Jaid Black Read online

  Her gaze skimmed over the books sitting in her lap. The titles said it all. She nibbled on her lower lip, wondering if she was depraved or if other professional women in high-stress careers fantasized about the types of situations she fantasized about.

  Submitting to the Master.

  The Definitive Guide to Bottoming.

  Sexual Servitude 101.

  Ugh. Her mother would roll over in her grave if she had any inkling that the greatest sexual aspiration her surgeon of a daughter possessed was to dramatically submit her body as a sensual offering to a dominant man behind a closed bedroom door.

  Then again, her mother would probably roll over in her grave if she knew Nikki had any sexual aspirations at all.

  She sighed, deciding that, if nothing else, her fantasy life would make for an excellent edition of the Jerry Springer show.

  These deviant physicians say there is nothing wrong with getting handcuffed to a bed and made to perform fellatio on the alpha males in their lives. Stay tuned as we talk to doctors who like to get down and dirty. Coming up next on Jerry Springer . . . .

  Nikki shook her head. Down and dirty indeed. She hadn’t performed fellatio on a male—or done anything else with or to one, for that matter—in over three years. She was as celibate as a saint, she thought a bit grimly. Single and celibate. She didn’t mind the former, liked it in fact, but the latter really sucked.

  Moving the Domination/submission books from her lap to the coffee table, she stood up and made her way over to the computer. She absently switched on the power button, her attention temporarily snagged by the mirror suspended to her left on the wall.

  She pressed her face in closer, wondering what it was that men saw when they looked at her. Did they think she was at all attractive? At least average, maybe? Or did they think she was ugly? Too serious? Too brainy? Too . . . something?

  Whatever it was, she thought, it was definitely keeping her from scoring.

  She chuckled at her own thoughts. “Scoring,” she murmured. “You sound like a middle-aged pervert, Nikki. And a male one at that.”

  She sighed, deciding that that’s what happens to a woman when her sex life is as barren as the Sahara. She straightened her shoulders, giving her features a serious, critical evaluation.

  She wasn’t ugly, she decided. Not gorgeous, but definitely not ugly. Nor was she plain. Her face was pretty in its own way, her eyes wide and green, her lips full and soft. Her nose was a bit longer than what was considered fashionable, and her smile was slightly crooked, but all in all she wasn’t too bad. Unusual-looking, perhaps, but not too bad.

  Her light brown hair was long and curly and typically rolled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck for work. Her coloring was good for someone who rarely had time to see the sun, a light beige given to tanning on the rare occasion she made it outdoors.

  At five foot, six inches she was neither tall nor short. At one hundred forty-five pounds she was neither skinny nor overweight. She was just average—boringly average.

  The only thing that stood out about her body, she admitted, was her chest. Even she, her own worst critic, thought she had nice breasts. They were large and round, and still on the perky side for thirty-four. Perhaps not the sexiest chest in the world, but it would do.

  “So why are you dateless, Nikki?” she murmured to her reflection. She absently wondered if a makeover would heighten her appearance at all. “What the heck is wrong with you?”

  Nothing was wrong with her and she knew it. The average man was intimidated by her professional accomplishments, a fact she had long ago come to accept. A cliché, perhaps, where career women are concerned, but a true one nevertheless. So it was either go dateless or couple off with fellow physicians who, like her, had little time on their hands to devote to a relationship.

  Truthfully, she loved her career too much to care, for the most part. It was just on nights like this, when she was overtired from a long workday and allowing herself to indulge in the occasional therapeutic bout of self-pity, that she gave her lack of a dating life any thought at all.

  Otherwise she was happy. Content in who she was, happy with her life. Besides, she silently conceded to the mirror before glancing away from it and sitting down in front of the computer, the dates she had gone out on in the past year had been far from earth-shatteringly profound.

  A few months ago there had been Ted. A fellow physician and a nice guy, but oh so dull. She’d dated him for a few months, deciding to try and stick it out. Then he’d dumped her, wanting to be “friends.” She hadn’t been saddened in the least.

  Before Ted there had been Mike. Another physician, another nice guy, another man who put the d in dull. Him she’d gone out with three times before they’d parted their separate ways, again of mutual accord.

  And, finally, before Mike there had been Elliott. A physician. A nice guy. Dull. Yada, yada, yada. Same story, different doctor.

  Nikki sighed, wondering for the first time if all three of those men had really been as dull as she remembered or if the fact that her fantasy life was a bit more dramatic than what was probably considered normal could account for it. Simply put, she couldn’t imagine any of her former dates handcuffing her to a bed and then treating her body like a sexual offering to a dominant god. She blushed, mortified by the thought that she might be abnormal.

  “You’re a weirdo,” she dismally muttered to herself as she brought up her email. “A definite weirdo.”

  She didn’t know why she fantasized about sexual submission, only knew that she did. Perhaps it was because she was so in control in her professional and personal lives that she wanted to be helplessly out of control in the bedroom.

  Perhaps it was because she knew she’d never be considered a great beauty, yet to have a man desire her in such an all-consuming way would make her feel like one. In all of the D/s books, the Dominant party spent hour upon hour lavishing attention on the body of his or her submissive counterpart, bringing them to climax over and over again. Due to the complexities required of the relationship, such as the complete trust the submissive must put into the Dominant, a D/s partnership is supposedly more bonding and emotionally rewarding than many other kinds of relationships.

  Maybe her fantasies were all very Freudian in nature and somehow or another they stemmed back to her childhood, to a time when her mother’s needs had always been paramount and Nikki’s had mattered very little. Growing up, she had been a shy, chubby girl, an awkward kid with pimples and thick glasses who was more comfortable surrounded by books than by people.

  Books never disappointed . . . people always did.

  That was the lesson she’d learned early in life, and one that hadn’t been easy to surmount. She couldn’t count how many times she had tried to reach out to her emotionally vacant mother, how many times she had thrown her arms around her middle for a hug, only to feel her mother tense up. Eventually she had stopped trying.

  A child takes experiences like that personally because they aren’t mature enough to realize that the vacancy and neglect has nothing to do with them and everything to do with the one neglecting them. All a child understands is that they want the one they love to show love back. When that love is not expressed physically, through hugs and kisses and smiles, they take it to heart. Nikki had been no exception to that rule.

  Maybe it was because she was plump and unattractive, the young Nikki had thought. Maybe her mother was disappointed by the fact that she wasn’t a part of the “in” crowd. She didn’t know. All she’d known at the time was that she ached for affection from a woman who was unable, for whatever reason, to bestow it upon her.

  Nikki had loved her mother to her dying day—passionately, at that. Still did. And although she wasn’t the type to sit around and bemoan her upbringing—for as an adult she was able to realize that her mother loved her in her own way and had been dealing with problems of her own—the emotional neglect Nikki had experienced at her hands had left her feeling very lonely and isolated as a c
hild. She couldn’t help but to wonder if that accounted, at least in part, for the types of all-consuming fantasies she now entertained.

  Fantasies of being the sole recipient of one man’s undivided sensual attention. Fantasies of being longed for, desired . . . wanted.

  D/s requires, by its very nature, for the Dominant to be in tune with the emotional and sexual needs of his or her submissive. It would be impossible, after all, to place enough trust in a person to permit them to handcuff you to a bed if you suspected they didn’t pay the proper amount of attention to the emotional and physical reactions elicited by their touch. It is crucial for the Dominant to be focused on the submissive’s needs at all stages of the game.

  Or at least that’s how it was supposed to be, according to all the Domination/submission texts and fictional stories. Whether or not it actually played out like that in reality she hadn’t a clue.

  But damn did she want to find out.

  Nikki took a deep breath, realizing as she did that she was unlikely to ever get her answers firsthand. She wasn’t willing to chance something like that getting out about her, for if it did, her career would be irreparably damaged. She also didn’t want to live a D/s lifestyle twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week. She only wanted to experience it behind the closed bedroom door. So, in the end, what were her fantasies worth to her?

  She frowned. Unfortunately, a lot.

  Perhaps if she could meet a like-minded professional . . .

  She snorted at her thoughts. Yeah. As if a like-minded professional would advertise for a sexual submissive anywhere. He’d be just as afraid as she was of his own career being ruined by gossip!

  Nikki sighed as she pulled up her web browser. If she couldn’t experience D/s firsthand, she could at least live vicariously by reading stories about fictional women who had.

  “Oh God!” I screamed.

  I wanted him to take me, to ravish me, to plunge his stiff cock deep inside of my wet, awaiting pussy.

  The metal of the handcuffs lay cold against my heated skin. The power that emanated from him was a tangible thing.

  “Master! Please fuck me—Master!”

  Nikki squirmed in her chair, the e-book having a decidedly pronounced effect on her libido. “I’m pathetic,” she mused even as she drew her face closer to the screen. “Completely and utterly pathetic.”

  She decided not to think too much on that admission lest she grow depressed.

  An hour later the e-book had ended, the Master and the sex slave had fallen in love, gotten married, and the heroine was pregnant. A typical romance, if a bit more brazen than most. She loved it.

  Curious about the author, she typed her name into the browser’s address space, added .com onto the end of it, and waited to see if she had her own site. Sure enough, she did. Nikki spent over an hour researching every title the author had written, for future reference, then clicked on the “Links” page, just to see what was there.

  The author’s favorite authors. The author’s favorite vacation spots. The author’s favorite—

  Whoa! What was this?

  Her eyes wide, Nikki backtracked up the web page.

  “Favorite alternative sites,” she murmured, reading the text aloud. Her wide green gaze zeroed in on one site in particular. “Dom4me.com,” she whispered.

  She gulped, her heartbeat inexplicably racing as she clicked on the hyperlink. You are pathetic, she thought excitedly as the website loaded and displayed on her screen. You find a place that specializes in D/s personal ads and your body reacts like a kid on Christmas Eve!

  Nikki spent the next two hours giddily sifting through dozens upon dozens of ads. There were older men, younger men, short men, tall men, pudgy men, and muscular men—all of them Dominants, all of them looking for bedroom submissives.

  She narrowed down her search to the five ads that appealed to her the most. None of the five had photographs attached to them, but all of the five were intelligent, well written, and posted by men who claimed to be professionals who, just like her, needed the utmost discretion concerning this part of their lives.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she grinned as she opened up a word-processing program and began to type out a brief description and bio of herself. She kept the biography very general, not wanting anything to be traced back to her.

  I’m a thirty-four-year-old professional woman, seeking to be sexually submissive in the bedroom but otherwise my partner’s equal . . . .

  After creating a special account for D/s email, she put a few polishing touches on the bio, then copied and pasted it into five separate emails and whizzed it off to the recipients she’d carefully chosen. That accomplished, she sat back in her chair and took a deep breath.

  She had done it. She had actually replied to five D/s ads.

  She sighed, convinced nothing would come of it.

  “They’re probably a bunch of phonies,” she muttered, standing up.

  She switched off the computer screen, doubting she’d hear a word back from any of them.

  And if she did, she mused, all five of them would be fat, bald, ugly men who still lived at home with their mommies.

  Chapter 3

  Monday, June 9 11:17 A.M.

  “Mmm mmm. These are excellent, Nik.”

  “Agreed,” Nikki cheerfully concurred around a mouthful of strawberry jam and butter crème crêpe. She chewed the bite and swallowed. “The best I’ve ever had. Bar none.”

  Kim smiled absently.

  Nikki stilled, her eyebrows drawing together quizzically. “What’s wrong, hon?” She set down her fork. “You sounded weird on the phone last night, too. What is it?”

  Kim closed her eyes briefly, rubbing her temples as she sighed. There were visible bags under her eyes, Nikki noticed for the first time. As though she hadn’t slept in days. “Kim?” she quietly prodded, worried.

  “It’s happening again,” Kim murmured. She opened her eyes and found her best friend’s gaze. “Just like last time. Only worse.”

  Nikki’s eyes widened. “You mean . . .”

  “Yeah. That.” Kim snorted, glancing away. “God, I’m a freak,” she mumbled.

  “That’s not true,” Nikki said softly, her gaze gentling. “You are . . . gifted.”

  Kim half smiled and half groaned. “I’m just lucky I have you to talk to. Can you imagine me confiding this . . . this . . . mess to anyone other than you?”

  No, Nikki couldn’t. But she didn’t say as much.

  She couldn’t blame Kim for keeping that aspect of herself a secret. Admitting that one had visions, premonitions, ESP—whatever you wanted to label it—might go over well in some New Age artsy circles, but you might as well wear a tattoo on your head that said “Looney Tune” if admitting to it in theirs. They lived in the heart of Ohio, for goodness sake.

  Nikki hated conceding to a prejudice, but if anyone except Kim had confided their psychic abilities to her, she wouldn’t have believed them. She didn’t know why she felt that way—such occurrences were very possible from a physiological standpoint. Possible, just not probable, as humans tend to utilize a very small portion of the brain.

  But Kim . . . how could she not believe studious, upright Kim? A teacher of physics at the prestigious Eastern Academy, an elite boarding school in Hudson, her best friend was as sensible and logical as people come.

  “You said the occurrences have gotten worse.” Nikki thought back on the last time, the time when Kim had been able to locate a missing bracelet in an area she’d never before been to or even heard of. Not a big deal, really. Just kind of neat. She cleared her throat, then lowered her voice, not wanting anyone to overhear their conversation. “How so?”

  “They’ve become clearer, crisper. It’s hard to explain. . . .” She sighed as she ran a punishing hand through her blonde hair. “And darker.”

  “Darker?” Nikki murmured. “What do you mean?”

  Kim’s eyes were intense, her expression pained. “I’m envisioning awful
things, Nik. Stuff worse than you can even begin to imagine.” She shook her head slightly. “I don’t know what to do, don’t know how to turn it off. It’s awful. Awful!”

  Nikki blew out a breath, uncertain as to what she could possibly say to put her friend’s mind at ease. Then again, she conceded, sometimes there wasn’t anything that could be said. Sometimes the best therapy was simply to listen, to allow your friend to vent. “Go on,” she said encouragingly.

  “In my dreams,” Kim whispered. “It’s awful. The images of blood and screams . . .” She let her sentence trail off as she took a deep breath. Nikki’s eyes widened.

  Kim smiled softly. “You’re a terrific friend, Nik. I feel better having told you even that much. But I came here to forget. Let’s just eat our crêpes, okay?”

  “Oh sure,” Nikki said dryly, trying to lighten the mood a bit. “Drop a bomb like that and then leave me hanging.” She smiled as though teasing, but she was serious. Kim had never dreamt morbid things before. That she did now was a bit unsettling.

  Nikki had known Kim since their undergrad days at Youngstown, the mental click between them instant and strong. If one were to judge solely by outward appearances, they would have seemed ill-suited as best friends back in those days. Kim heralded from an extremely affluent family, while Nikki’s upbringing had been lower middle class at best. Kim was tall, blonde, and fashionable, while Nikki had been a shy, plain Jane of a bookworm with almost no fashion sense.

  And yet, surprising as it was to the superficially minded, they had hit it off from the moment they’d met in English Lit and had been all but inseparable ever since. What the superficially minded hadn’t realized, of course, was how much Nikki and Kim had in common on the inside—everything from emotionally vacant parents to a love of French bistros to a disdain of shopping.

  Their personalities went together like red beans and rice, like peanut butter and jelly, or as the running joke had been a few years later thanks to MTV, like Beavis and Butthead. Nikki had been shy and socially awkward, never feeling as though she fit in anywhere. Kim had felt much the same way; she’d just done a better job at hiding it. “Always smile,” had been Kim’s motto. “Never let the ass-holes get you down.”