| Author: | Jessica Whitethread | ISBN: | 9781311455703 |
| Publisher: | Jessica Whitethread | Publication: | December 6, 2013 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords | Language: | English |
| Author: | Jessica Whitethread |
| ISBN: | 9781311455703 |
| Publisher: | Jessica Whitethread |
| Publication: | December 6, 2013 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords |
| Language: | English |
Summary:
With Joanna’s submission to Ewan now established, their relationship is becoming an increasingly large part of her life. Beneath the sexual and psychological intensity of their time together, other, deeper emotions begin to grow as well. Joanna is soon asking herself questions that she has no answer to. Are her feelings reciprocated? Is she simply a rich man’s toy? Would he disapprove of these new emotions if he knew? As familiarity builds and the emotional stakes increase, the chance of fatal misstep seems to grow, rather than fade.
Excerpt:
The duration of my visits into that room grew longer and longer. Soon, it was a rare day that I did not spend half my time at work in the presence of Ewan Armistead. In our early days, the room had sounded empty and seemed to be reserved for when he was actively engaged with me, torturing or playing with me. Now, however, I discerned that a desk had been moved in. Often he would tie me naked to the wall, fixed rigidly in some humiliating posture, and then carry out the business of his day. I could hear fingers typing on a keyboard or papers rustling. Once the precedent was established, he did not hesitate to conduct phonecalls or even meet with his staff while I remained against the wall, splayed and blind: a soothing ornament to him and a curiosity that others in his employ dared not question.
But even on these passive visits, he always spared at least a short time exclusively for me. I never left that room without at least a few new stings and bruises and a crotch soaked from prolonged arousal. Sometimes, very rarely, he would allow me to achieve orgasm, but far more often he would stimulate me until the very last moment and then withdraw his touch or his toy and watch me writhe in impotent desperation. Yell and plead as I might, my only recourse was to wait until the end of our session and then dash into the coatroom to finger myself violently. I hated the tension of the wait, but even the tamest of those coatroom sessions were far more powerful than anything I had experienced in my previous life.
The price I paid was the respect of my coworkers. Ever since that public display, I was at best an unenviable curiosity and at worst a slut sleeping her way into easier pay.
And yet that mattered less and less. I did not understand precisely why, how, at what point it had begun, but I was increasingly infatuated with Ewan Armistead. Next to his commanding presence in my life, the distaste of other people seemed less and less important. After all, each day I stood under his gaze as he effortlessly read and empathized with every thought and motive I possessed. In contrast, the confused suspicion and uninformed scorn of the others seemed so trivial. The scorn was even precious, in a way. It was a legacy and frequent reminder of my chosen status. It was a burden I bore for Ewan. It was a testament to my resiliency and my commitment to survive unblemished for his enjoyment. Perhaps that was his intention, given how intentionally public he kept our relationship.
It would not have surprised me. I believed him capable of anything. He wielded his power over me with such an easy absolutism - in such a natural synthesis of controlled brutality and artful compassion - that I spent nights thinking about him. I carried him with me and often found myself imagining his reactions to the situations I encountered. He was so different from me or anyone I had ever known, and it was as though he filled a void I could never have guessed existed. He took what he wanted without even conceiving that he might be stopped or feeling threatened by others' attempts to do so. The feeling of being his, of being possessed by him, was equivalent to knowing that I was the most important thing to a man who could have anything. No flattery was necessary, because his consistent interest was the greatest compliment he could bestow.
Summary:
With Joanna’s submission to Ewan now established, their relationship is becoming an increasingly large part of her life. Beneath the sexual and psychological intensity of their time together, other, deeper emotions begin to grow as well. Joanna is soon asking herself questions that she has no answer to. Are her feelings reciprocated? Is she simply a rich man’s toy? Would he disapprove of these new emotions if he knew? As familiarity builds and the emotional stakes increase, the chance of fatal misstep seems to grow, rather than fade.
Excerpt:
The duration of my visits into that room grew longer and longer. Soon, it was a rare day that I did not spend half my time at work in the presence of Ewan Armistead. In our early days, the room had sounded empty and seemed to be reserved for when he was actively engaged with me, torturing or playing with me. Now, however, I discerned that a desk had been moved in. Often he would tie me naked to the wall, fixed rigidly in some humiliating posture, and then carry out the business of his day. I could hear fingers typing on a keyboard or papers rustling. Once the precedent was established, he did not hesitate to conduct phonecalls or even meet with his staff while I remained against the wall, splayed and blind: a soothing ornament to him and a curiosity that others in his employ dared not question.
But even on these passive visits, he always spared at least a short time exclusively for me. I never left that room without at least a few new stings and bruises and a crotch soaked from prolonged arousal. Sometimes, very rarely, he would allow me to achieve orgasm, but far more often he would stimulate me until the very last moment and then withdraw his touch or his toy and watch me writhe in impotent desperation. Yell and plead as I might, my only recourse was to wait until the end of our session and then dash into the coatroom to finger myself violently. I hated the tension of the wait, but even the tamest of those coatroom sessions were far more powerful than anything I had experienced in my previous life.
The price I paid was the respect of my coworkers. Ever since that public display, I was at best an unenviable curiosity and at worst a slut sleeping her way into easier pay.
And yet that mattered less and less. I did not understand precisely why, how, at what point it had begun, but I was increasingly infatuated with Ewan Armistead. Next to his commanding presence in my life, the distaste of other people seemed less and less important. After all, each day I stood under his gaze as he effortlessly read and empathized with every thought and motive I possessed. In contrast, the confused suspicion and uninformed scorn of the others seemed so trivial. The scorn was even precious, in a way. It was a legacy and frequent reminder of my chosen status. It was a burden I bore for Ewan. It was a testament to my resiliency and my commitment to survive unblemished for his enjoyment. Perhaps that was his intention, given how intentionally public he kept our relationship.
It would not have surprised me. I believed him capable of anything. He wielded his power over me with such an easy absolutism - in such a natural synthesis of controlled brutality and artful compassion - that I spent nights thinking about him. I carried him with me and often found myself imagining his reactions to the situations I encountered. He was so different from me or anyone I had ever known, and it was as though he filled a void I could never have guessed existed. He took what he wanted without even conceiving that he might be stopped or feeling threatened by others' attempts to do so. The feeling of being his, of being possessed by him, was equivalent to knowing that I was the most important thing to a man who could have anything. No flattery was necessary, because his consistent interest was the greatest compliment he could bestow.
