Pursued
His Domination
#1
PURSUED
BARACHOU PRESS
Pursued
HIS DOMINATION, #1
Copyright: Cynthia Dane
Published: August 7th, 2015
Publisher: Barachou Press
This is a work of fiction. Any and all similarities to any characters, settings, or situations are purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
READING ORDER
1: Pursued
2: Caught
3: Healed
Pursued
Almost A Year Ago
The gun shook in Monica’s hand. She had never fired one before – she didn’t want today to be the day.
“You don’t get to play the games anymore.” Although her heart thumped in her chest, she had to be steady, cool. For the first time in her life, Monica had to look like she was in complete control in front of her nightmare.
A dozen pairs of eyes were on her. Jasmine, the woman she was trying to protect besides herself, and Jackson Lyle, the awful sack of shit who called himself her boyfriend, her Dom, her
master…
they were the only ones that mattered. Jasmine, scared out of her wits, and Jackson, who didn’t believe in a million years his demure submissive would ever actually
shoot him.
“Now, my pet, that is a dangerous weapon you have there. You should put it down and give it to me.”
The bastard actually held his hand out.
He can’t be serious.
After so many years together... after all she had given him… after all he had
done
to her… he really thought he could say a few nice words and get her to back down? What kind of broken spine did he think she had?
“Don’t you dare call me your pet ever again. You don’t deserve to call me that. You lost that privilege when you started hurting me.” The gun was hot against her skin. She hadn’t even fired it – yet – and she was already anticipating the burn of revenge.
“Hurting you? What are you talking about?”
Monica’s lip trembled.
Don’t cry in front of him!
How many times had he made her cry? “I don’t have to tell you or anyone else here. You know damn well what you have done. I may be submissive, but I’m still a human being. I’m not sure about you anymore. I don’t think you’re human at all.”
“Monica.” A few yards away, Ethan, a friend and the man who had come to take his girlfriend Jasmine away from this terrifying situation said. “This isn’t necessary. Let’s go.”
Somehow Ethan coaxed the gun out of her hand, emptying the clip and showing how serious she had been as each bullet clattered on the floor.
I would have done it.
Her lip continued to tremble.
This man stole my life.
He would continue stealing the lives of other women until someone put him down.
Ethan took both women by the hand and drew them toward the front door of Jackson’s lavish mansion, the place Monica had called home for years. She also called it her prison.
This wasn’t what she had in mind for a jailbreak.
“You both will be nothing but whores for the rest of your lives,” Jackson called after them. “You may not be our whores, but girls like you can’t help themselves. You will always be somebody’s whore.”
Monica never expected it, but she was content with Ethan going up and punching the fucker right in the face.
***
“There must be something we can do…”
“He’s too powerful. It’s their word against his. That lawyer of his will do everything in his power to discredit Ms. Graham, especially. She pulled a gun on him. They’ll get her for being mentally ill, at best.”
“Do you have any idea what he did to her?”
“I saw the bruises, Mr. Cole. They would claim it’s a result of their lifestyle.”
“That’s not BDSM. That’s abuse.”
“Even so…”
“I’ll testify against him myself.”
“I can tell you care for these women very much, Mr. Cole, but I’m afraid it will never be that simple. As your lawyer, this is my advice. Drop it.”
***
One day went by. Two days went by. Soon enough a month had gone by, and Monica had no idea how to live life on her own.
Funny thing, being in a relationship with a Dom like Jackson for so long. He had controlled every aspect of her life. She liked it, at first. It was welcoming, and suited her wishes from that kind of relationship. Except her prince turned into a dragon over the years. The words, the smacks that were more pain than pleasure, and then the…
Other people would ask why she didn’t leave sooner. Wasn’t she strong enough? Didn’t she know her worth?
Love. I stayed for love.
As toxic as Jackson had been, he was her Master… and Monica wanted nothing more from life than to love and serve her Master.
Now she was broken. A sub without a Master. Sure, she could move far away from him. Sure, she could rely on friends with connections for a while. And, sure, she could open her own business and stay busy… but her thoughts would always go back to that man, and her heart would always pine, hope, and dream.
Monica wanted to believe that there was something better out there. A better life, a better love…
Wasn’t that the same thing?
Chapter 1
Rose Vines
One rose in the bouquet was crooked. Monica stood in front of the long dining table, the late afternoon sunlight streaming across it and blinding the others while she remained determined to figure out how to make that blasted rose no longer crooked.
“It’s hardly noticeable,” said Sylvia, one of the girls who worked for her. That evening she wore a black cocktail dress accented with pearls, her makeup bright in the lips and smoky around the eyes. Sylvia fancied herself a 21
st
Century Flapper. Not that she ever got the terminology down… but she could quote
The Great Gatsby
until her patron rolled over and fell asleep in bed. “Nobody is going to care if a single rose is crooked.”
“I’ll care.” Monica reached for the stem and twisted it, the dewy red petals shifting into their new place. When she dropped her hand, however, one of the thorns nicked her fingertip
“Oh dear.” Sylvia shuffled to an antique coffee table at the edge of the dining room. One of the drawers opened. Sylvia pulled out a small first aid kit and fetched the smallest Band-Aid she could find. “Do you need alcohol?”
Yes.
Not the kind Sylvia was thinking of, however. What Monica needed was a glass of wine or maybe some brandy to settle her nerves. “No thank you. The bandage is fine.”
She let her girl put the bandage on before dismissing her to the kitchen, where Sylvia was to find out the status of their dinner.
One hour.
This was the night Monica hated the most in her business. The night every patron and their invited guests came for a banquet of both the stomach and the loins.
Monica knew what she signed up for when she opened her house of sadomasochistic pleasure, especially when she catered to some of the most elite men in the country, let alone the world. The money was there. The
desire
was there. What was also there was a lot of planning, a lot of stress, and God knew a lot of little things that added up to fray Monica’s nerves. Like a damned rose too crooked to be in a bouquet.
None of the patrons would notice, sure. Just like they wouldn’t notice that one window had a smudge on it, or that the napkins weren’t neatly folded, or that one place setting had the forks on the wrong side. They wouldn’t notice because those mistakes were no longer there. From the moment they walked through the doors of Monica’s Château, they were treated like kings. Presidents.
Gods.
Everything was just right. Even the five women Monica employed as mistresses were about as perfect as they could get. Oh, they had their physical and emotional flaws like anyone else, but they were trained to give and receive pain of the highest order, depending on what the customer wanted. Every girl had customers she saw once or on a semi-regular basis. They also had patrons. Rich, powerful men who paid for specific privileges that the average man coming through the doors didn’t get to have.
All five patrons were coming tonight. Once a month the Château hosted a banquet for all five girls and their patrons. Usually only two or three came. Tonight was the first time since the Château opened its doors that all five decided to grace it with their presence at the same time.
For Monica, that meant more work making sure everything was prepared. The cooks had to be perfect on pain of firing. The maids had their outfits inspected multiple times. Monica even went so far as to hold their nails up to her eyes to make sure they weren’t too sharp or too dirty. The patrons weren’t allowed to touch them, but they had to look impeccable. These were men who were used to the world kowtowing to them, and Monica would not let them receive anything less.
It was business, but it was also personal. Monica was a sub. A Masterless sub, but a sub nonetheless. After spending the past ten years of her life living the existence of a full time sub, she knew nothing else. So when her last relationship ended, opening such a house of ill repute was all that mattered.
The Château was not a brothel. Everything was legal, although legalities were stretched. Police came by often to inspect the goings-on. Monica was ready for them too. So were some of her girls – as it turned out, most of the officers had some Dom in them.
“Chef says dinner is going as scheduled,” Sylvia said, waltzing in as if she were Monica’s #2.
She likes to think she is.
The girls were all equal in her eyes, although petty squabbles over who had the best patron and who would retire the richest happened during downtimes and days off. “Anything else I can do?”
“Prepare for your patron.” Sylvia couldn’t seriously think she was dressed for success that night. Her patron, Mr. Carlisle, was too used to Sylvia’s aesthetic. He probably didn’t know it, but he would soon grow tired if Sylvia didn’t mix it up once in a while.
It’s my job to know that for him.
Men liked it when women anticipated their needs and wants before they even had an inkling of them. Mind reader, they called her. No, Monica was observant, and many men were the same in lots of ways.
The hour passed quickly. In the end Monica was almost the one to embarrass them all when she wasn’t immediately there to meet Mr. Carlisle in the foyer. She was busy touching up the last of her makeup in the Ready Room at the top of the stairs. The Château was so large that it was ridiculous to expect any of the girls to run between their rooms and the front of the building. The Ready Room was where they kept backup supplies and could clean up if necessary. When Mr. Carlisle was announced, Monica nearly stabbed herself in the eye with her mascara.
She hurried to smooth out her dress, fluff her hair, and make sure she was steady in her shoes. When she reached the top of the grand staircase, however, she was the goddess of poise and the kind of grace her last Master expected of her.
Don’t think of him here.
To conjure that man’s image in her mind was to invite death into her heart.
