Blindfolded

Blindfolded

By

Breanna Hayse

Copyright © 2013 by Stormy Night Publications and Breanna Hayse

Copyright © 2013 by Stormy Night Publications and Breanna Hayse

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

www.StormyNightPublications.com

Hayse, Breanna

Blindfolded

Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

Images by The Killion Group and Bigstock/Wisky

This book is intended for
adults only
. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

Chapter One

The End. Save. Send to…
Finally!

Looking around the tiny cabin, Regan could see the evidence of the difficulty she had experienced while writing
this last book: the room was spotless. Not even corner-clinging spider’s webs marred the
cleanliness.

Sighing, the young woman closed her eyes and allowed the loneliness to engulf
her. Once again, without the company of her characters and their adventures, she found herself
alone in the tiny room located in the middle of nowhere, surrounded only by silence. This was her life… apart
from human contact, apart from distractions, and apart from love. A very lonely—but prolific—existence.

Regan Cooper used the pen name Felicity Fairchilde. It wasn’t that she was ashamed, per
se, of the contents of her books, but everyone used a pseudonym, right? Regan had made her
way to the top of the best-seller charts only months after she submitted her first book, and
her royalties alone had enabled her to make a down payment on this tiny hunting cabin nestled in the
hills of Julian, California. Between the income from her books and the small inheritance from
her parents, Regan was financially comfortable. Whether she was socially comfortable, though, was another issue.

She was not beautiful in the standard sense of the word. Cute yes, but a far cry from her
gorgeous, perfect, and very young heroines. No, she was pushing the age of thirty-six and was a bit on the
chubby side, which she attributed to many hours of sitting, writing, and eating only what could be microwaved. She avoided being around the public as much as possible—a form of agoraphobia,
perhaps. No matter—she was happiest when alone—and saddest.

Regan gathered her coffee cup in her hand and stared at the screen, knowing it was only a
matter of minutes before her publisher, Kennedy Jones, contacted her. Kennedy knew how to
push her… hard. Kennedy always loved to press Regan to challenge herself and take the chance to
write something different, adventurous, and unexpected. This last piece should satisfy the
publisher’s demands.
Careful What She Wished For
was a huge leap… hopefully not over the
side of a mountain!

Regan tapped her finger on the screen. What was taking so long? This was the final
manuscript; all the edits were done, and it shouldn’t take Kennedy more than a few minutes to peruse
through them.

Why am I so anxious?
Regan wondered. Perhaps because Kennedy never offered any
feedback other than praise that her book was
wonderfully
naughty or had good
selling
potential.

Gee, you would think that as a woman Kennedy would
have
something more to offer, but no, the woman is
always so stoically professional,
Regan silently grumbled.

Regan chuckled sadly, realizing that the
only
contact she had in the real world was that woman.
They corresponded casually, especially when Regan experienced writer’s block or when
Kennedy felt the need to light a fire under her tail to work faster. She tried to encourage Regan
to “get out and see the world”, to which Regan always replied, “All I have to do is close my eyes and I’m
wherever I want to be.”

A familiar buzzing sound alerted her to an incoming email.
Finally
!

Reg, got the book. Great
edits. Thanks. K

Is that all?
Regan grunted and slammed the lid of her laptop shut.
Unbelievable.

* * *

Kennedy smiled, reading the changes. Yes, this one would definitely sell well. Impressed by
Regan’s aptitude for words, the publisher pondered over the writer's ability to be able to actually
live the fantasies she aptly wrote about. Kennedy mulled over the desire to explore the imagery of several scenes: they were enticing, seductive, and just damn hot.

Gulping down a glass of water, Kennedy lifted the phone receiver and dialed the company's cover artist. “Hey, Leigh, it’s me. Got another steaming piece from
Miss Felicity. You need to read it first before you design, but have a bucket of ice on hand. I swear, this is her best one yet. Makes me wanna take it home and do some playing of my own.”

“Sounds like fun, but get yourself a playmate first,” Leigh laughed. “It's not often you get all hot and bothered by a story, Ken. What's in it?”

“I don't even know where to begin. We need to make sure that the cover shows some dungeon play… something really hot. Add whips and chains and you have the picture. Do you think she actually lives this lifestyle? She seems so in tune with the BDSM and submission aspect. It makes me curious.”

“Have you ever talked with her?”

“No. You know I like to keep business and pleasure apart,” Kennedy laughed.

“I thought your business was your pleasure.”

“Actually, pleasure is my business. I'm telling you, Leigh… I need to meet this girl. There is something very intriguing about her and her secret life.”

“She has me interested as well. Okay, I gotta get back to work. I have a slave driver for a boss, who won't let me have any peace.”

“Tough shit. Have it done in two days, I wanna get it out.”

““Sure thing, boss. Send it my way, and I’ll start on it tonight,” Leigh chuckled.

“Just don't go jumping Cal's bones and forget to work.”

“Hey, jumping Cal's bones is the best inspiration I can get to do my thing. My hottest covers are after I get laid,” Leigh commented. “Maybe you need some more inspiration…”

“Trust me… I am being inspired. I'll talk to you later, okay? Say hi to Cal for me. And don't hurt yourself working on your inspiration!”

* * *

Regan stretched her back as she walked among the tall trees of the quiet pine forest.
Several sad-looking skeletons of scattered, lightening-burnt oaks leaned over the trails, reminding her of
bent old men hobbling through the thickets. Crows cawed loudly overhead, joined by the
chattering of some irate squirrels. The air was warm and dry, typical for the early summer, and
the only sound of civilization was the droning of a single engine plane in the distance.

Sitting on her favorite hill that overlooked the valley, Regan leaned her back against a tree and
folded her legs beneath her. What would her fans think of her if they knew the truth of her life?
Because the truth was
that she was alone, had never married, had birthed no children, and had only fantasized about the scenes she
depicted in her
novels.

She had only been with one man. That relationship ended a year ago when he left for the Middle East and had disappeared out of her existence. Not because he was a POW… Steve had just turned up missing in
interaction
. She had written several letters to him, trying to help him understand her needs as both an author and as a woman, and had never received a single response. She only knew that he was alive because she had received an anonymous phone call several months after his deployment, gently advising her to cut her losses and not wait for Steve's return. The background noise over the line had been deafening, like a group of men watching a movie and laughing, and the ruckus made it impossible for her to gain information about Steve’s whereabouts.

That experience
left her shattered and resigned to never try again. She had always been a loner, the proverbial
wallflower, and learned early in life to settle for her own companionship in lieu of rejection
from her peers.

What she would give to have just one experience… one adventure… like the ones written in her books. Kennedy
had
advised her to get out and look for one, but Regan had always refused.
“
I’m not ready
,” she would say. To this, Kennedy
would bluntly reply,
“
You never
will
be ready, so just do it
.” Regan gritted her teeth as she recited the conversation in her mind. Kennedy just
couldn’t understand.

Regan knew she frustrated her publisher too, which was probably why the
woman refused to share her phone number.
“
I like to keep things neutral and professional, Reg…”
was the abrupt reply to the request. Regan knew the truth—she was too high maintenance and Kennedy didn’t care about her on a personal level. She was simply the company’s “cash cow”.

Taking in a deep breath of fresh air,
Regan
willed
herself
to relax. The air was fresh and clean; it invigorated her mind and helped bring forth some new ideas. She was lost in thought when the vibration of her cell phone
startled her.