds. His hand pressed down on her back and kept her pinned. Adding to her torment, the position mashed her pierced, swollen nipples onto the hard wood.
“I might need to gag you next time.”
Next time? She dreaded it—and almost came, thinking of it. She panted her compliance. “As you wish, Sir. I’m here for your use.”
“And pleasure.”
More oil drizzled between her rear cheeks, then she heard the crackle of a foil wrapper. A condom! They had agreed in the contract that condoms would only be used for anal play.
He planned sodomy first.
“I think my inspection should start here. I want to see how well my slave takes cock up her tight little ass.” His fingers began the assault, prodding and probing the rear channel, stretching her open. She squirmed in agitated bliss while he loosened the tense muscle.
Then she felt his cock, the head pushing through the snug ring. Although he’d primed her with ample oil, and she’d been using plugs for weeks in preparation, she hissed at the size of his invasion.
Safewords simmered in her brain, but she didn’t cry out. Instead she sank deeper into the experience, owning it, absorbing it. Distress and desire became her world. She submerged herself in submission. Her master demanded this. The fantasy swirled through her brain, the servant being fucked in the kitchen by her overlord.
He paused and stroked her hip. “You’ve got the sweetest ass I’ve ever fucked, my lady slave.” He stabbed and retreated. A slow encroachment, always shafting deeper. With a grunt, he hilted himself.
“Ah, Sir…” Completely impaled now, she lay cuffed and chained to the block. She whimpered when he pumped into her burning rear with long, decisive thrusts.
“That’s it. Take your master’s cock.” Increasing the rhythm, he used her body for his pleasure.
Her clit ached. Warm arousal slicked her thighs. She heard him curse, passionate and determined. She loved his voice, the harshness of his breath while he worked towards culmination. He leaned forward and clamped one hand on the back of her neck like the clasp of old-fashioned stocks. His other hand fisted her hair and pulled her head back.
A grimace tightened her face, part pain, part devastating ecstasy. She rubbed her mound against the block, seeking contact for the hungry nub between her legs, and then she lifted to meet his thrusts, craving more of this strange new sex. Her moans filled the fire-lit kitchen and were punctuated by his deep grunts every inward stroke.
“Please, Sir, I need…”
“No. You are here for my use, a simple toy for my lust. A receptacle for my cock and cum…fuck!” He shoved deep and held, his abdomen pressed to her bottom, his balls teasing her clit. His grip tightened in her hair, holding her head back while his cock flexed and throbbed inside her exploited channel.
Slowly, slowly, he relaxed onto her, and braced on his elbows.
Her head drooped over the block. She panted through her own arousal, incredibly happy that she’d pleased him. Incredibly happy she’d met him. How deftly he’d locked her into the fantasy and made her forget the real world.
Joy—and flames of lust—curled her toes. She wanted to come. She wanted to hug him.
Just a month ago, when she’d landed a temporary design job in England, a friend from her BDSM group invited her to stay at her London flat. One night, after confiding their fantasies over a bottle of wine, her friend squealed with excitement and pulled out a business card with one discreet phone number written in gold script. “Here, call them. It’s a private D/s matchup agency. It’s free for submissives.”
The decision hadn’t been easy for Caro, but the anonymity of being in a different country bolstered her courage. Perhaps she would find the right man through the D/s service and if she did, she promised herself she’d ask for what she truly desired.
A week later, Caro called, and after exchanging pictures, video clips, and a detailed contract, she’d wound up here—with a vetted, experienced Dom, willing to give her a once-in-a-lifetime chance to live her darkest fantasy.
His teeth nipped her shoulder. “A toy I’ll use often.”
“Mmm…lucky me.” She wiggled against him. She thought she heard a chuff of laughter, but he straightened away, withdrawing his semi-erect flesh.
“I’m not done with you. Far from it.” His voice sounded clipped, controlled—every inch the lordly British Dom. He adjusted her skirt, letting it swirl down over her rear. When he stepped in front to unhook her cuffs, his black leather breeches were half buttoned.
He held her elbow and helped her straighten, turning her and leaning her backside against the block. “Stay there.”
She watched him as he ranged about the kitchen, collecting glasses and a bottle of champagne from the old-fashioned icebox. She still didn’t know how he managed to arrange it all, but she knew this kind of detail took planning and deep pockets.
He’d done so much to make this special for her, and she would show her appreciation by being the finest submissive he’d ever had. Already, he’d proved himself the best Dom. Everything aroused her—his manner, his voice, his appearance.
She dared to glance up again. Dressed in the long-sleeved white shirt, tight black breeches, and knee-high boots, he could be the hero in any historical romance.
Her rear burned from his use.
She felt delirious with happiness.
He poured two glasses of sparkling wine, handed them to her, then leaned back against the counter and met her gaze. “I’ll have to punish you for staring.”
She bit the inside of her mouth to keep from smiling. Lowering her eyes, she whispered, “Yes, my lord.”
“Take the glasses and set them on the coffee table, then kneel beside the sofa. You may drink your champagne. I’ll be there in a few minutes. ”
She scurried away and sank to her knees on the carpet by the fire. Her hand shook when she sipped from her glass, her ears attuned to his movements in the kitchen. Water ran, cupboards clicked, and drawers slid. When he sauntered into the main room, he held a pair of nipple clamps in one hand, and a small brown bag in the other.
“You need to eat something. I don’t want you fainting.”
“Fainting?” Her eyes darted to the bag. What did he have in there?
He set it on the table and pulled out some napkins and a large sandwich, cut in two.
She chuckled and quickly looked down, but not before she noticed his brows snap together.
The doorbell rang at eight o’clock Friday evening—the prearranged time for her holiday adventure to begin. Caro Anderson gathered her courage, rose from the chair near the fireplace, and walked across the carpeted floor to her destiny, at least for this wintery weekend.
With her hand poised on the knob, she glanced around the room one last time. Candles lit the cozy interior, leather-bound books lined the shelves, and a fire blazed in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the old-fashioned chair and sofa. Nothing modern spoiled the image of a quaint, eighteenth-century English cottage.
She glanced down at herself. Her blond hair hung loose, the ends just brushing the tips of her breasts. Her pierced nipples peeked over a red velvet corset, and below, a long open-front skirt showed only a glimpse of her thighs and shaved mound. She wore white stockings, tied with red ribbon just above her knees.
She’d dressed exactly as the agency said he’d requested. All the other details—the cottage and furnishings—were arranged by him also. And as she’d discovered when she arrived an hour ago, his choices were perfect. The setting suited her every desire. Now she would finally meet him in the flesh, and for the next two days live her darkest sexual dream—complete submission.
Pulling open the door, she drank in the sight of him. Dressed in a long black coat, black breeches, and an elegant white linen shirt, he looked the dashing nobleman—complete with shoulder-length, dark hair pulled back in a queue.
She blinked, awed by his good looks, then remembered to stand back and drop to a curtsy, eyes downcast. “My lord.”
Dry, fluffy snow swirled in around his booted feet when he entered. The door closed and she heard him bolt the lock. She stayed lowered and waited for his first command.
Her senses stirred, attuned to the whisper of satin lining as he shrugged out of his woolen coat and hung it on a peg. The grip of his hand around her arm raised her to stand in front of him.
Tipping her face up, he traced the edge of her bottom lip with his thumb. “You know why I’m here.”
Oh, dear god, his voice. His deep, sexy British voice.
She looked down. “To inspect your new mistress.” Her body shook with arousal.
Leaning close, he whispered, “I’ve come to inspect my property.” He threaded his hand into her hair and jerked her head back, keeping a merciless hold despite her startled gasp. “Mistress is a polite term for what you are and the use I plan for you. Always remember, you’re my servant now, my personal whore. A warm, wet female I can fuck any time, and in any fashion I choose.”
“Yes, as agreed, my lord.” Her cunt clenched, instantly ready for him.
She closed her eyes and felt his lips hover along her cheek, his breath warm on her skin. His mouth paused near hers, but he did not kiss her.
“First my cock, so you’ll understand your purpose.” He turned her, urging her to the kitchen and the large medieval butcher’s block—an innocuous, square surface, except for the chains and cuffs at every corner.
He pressed her down. “Bend over. I’ll start severely, as I intend to go on.”
With one hand on her back, he pinned her upper body to the smooth wood surface. Her head hung over one edge, her rear over the other. She kept perfectly still, docile while he moved around, buckling the cuffs on her wrists and ankles.
She felt him lift her skirt. Warm air from the kitchen stove whispered over her naked haunches. His hand caressed the curve of her of buttocks—a deceptively gentle moment she knew would not last. The tips of her anxious, stocking-covered toes flexed on the stone floor. Her hips writhed in anticipation. Only the ankle cuffs prevented her from widening her legs more to give him better access.
When he reached up to the cooking implements suspended from hooks in the ceiling, a woeful moan vibrated in her throat. He chose a long-handled wooden spoon and laid it on the block by her face.
“What does a slave need?” His question made her squirm.
“A master, my lord…and discipline.” She imagined his view of her quivering bottom, her moist sex and restless thighs.
“And fucking?” He stood behind her, kneading her bottom with strong, bruising hands.
“Yes.” Sweet sin, yes! This slave needs it!
He shifted away and she twisted her head to watch him take a small bottle of oil from a nearby cupboard. He rolled up his long, white sleeves.
“First the discipline.” Moving behind her again, he stroked his hand over the curve of her ass—then he slapped it.
“Unh.” She grunted at the impact. She had only a moment to recover before he picked up the spoon and delivered the next strike. The severity banished any doubts he’d be too soft with her.
“Brace, wench.” The third whack came harder still.
“Oh, god.” She cried out before she could stop herself.
Biting her lip, she bore his mastery for another four swats. On the fifth, he wrung a deep, anguished sound from her soul.
“Good.” His fingers touched the wet crease between her legs. He teased the hood of her clit, then dipped slightly into her cunt.
“Oh, please, my lord.” In mere minutes, he had her begging.
“Yes, your lord and master.” His palm connected to the underside of her rear, slapping the wet, swollen flesh of her labia too. She jerked against her chains, abandoning all reserve when pain and pleasure crashed together.
“Master, please.”
“I like your cries, little slave.” Without reprieve, the spoon followed, burning the same tender flesh with a sharper, focused sting. Three more times he whipped her with the wicked implement, until she screamed for him—until she squirmed and pleaded piteously.
He paused, and oil drizzled on her bottom. Then he delivered another strike.
“Oh god, Sir!” The oil made it worse. She struggled again, pulling uselessly against her bonds. His hand pressed down on her back and kept her pinned. Adding to her torment, the position mashed her pierced, swollen nipples onto the hard wood.
“I might need to gag you next time.”
Next time? She dreaded it—and almost came, thinking of it. She panted her compliance. “As you wish, Sir. I’m here for your use.”
“And pleasure.”
More oil drizzled between her rear cheeks, then she heard the crackle of a foil wrapper. A condom! They had agreed in the contract that condoms would only be used for anal play.
He planned sodomy first.
“I think my inspection should start here. I want to see how well my slave takes cock up her tight little ass.” His fingers began the assault, prodding and probing the rear channel, stretching her open. She squirmed in agitated bliss while he loosened the tense muscle.
Then she felt his cock, the head pushing through the snug ring. Although he’d primed her with ample oil, and she’d been using plugs for weeks in preparation, she hissed at the size of his invasion.
Safewords simmered in her brain, but she didn’t cry out. Instead she sank deeper into the experience, owning it, absorbing it. Distress and desire became her world. She submerged herself in submission. Her master demanded this. The fantasy swirled through her brain, the servant being fucked in the kitchen by her overlord.
He paused and stroked her hip. “You’ve got the sweetest ass I’ve ever fucked, my lady slave.” He stabbed and retreated. A slow encroachment, always shafting deeper. With a grunt, he hilted himself.
“Ah, Sir…” Completely impaled now, she lay cuffed and chained to the block. She whimpered when he pumped into her burning rear with long, decisive thrusts.
“That’s it. Take your master’s cock.” Increasing the rhythm, he used her body for his pleasure.
Her clit ached. Warm arousal slicked her thighs. She heard him curse, passionate and determined. She loved his voice, the harshness of his breath while he worked towards culmination. He leaned forward and clamped one hand on the back of her neck like the clasp of old-fashioned stocks. His other hand fisted her hair and pulled her head back.
A grimace tightened her face, part pain, part devastating ecstasy. She rubbed her mound against the block, seeking contact for the hungry nub between her legs, and then she lifted to meet his thrusts, craving more of this strange new sex. Her moans filled the fire-lit kitchen and were punctuated by his deep grunts every inward stroke.
“Please, Sir, I need…”
“No. You are here for my use, a simple toy for my lust. A receptacle for my cock and cum…fuck!” He shoved deep and held, his abdomen pressed to her bottom, his balls teasing her clit. His grip tightened in her hair, holding her head back while his cock flexed and throbbed inside her exploited channel.
Slowly, slowly, he relaxed onto her, and braced on his elbows.
Her head drooped over the block. She panted through her own arousal, incredibly happy that she’d pleased him. Incredibly happy she’d met him. How deftly he’d locked her into the fantasy and made her forget the real world.
Joy—and flames of lust—curled her toes. She wanted to come. She wanted to hug him.
Just a month ago, when she’d landed a temporary design job in England, a friend from her BDSM group invited her to stay at her London flat. One night, after confiding their fantasies over a bottle of wine, her friend squealed with excitement and pulled out a business card with one discreet phone number written in gold script. “Here, call them. It’s a private D/s matchup agency. It’s free for submissives.”
The decision hadn’t been easy for Caro, but the anonymity of being in a different country bolstered her courage. Perhaps she would find the right man through the D/s service and if she did, she promised herself she’d ask for what she truly desired.
A week later, Caro called, and after exchanging pictures, video clips, and a detailed contract, she’d wound up here—with a vetted, experienced Dom, willing to give her a once-in-a-lifetime chance to live her darkest fantasy.
His teeth nipped her shoulder. “A toy I’ll use often.”
“Mmm…lucky me.” She wiggled against him. She thought she heard a chuff of laughter, but he straightened away, withdrawing his semi-erect flesh.
“I’m not done with you. Far from it.” His voice sounded clipped, controlled—every inch the lordly British Dom. He adjusted her skirt, letting it swirl down over her rear. When he stepped in front to unhook her cuffs, his black leather breeches were half buttoned.
He held her elbow and helped her straighten, turning her and leaning her backside against the block. “Stay there.”
She watched him as he ranged about the kitchen, collecting glasses and a bottle of champagne from the old-fashioned icebox. She still didn’t know how he managed to arrange it all, but she knew this kind of detail took planning and deep pockets.
He’d done so much to make this special for her, and she would show her appreciation by being the finest submissive he’d ever had. Already, he’d proved himself the best Dom. Everything aroused her—his manner, his voice, his appearance.
She dared to glance up again. Dressed in the long-sleeved white shirt, tight black breeches, and knee-high boots, he could be the hero in any historical romance.
Her rear burned from his use.
She felt delirious with happiness.
He poured two glasses of sparkling wine, handed them to her, then leaned back against the counter and met her gaze. “I’ll have to punish you for staring.”
She bit the inside of her mouth to keep from smiling. Lowering her eyes, she whispered, “Yes, my lord.”
“Take the glasses and set them on the coffee table, then kneel beside the sofa. You may drink your champagne. I’ll be there in a few minutes. ”
She scurried away and sank to her knees on the carpet by the fire. Her hand shook when she sipped from her glass, her ears attuned to his movements in the kitchen. Water ran, cupboards clicked, and drawers slid. When he sauntered into the main room, he held a pair of nipple clamps in one hand, and a small brown bag in the other.
“You need to eat something. I don’t want you fainting.”
“Fainting?” Her eyes darted to the bag. What did he have in there?
He set it on the table and pulled out some napkins and a large sandwich, cut in two.
She chuckled and quickly looked down, but not before she noticed his brows snap together.
