Domination and desire go hand in hand, but are you ready to submit to the ultimate in sexy seduction? Enjoy five varied, kinky tales of domination and submission that will get you hot under the collar! Owned by Oliver by Elizabeth Coldwell Esme has fantasies about being disciplined in public. She never imagines that when it finally happens it will be at a very exclusive party where, naked and blindfolded, she is handed over by her master, Oliver, to be beaten in front of a group of very appreciative strangers. But are there further surprises in store for this very obedient slave? Special Rewards by Emma Lydia Bates Being interviewed for an important job is always a nerve-wracking experience. Even more so, when the night before, you let yourself submit to kinkier things than ever before. Eleanor sits in her interview, and tries to answer questions, but she can’t stop thinking about what her boyfriend, Nathan, had made her do, and how she’d longed for the feel of a collar around her neck. Pegging Stu by Beverly Langland Stuart is his wife’s sex slave, thriving on the humiliation of having to wear his pink “baby girl” clothes. To help celebrate Stuart’s birthday Pamela introduces Karen, a buxom, long-legged blonde who agrees to add spice to their love life. However, Karen brings her own brand of humiliation for Stuart. And what’s in the wrapped birthday box? Something Stu both dreads and craves ‑ a shiny pink dildo. Now ‑ at last ‑ will Stu get the pegging he deserves? Diamonds and Gold by Giselle Renarde Jai Li isn’t your typical millionaire businesswoman, or your typical submissive, for that matter. She’s been married to her husband and master for nearly 25 years, and she’s spent four of those years cheating on him with a man in another city, claiming she’s travelling so often for business. Jai Li thinks she’s got the wool pulled over Master’s eyes until the day he buys her an early 25th anniversary gift: a permanently-affixed diamond and gold collar. When he then asks her to cancel her next “business” trip, how can she refuse? Be My Brat by Landon Dixon He was a high school principal who believed in authoritarian intimidation and rigid, by-the-book rule enforcement to keep things running smoothly. That was at work. But at home, there was a brat he just couldn’t tame – his wife, Suzie. She misbehaved all the time, dragging him into her naughty games, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it except play along. These stories have also been published in Hot Under The Collar Print ISBN 9781907761782, eBook ISBN 9781907761799, Audio ISBN 9781908262547
The house must be a good half-mile from the road, the driveway twisting through scrubby, winter-bare trees. I don’t get the chance to study it in any detail, because as soon as Oliver brings the car to a halt, he’s reaching into the glove box for a padded leather blindfold. Buckling it around my head removes every scrap of light. The sudden lack of sight should alarm me, but I trust Oliver to guide me into the house without harm.
My remaining senses heightened, I breathe in Oliver’s spicy cologne, cinnamon and musk mixed with his own distinctive masculine smell. He holds me steady as I ease myself cautiously out of the car, high heels crunching on fine gravel beneath me.
‘You don’t really need the blindfold,’ he tells me, as I smooth my dress down over my bum, lending myself at least a measure of respectability. ‘But you look so gorgeous with it on. So deliciously vulnerable.’ He slips a hand down the neck of my dress to cup my bare breast. ‘Just imagine if I were to let someone else do this to you. Someone you can’t see. Someone you’ve never even met before …’
The way he speaks, I get the impression it’s a question not so much of “were” as “will”. I’m sure that’s why he’s brought me here tonight, to be used by someone he’s keen to impress. The little, needy whimper I give as he pinches my nipple tells him how appealing I find the prospect.
‘OK, they’ll be ready for us.’ Taking me by the elbow, he leads me to the house, warning me there are two steps to the front door. He rings the bell and we wait for only a moment before we’re led inside.
Almost tropical heat contrasts with the chill of the evening outside. It’s the kind of warmth in which you can be comfortably naked, but I don’t think about that too closely as I’m led down a hall carpeted so thickly my spike heels are almost sucked down with every step.
From a room to our left comes low music and laughter. As we enter, a man is saying, ‘Honestly, Justin, you need to get in at the bottom of the market. The price is only going to go up …’
Oliver steers me into the room. Behind me, I hear another snatch of conversation. A woman, voice dripping with cynicism. ‘Of course, she claims it’s all down to yoga and eight hours’ sleep a night, but you can’t tell me she hasn’t had work done.’
A waiter must be walking past with a tray, as there’s a vague clinking of glasses. Oliver detains him for a moment, then a long-stemmed champagne flute is being pressed into my hand. Before I can sip from it, there’s a gruff voice at my left ear.
‘So this is the girl, eh, Ollie? Pretty enough, but I suppose we’ll get a better look once it all comes off. Not much in the way of tits, though.’
I’ve never been discussed in such impersonal terms by someone I can’t actually see before. For all I know, this man could have a body like a sack of potatoes poured into a tuxedo. I should be infuriated, but instead I’m strangely excited, imagining some ugly old toad leering over my barely-clad body.
Oliver speaks up on my behalf. ‘Ah, but you should see how sensitive they are.’
‘Can’t wait for that. Michael told me to expect a good show. Oh, speaking of Michael, here he is now.’
I take a nervous sip of my champagne, still pondering the implications of the man’s remark about things coming off. Does he simply mean the blindfold, or …?
‘Oliver, splendid to see you.’ I’m a sucker for a cut-glass accent, and this one positively drips with horniness. I don’t need to see this man to know he’s everything the first one wasn’t: young, suave, fiercely charming. He smells of vetiver and inherited wealth. He has to be the host of this event, and I’m suddenly anxious to do everything I can to give him the best possible impression of myself, as a woman and as Oliver’s slave.
‘Shall we begin?’ Michael asks. The question is addressed to Oliver.
‘Ready when you are.’
‘Good. Bring her into the centre of the room, will you?’ Michael taps his glass sharply, attracting the attention of his guests. ‘Everyone, I promised you something very special this evening. Well, my old university chum Oliver has kindly agreed to put his slave through her paces for us all. I believe this is the first time she’s ever been disciplined in front of a group of strangers, so I hope you all appreciate how privileged you are to witness this virgin display.’
With that, he falls silent. Someone turns off the music. The atmosphere around me is tense, heavy with anticipation. I have no idea what Oliver is about to do to me, only that I should obey his instructions, however difficult that might prove.
Oliver clears his throat, taking centre stage. ‘Gentlemen, ladies. Before we begin, let me tell you a little about Esme. When I met her, she had no idea how submissive she truly was. Gradually, I’ve brought her most hidden desires to the surface. I’ve taught her to respond to commands, to sublimate her own needs in order to service mine, and to respond to the feel of my hand coming down hard on her arse by squealing in orgasm. Let me show you how subservient she has become. Esme, take your dress off.’
It would be easy to refuse. After all, I have no idea how many pairs of eyes are trained on me, how many people eager to scrutinise my looks, my demeanour, my eagerness to obey. But somehow I know I’m among like-minded folk, who frequent the same fetish clubs I visit with Oliver – or ones very like them. Michael, I’m sure, is just as dominant as Oliver. Or maybe I’m projecting my desire to be disciplined on to a man whose voice, whose aroma arouses me with such intensity.
My hands reach for the thin straps of my dress. The white silk sheath slithers to the ground. All at once, I’m naked in front of an unknown number of people. Part of me can hardly imagine how far I’ve come. When I first knew Oliver, I was so self-conscious about my figure that I never had the courage to wear a bikini in public. Under his careful tuition I’ve come to appreciate what I have, how beauty comes from inner security and a sense of worth – and, in my case, a sense of ownership.
Those in front of me have a perfect view of my tiptilted breasts and clean-shaven pussy. If anyone is sitting behind me, they’ll get a glimpse of the jewelled butt-plug protruding so rudely from my arse. I expect crude remarks about my tiny tits. Instead, there’s a general murmur of satisfaction at my willingness to strip bare for this crowd I can’t even see.
‘Very good.’ The approval in Oliver’s tone is unmistakeable. ‘Now, down on all fours, legs spread nice and wide.’
In that position, everyone will see the juice glistening on my thighs, and realise my bum is plugged. They’ll speculate whether Oliver did it to me, or whether I was required to lube up the plug and insert it into myself while he watched. They’ll wonder how tight I am, whether he’s training me to take progressively larger objects, how easily I welcome his cock into my arse. He might very well make me answer all those questions.
Face flushing with shame, I get on my hands and knees, shuffling my legs a good distance apart.
‘Wet, isn’t she?’ someone points out.
‘Almost indecently,’ Oliver replies, eliciting a chortle from what I’m convinced is the gruff man who addressed him when we first arrived. I’m glad their expressions are hidden from me.
That changes when Oliver comes up behind me and unbuckles the blindfold. In the moments before he tells me to lower my gaze, I see maybe a dozen people, roughly divided between the sexes, all in evening wear. Head bowed as he requests, my view of them is reduced to a collection of expensive footwear, the odd flash of a gold Rolex or diamond-encrusted Tiffany bracelet as someone reaches down to pluck their glass from the floor.
‘Michael, would you like to examine her more closely?’
Just as I expected, Oliver is handing me over to someone else. I shiver with delight at the thought it’s our host who’s been given the privilege. Knowing I have to keep staring at the floor, all I see are the toes of his highly polished black shoes as he walks round to stand before me, but I’d already caught a glimpse of a dark-haired, distinguished man standing at Oliver’s side, and I’m hoping that was him.
When he orders me up into a more classic display position, my suspicions are confirmed. Back on my haunches, hands behind my head and legs spread wide in a posture of invitation and obedience, I earn a low chuckle from him. My eyes meet his, briefly, before looking away. His profile is all angles, scalpel-sharp cheekbones and aquiline nose, his expression the perfect mix of contempt and hidden kindness. He’s not my master, but for now he’ll make a more than adequate substitute.
‘Seems well behaved enough,’ Michael comments. ‘Any recent misdemeanours I should know about?’
Oliver ponders for a moment. ‘She burned the toast yesterday morning. Oh, and she didn’t clean the bath properly the last time she used it.’
Having my domestic slovenliness laid bare embarrasses me more than anything else that’s happened so far. They’re only little things, but Oliver is so insistent on these points. Keep an eye on the toaster, it’s a little temperamental. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a ring round the bath …
‘There’s no excuse for that. A round dozen with a paddle should help teach her not to do it again, I should think.’
The punishment’s out of proportion to the crimes, of course. That’s all part of the entertainment, and the gleeful murmuring among the audience suggests they know exactly the effect a heavy paddle will have on my delicate backside. Still, it could have been worse. He could have plumped for a tawse, or the folded-over loop of his belt.
He keeps his punishment implements in one side of his cocktail cabinet. Or maybe this is just a fraction of his collection. Maybe there’s a whole room here devoted to the serious business of discipline and torment, all black-painted walls and hand-tooled furniture. It wouldn’t surprise me at all.
Lost in a reverie of stocks and stools, canes and crops, I almost fail to hear Michael tell me to bend over the arm of the wing-backed chair that’s been placed in the centre of the room for this exact purpose. Hastily, I scrabble to my feet, not wanting to earn myself any further punishment for my lack of attention.
The chair is positioned so half the room will see my face as I receive my paddling, the other half my out-thrust arse. I can’t help but notice Oliver is in the former group. This gives me courage. Any time I want to, I can look up and reassure myself he’s there, watching and taking pride from my submission.