Dawn of a New Day (MM)

Siren-BookStrand, Inc.

Heat Rating: Sextreme
Word Count: 21,158
1 Ratings (5.0)

[Siren Classic BDSM ManLove: Erotic Romance, Alternative, Contemporary, BDSM, MM, HEA]

Twenty-four-year-old Paul Atkinson knows he is a born slave, and yet he is living the most pathetic existence he can imagine. He doesn’t yet understand how to transform his fantasy of bondage into his greatest reality.

When a petty argument with his acquaintance Marco Martinez escalates, however, everything changes, and Paul soon realizes this smoldering, thirty-seven-year-old Latino man has much to offer him in his quest to become the slave he knows deep down he was always meant to be.

Marco patiently teaches Paul all there is to life as a slave, though the lessons are painful, and the bondage is tight. Marco hasn’t yet agreed to take Paul on as a slave, however, so the stakes are high. Still, Paul’s determination to impress his new master is great. Will Marco and Paul form the master slave relationship of Paul’s dreams? Find out in Dawn of a New Day.

Dawn of a New Day (MM)
1 Ratings (5.0)

Dawn of a New Day (MM)

Siren-BookStrand, Inc.

Heat Rating: Sextreme
Word Count: 21,158
1 Ratings (5.0)
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Cover Art by Harris Channing


“If you wanna get your gas, I can let you do that,” Paul said.

The man stared into Paul’s face once more, but he was silent. It was as if he were sizing Paul up, considering him for something, but Paul didn’t know what that could be. He had said his job was to look for people, but what did that mean? Was he a headhunter? Maybe he could get Paul a better job and Paul could finally tell his boss to kiss his ass. Now that would be satisfying.

“Yeah, I’ll get my gas now,” the man said. “You can get yours when I’m done.”

Paul stood right where he was for a moment, and when the man looked into his eyes, he quickly looked away. Then he responded, but he didn’t know where in the name of God his response came from.

“Yes, Sir.”

These were two simple words, but they weren’t Paul’s. While Paul was submissive, he had never actually said anything like that in this context, never been so obsequious in calling a man sir. Still, that was exactly what just happened, and Paul turned his head back, ready to search this man’s face for anything he could possibly glean from it.

Then, suddenly, the man jumped forward and pressed Paul against the gas pump once again. There was an earnest anger in his eyes, but those eyes also held a deep lust that Paul could easily detect. And then he knew, perhaps for the first time since this exchange began, that this man wanted him.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be?” the man said, the fire in his eyes burning brightly. This man was dominating Paul in every single way Paul had always desired, but he was doing so in a manner that was so much better than the way Jim did it. This man’s anger was real. It wasn’t just sport for him to beat up on Paul. Paul held his breath and continued watching the man’s face, trying to find out more. Then he remembered what Jim had said to him only hours before.

“You always get kicked around. You were when you were a kid. You are as an adult. Now I’m the one to kick you around. When you get tired of me, you’ll leave and find someone else to do it. But your problem is that you resist it. And you resent it. You can’t just let it happen.”

Yes, Paul finally understood Jim’s words, and they immediately rang true for him. He really had resisted people kicking him around. In many ways, the manner in which this man was dominating him was very similar to the way Jim did it. It was only their intention that differed. And then Paul asked himself a question to which there might be no answer. Could this be the sign he had sought since the night he said his fervent prayer to God or Buddha or whoever was in charge of this fucked-up universe?

The man stepped back. “I’m sorry,” he said, much to Paul’s surprise. “I can be a real dick sometimes. I don’t mean to be. Just comes with my line of work.”

Paul didn’t dare ask this man what that line of work actually was, nor would he argue with him. He just stood there, leaning against the gas pump, trying to think of something—anything—to say.

“So this is how it’s gonna be,” the man repeated, and Paul wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a question. He remained silent, even now. The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny business card holder, opening it up and handing him a card. Slowly, Paul took it.

“What’s this?” Paul really was surprised. After an encounter like the one he just had, the last thing he expected was to sit down with this man for coffee or a beer.

“It’s my card. What’s your name?”

“Paul,” he squeaked. The man nodded.

“I want you to call me, Paul.” He moved forward, and Paul leaned back into the gas pump as much as he could. “I’m not gonna hurt you, bud. Unless you want me to.”

Paul held his breath.

“Call you?” he repeated.

“Yeah, no texting. Be a man. Grow a pair and call. I wanna hear from you. I want to get to know you. See what makes you tick. See if you’re the man I’m looking for.” Once more, he paused. Then he leaned forward, as if ready to share some wonderful or terrible secret that he had just heard from the wind or the sky. “Strange things happen when you finally decide to follow your heart, Paul.”

“I’m not that special,” Paul protested, taking the card and clutching it in his fingers, hoping his nerves didn’t cause him to crumple it.

“Don’t ever say that about yourself,” the man said. At this point, Paul realized he hadn’t even asked him his name, but at least he had his card. “It doesn’t do any good to put yourself down.” He paused, and then he grabbed his sunglasses from the hood of the car and turned to get back in. “I’m gonna pump that gas now, so call me,” he said. Paul, too, got back into his car.

A few minutes later, he watched as the man drove away. Fuck! What did all this mean? Did this man actually expect Paul to call him? What in the name of God for? After Paul pumped his gas, he sat in his car for a long time and stared at the card the man had just handed him.






“Can you take it?” Marco asked.

Paul clenched his eyes tightly shut, not immediately responding. The large muscles in his arms and back and shoulders trembled as he quickly turned once again, seeing the whip that Marco held in his other hand. Paul knew that whip would soon strike his flesh, and he also knew he would scream. But those screams would be cries of thanksgiving to any gods who might bother to listen, as he knew in such a lashing he would find his true self, the very essence of his entire being.

Paul had fundamentally understood for most of his life he was a slave, but he had never met anyone who could lead him through the transition from traditional life to an existence of bondage. Now, after a chance meeting with Marco that originally hadn’t gone very well, Paul found himself bound with leather cuffs and chains in the man’s dungeon. Marco was older than Paul’s twenty-four years, but his age only made him all the sexier. Marco was a Latino man in his late thirties with short jet-black hair and honey-colored skin that also glistened with a light sheen of sweat, even in this cool dungeon.

“I think so,” Paul finally said, and then he held his breath as Marco took the handle of that whip and pressed it into the small of the young man’s back. It wouldn’t be long before this lashing was to begin. Paul had to think of a way to fight the pain, and yet his research online had taught him that a slave’s physical agony often led to a head space of sheer ecstasy the likes of which most non-slaves never had the privilege of experiencing. Still, Paul’s nerves were shot, especially after the day’s events.

He thought of his asshole boss, his life as an administrative assistant at a crappy company, his pathetic apartment. All he could imagine now was how very much he desired to leave these things behind and pursue his truest desires of belonging to another man, of being his property, of being loved, of being important.

Suddenly, Marco moved forward, wrapping his body around Paul’s, and he grabbed the young man’s head, placing his hand over the slave’s mouth. Paul’s eyes grew wide as he witnessed his master’s anger, and he witnessed it in sheer terror. Fuck! What had he done to deserve this? What had he done wrong?

“Aren’t you forgetting something, slave?” Marco growled. Paul could just barely see into his master’s face, and the rage there made Paul even hornier than he already had been before. Paul could still breathe through his nose, but he couldn’t respond, not unless Marco allowed him to do so. Slowly, Marco removed his fingers from Paul’s lips, but Paul remained silent. He honestly had no idea what his master was talking about. “You always call me Sir, Paul,” he reminded the slave.

“Sorry, Sir,” Paul squeaked out, hands now trembling so much in the cuffs that bound them that the chains were rattling. Paul’s bare feet, too, were bound in much the same kind of cuff and chain, and the flesh on the soles of those feet tingled in the cold. How long would he have to wait for this beating to start? How long before Marco would truly take ownership of him?

After all, Marco had told Paul he would only accept him as an apprentice, but Paul’s performance during that apprenticeship would determine if Marco wanted to take the lad on as his permanent slave to serve him for the rest of his life.

Marco stepped to the side and moved away from Paul, once more pressing the whip into the slave’s back.

“That’s better,” he said, and his low manly voice seemed to make the room shake with its intensity. Or maybe it was just the dizziness Paul felt. Yes, he was growing drunk with the sexual frenzy of finally being the slave he had always wanted to be but had never had the opportunity.

“There are rules,” Marco continued, now pressing the whip handle even harder into Paul’s back. Paul leaned forward just a little bit, as the pain of that handle moving into his flesh was already slightly uncomfortable, but it was nothing he couldn’t bear.

“Rules, Sir?”

“Yes,” Marco said. Now he removed the whip and turned to face away from Paul. It was as if Marco were lost inside his own head at this point, but Paul couldn’t be sure what this mysterious man was thinking. He could only drink in the hard muscles of his pecs, his arms, his ass. Fuck! He was a dream in every sense of the word, and now Paul could only pray that he would one day be this man’s slave—for life.

“First, as you learned the hard way, you always call me Sir. Even if the game stops, you still call me Sir. Do you understand?”

Paul wasn’t sure he did. What did Marco mean when he said the game? What did he mean by the game stopping?

“I think so, Sir.”

“Good. Second, you always follow my orders without question or hesitation. If I tell you to do something you don’t feel comfortable with, you have permission to ask about it, but if you ultimately say no, you can no longer be my slave. You have to be brave, and courage is a big part of slavery.”

Paul’s hands were still trembling, but at least the chains weren’t rattling at this point.

“Third, if anything I do is too much for you, and you just need a break for a minute, you say blue. That’s your first safe word.” Marco moved back to Paul and threw the whip down, now wrapping his arms around the slave’s chest, lightly pinching his nipples. Paul winced in mild pain, but again, it was nothing he couldn’t endure. “I expect you to be courageous, slave, and only use the safe word if you absolutely have to.”

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