Collared (Masters of Desires)

An uproarious knock disturbed Abigail’s pleasant sleep. The knock, which was more like a bang, shook her bed frame rigorously. With her eyes behind closed lids, she felt the top of the nightstand with sleepy fingers. She squinted against the light of her cellphone.

11:10 pm.

Who the hell was kicking down her door at eleven in the fucking night?

“Mr. Grey, make them go away,” she whined and closed her eyes only for the noise to booze through the pipes of her home.

Jesus H. Christ!

Abigail sat on the bed and reached for her robe as she made her way to the front door. She stumbled on one of Mr. Grey’s toys and hit her shin with the corner of the coffee table. Hopping on one foot, she slung open the door.

All anger and drowsiness evaporated when she saw Preston’s luminescent smile brightening the pitch-black neighborhood.

He stood on the threshold, a long arm hovering over the brick entryway. His jeans were dark, and his shirt held a similar hue. He looked like death knocking on her door to steal her soul at night.

“Hi,” he said as his soft fingers touched her skin.

Her eyes lingered on his wet lips as he leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. They felt warm against the cool night. His tongue tasted minty as it caressed hers. Her nipples turned hard as she moaned into his mouth. They backed away slowly, both needing to breathe.

She propped her hip on the doorway and crossed her arms.

“I’m going to start charging for my healing kisses.”

He gave her a crooked smile and swiped her hair behind her ear. Abigail followed his touch, needing to feel his hands on her body.

“Come inside.”

He extended his hand. “Come with me.”

The night felt like a lucid dream—an out-of-body experience. He’d knocked on her door, offering a mysterious adventure, and as it’d been done by Pandora, Abigail’s curiosity got the best of her.

She didn’t ask where they were going. She didn’t inform him of the time or the fact she needed to be at work in eight hours. She took his hand, locked the door behind her, and tightened the robe around her waist as he guided her to the SUV parked by the curb.

Kenneth drove for minutes, sliding in and out of light traffic. Abigail rested her head on Preston’s shoulder as she said farewell to a brightly lighted Times Square. Although the clock read thirty minutes to midnight, the place shone like the morning sun.

“How much electricity do you think it takes to power up Times Squares?” she asked.

“Enough to power a small island.”

“You think so?”

He nodded. “It never turns off, not even in the morning.”

“What a waste,” she said, a yawn slipping past her lips.

He pushed her bangs behind her ear and kissed her forehead. “Are you tired?”

“Yes. Is Ken taking the long way home?”

A sinister smile played on his lips. “We’re not going home.”

Her brows furrowed as the city shrunk in the rearview mirror the farther Kenneth drove. The familiarity of the dark streets and dumpsters on the side of buildings pieced together his plan.

Sleep was the farthest thing from her mind now she knew Master Trice wanted to play.

“I’m wearing a robe.”

“You’re more covered up than when I first met you,” he said just as Kenneth parked the car.

A coy smile grazed her lips as remnants of that night scattered her thoughts. It’d been a bitter winter when she’d knocked on the iron doors, hoping to meet the master of her dreams. Now Orchard Street sprung with flowers, and it was her master’s hand guiding her through the back entrance of his club.

The sensual rhythm of downstairs followed them in the elevator ride to the second floor. The doors yawned to Master Trice’s hallway. He surprised her by taking a sharp left turn, stopping before a door she’d never seen. He gripped Abigail’s chin with strong fingers as his dark eyes bore into her light ones.

“You are not to speak unless told otherwise by your master. Is that understood?”

She nodded, following his command.

He pulled her chin to where her nose met his, causing the heels of her feet to inch off the ground. “Are you being a smartass? Speak, whore.”

“Ye—” She licked her lips. “Yes, Master Trice.”

“Yes, you’re being a smartass, or yes, you understand?”

“Yes, I understand, Master Trice.”

He loosened his grip, dismissing her as he pushed open the door.

Abigail did as was expected and knelt by the door. Her robe hitched up her thigh as her chin rested on her chest. She fell into a tranquil trance as she breathed in and out through her nose.

As footsteps approached her, Master Trice demanded her eyes to rise.

A faint shadow depicted the silhouette of three male figures. Their intimidating postures liquified her insides, forming a pool of desire to instantly settle in between her thighs.

The first man licked his lips hungrily as his honeyed eyes lingered on her ample cleavage. His golden-brown complexion glistened against the light of the room. He pulled out his cock from the slit of his boxers and gave it a long stroke.

Abigail swallowed a very hot breath.

The second was a Shanghainese man with spiky hair that kissed his forehead like sharp spears. He held high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes oozing with sexual vibes.

The powerful body of a topaz dragon slithered like a serpent around his left rib. Its neck wrapped around the man’s shoulder, leading to a blazing open mouth and dangerous fangs. The mythical creature flexed its muscles with every intake of breath his owner took.

A mild touch from this man was sure to make her shiver.

The last man was taller than the other two, but not as tall as Master Trice. He held a small hoop on his right lobe that made him look robust. His chest was well defined as if perfectly sculpted by an artist. She held herself down, finding the need to touch the freckles that glistened golden against his mocha skin.

Master Trice squatted next to her. His lips touched her ear as he sneered, “One of each flavor, so there’s no doubt Greeks do it best.”

Abigail turned her eyes to him. Her lips began to move but she caught herself, knowing Master Trice disliked heathens. Her eyes shone with gratefulness as the fantasy she’d had for years ceased to be but a fleeting desire.

Her spine straightened as the silk fabric slipped off her shoulders. She undressed with the grace of Phryne—without shame and without remorse because a whore had none.

The men parted, giving way to the centerpiece that was the king-sized bed. Not far from it, stood a leather chair paired with a small table. Above the circular glass was a bottle of bourbon, a Glencairn, and a bucket of ice.

Abigail felt the need to remind him hard liquor wouldn’t remedy his migraines. However, she knew if she spoke, it’d only fall on deaf ears and would get her in a great deal of trouble.

She stayed silent and accepted her master’s hand as he guided her to sit in the middle of the bed. Her breath caught in anticipation as she raised her eyes to the handcuffs that hung from the ceiling. Her hands absentmindedly raised to be chained by them as it was solely when her body was shackled, she felt truly free.

He tapped on her hands, telling her to bring them down. His scent lingered around her as he made his way to the leather chair.

Her brows wrinkled as she gave his purposeful action a conscious thought. He’d had no intention of using the cuffs on her, yet he’d left them as a reminder of what could have been.

He shook a finger at the men, instructing them to walk to either side of the bed. They dropped their boxers and capped themselves with condoms.

Master Trice waved his hand at the man with the hungry gaze, who was the first to join her in bed. Abigail got on her knees as she straddled his waist. As he laid on the mattress, his cock jerked and grazed the apples of her buttocks.

The man with the sculpted body was beckoned to position himself behind her. She fell on her hands as he parted her cheeks and poured warm liquid over her tight hole.

The final man was gestured to place himself in front of her. He settled his cock on the lips of her mouth but didn’t thrust. The lubricant of the condom coated her lips glossy.

All three men were in position but neither pushed forward as if waiting for a signal.

Abigail turned her gaze to the cause of the delay.

He nonchalantly dropped two ice-cubes into the Glencairn glass resting on the table beside him. He unclasped the bottle and poured three fingers of the mahogany. The drink hung on the tips of his fingers as it pivoted like the tumultuous waves of the ocean.

Master Trice raised the glass at her as the loud tick of the clock signaled a brand-new day. His dark eyes were on her as he mouthed, “Happy birthday.”

With that sign, the men proceeded to impale her all at once.

Her body didn’t get the chance to adjust to the sizes of the men. Only but a wheeze left her nose as each coerced her in their direction.

She felt full in every aspect—mentally, physically, and emotionally as her love deepened for her master. Her emotional fullness lasted but for a minute, turning into unadulterated hate at the shift of his finger.

The men slowed their tempo, pushing inside her as if cautious not to hurt her. Abigail tried to push back but her movements were halted. One softly caressed her cheek with his fingers as he slid in and out of her mouth. The second caused her nerve endings to cease as he eased slowly out of her. The last failed at stimulating her G-spot as he stopped thrusting inside her, letting the second man control their movements.

A tear slipped past her cheek as he conducted the men to whisper sweet nothings with a simple wave of his hand.

Abigail began to understand the cruelty behind the divine gift given to her by her sadistic master.

She could sleep with as many men as she’d like because none would touch her as she craved to be touched. No one would hit her as she needed to be hit, and no man could fuck her as she deserved to be fucked.

It was with the thought in mind that Master Trice leaned back and enjoyed the performance he so meticulously conducted.