Shopping Cart

No Cart Open

New Titles    Log in / register   

Search for word in title, blurb or keyword


Dark Desires

34400 words

Style: Interracial Bondage/BDSM, Male Dom - M/F

FBI agent Gwen Ryan is tough, tall and cocky, just waiting for her chance to get ahead in the Bureau, and out of the background checking new agents are always assigned to. She accepts an assignment to play the partner of a British MI5 agent and infiltrate a BDSM club to get the goods on a Chinese triad. The plan backfires when Gwen is forced to have public sex with her partner to prove herself, and then taken as surety for the heroin he is given. While a prisoner of the triad and its notorious leader Kim-Le, Gwen is subjected to the most vile forms of sexual abuse, and then, when they believe they have been betrayed, torture. Cocky, tomgirl Gwen thought she could handle anything, but she hadn't been counting on whips, gang abuse, and electric shocks! And the real betrayal may come from her own dark desires.

This is the first in a series of stories featuring Gwen Ryan.

Price:  $5.95

Formats Available:   PALM (PDB)  Mobi (MOBI - Kindle Compatible)  
PDF  MSReader (LIT)  EPUB  Sony Reader (LRF)  

Add To Cart









Why spend your life in endless drudgery as some backroom research flunky in a New York law office, the recruiter had asked. After all, it would take years of sixty hour work weeks as a researcher, law clerk, then menial associate, before anyone in the firm would treat me with any respect or dignity. And then what? An early ulcer or a heart attack.
Now, the FBI was a career with a future, with dignity and respect. Plenty of career advancement was possible with the United States Justice department, and without the bone-weary hours, the years of being treated like a lackey, and the constant brown nosing to arrogant, sexist partners. And best of all, excitement, excitement, excitement!
Well, I'd hated school, every miserable hour of it, sitting cooped up, dull eyed, in a dull room full of other dull eyed people, listening to a dull professor drone on about dull old cases that didn't interest me. The thought of year upon year of paperwork, and toadying to misogynistic big shots had been preying on my mind more and more as I neared the end of my unimpressive tenancy in law school.
What was I doing there in the first place, you ask. Well, it was a mistake, really. I think I'd seen too many exciting movies about exciting cases. By the time I was far enough into things to realize that most law work consisted of research, paperwork, and mind numbing boredom I'd already invested too much time and borrowed money to back out and search for something else, especially as I had no idea what else I wanted to do.
So the FBI guy hit me at just the right point in time, and I fell for it. Off I went, the law school graduate, two hundred and thirty seventh in a class of three eighty five, skipping merrily down the path to the FBI academy, to learn all about crime fighting; fingerprinting, gunplay, hand to hand combat, DNA typing, interrogation techniques, crime patterning, and... oh yes, paperwork.
I should have known, really. The world runs on paperwork, and no part of it more so than a government agency. My visions of undercover work, of high speed chases and shootouts, of snappy interrogations of evil suspects, all slowly faded away amongst the gossip, small-talk, chatter, and boring lectures. So when I finally graduated, twelfth out of thirty eight this time, I was not overly surprised to find myself sent to Seattle, and assigned to... Federal employee security screening.
For lower level employees this mostly consisted of inputting their names and fingerprints to the monster computers in the basement and seeing if anything popped up, like - INTERNATIONAL TERRORIST WANTED IN NINETY COUNTRIES. Mostly all that ever turned up was NOF, not on file. For middle level employees we'd also do credit checks, and for the big shots, or the ones with higher clearances, we sometimes got to go around and interview friends and family.
So much for avoiding boring drudgery. As for being treated like a lackey, well, the FBI is a semi-military organization, everybody is somebody's lackey. The bosses were every bit as sexist as any old law partner, and the brown nosing that went on was incredible. The only part of the plan that went right were the hours, and that was because budget constraints ruled out overtime.
Still, just like at law school, I'd come too far down the road to just quit. And so I took my place every morning at my ancient government desk, in a large, grotesquely unattractive room filled with three dozen other ancient government desks, and shovelled through paperwork and computer tape.
The room was filled, aside from myself, with earnest young men clad in dark blue suits, their ties suitably sober, their pants so sharply creased it was a wonder they didn't cut their knees when they sat down. Their behaviour was as solemn as a pack of priests at high mass, and every one of them was a dutiful trooper, an eager helper and yes-man to the senior agents.
If the junior agents were the priests, the senior agents were the Bishops and Monsignors, and any senior agent from Washington was a visiting Cardinal from the Vatican itself. Senior agents controlled everything, most especially assignments and promotions. As earnest as everyone was at their jobs, nobody wanted to keep doing them for long, not in this room anyway.
So toadying was the name of the game, especially to Agents-in Charge, those guys who ran different departments like Counter Espionage, Counter Terrorism, and Organized Crime. Everyone wanted to chase spies in Washington or drug lords in Miami. No one wanted to keep doing security checks on boring middle-class people.
Unfortunately for me, I soon discovered a singular lack of talent in the toadying field. My efforts, such as they were, ended fruitlessly, and were often counter-productive. I had a handicap, of course, that most of the other agents didn't have to contend with. I had breasts.
Oh, I was no Dolly Parton, not even a Loni Anderson, but I was noticeably female but nature had gifted me with a noticeably prominent pair of breasts which, due to good exercise and genetic luck, continued to sit high and firm on my chest even at the ripe old age of twenty six.. My height was one of the reasons they’d recruited me in the first place, but six feet and two inches of height inevitably brings with it long legs, and good ones too, even if I do say so myself.
My face is a narrow oval, which makes my lips seem fuller than they are. My pale skin makes them seem redder, and moister, and so I often noticed when I was speaking to some of the men at the office they were staring, not at my chest - which anti-harassment courses had at least taught them to do tactfully - but at my lips. That always made me feel more than a little odd; partly embarrassed, a little irritated, and sometimes oddly aroused.
The thing is, the FBI is as sexist as any dockyard, and almost as racist, aggressively white and male, unofficially, of course. And so, being seen as an object of lust was really not a help for me in my efforts at blending in and being “one of the guys”. Girls were, so far as they were concerned, weak, untrustworthy, a liability, likely to break into tears at any misfortune and faint at the sign of blood.
And it meant that while a male agent could, say, invite a senior agent out for a drink, I couldn't, not without running the risk of rumours that I was trying to sleep my way to a better job. I had to be as modest and careful as a nun, or risk innuendo about my sleeping habits. Sleeping around could be deadly to a male agent's career, to me it would be pure poison. This was a sober organization run by sober, conservative men who trusted in God and the Republican party.
You think I exaggerate? Well... maybe a tad. The truth is, I didn't much associate with the "guys" outside of work, those nasty rumours, you know. Besides, they were, as far as I could tell, the biggest bunch of back stabbing pricks in the city. Go paint the town red with one of these guys and the next day the whole room would be talking about the alcoholic nymphomaniac at desk eighteen. A week later I'd be on my way to Iowa to guard agricultural secrets from the Europeans.
Of course, David Mills wasn’t one of the guys, not really, which was why the careful protective shield I’d built around myself over the previous few years failed me. Oh did it fail me!
Mills was British, from MI5, their internal security service. He was tall, broad shouldered, and sleek in that Sean Connery sort of way. Think of Pierce Brosnan, but really built, you know, with a wider face and shorter hair. The first time I saw him my jaw dropped almost to my chest and my hands immediately went to my hair to make sure everything was in place.
He was talking with Peter MacDonald, Senior Agent in Charge, Organized Crime, and Peter was being his usual sycophantic self, in full suck up mode, a phoney little smile plastered on his face. He looked like a peppy little dog next to Mills, who, with his dark hair and tanned skin looked like a big Labrador, stolid and tolerant. And perhaps even bored. His eyes left Peter and moved over the office, and then lit on me.
I felt like a deer in the night frozen in a pair of bright headlights. His eyes met mine, caught them, and then he smiled and I felt a warmth in my belly which rapidly sank down into my lower abdomen. I could literally feel my nipples tightening within the cups of my lacy French cut bra.
He turned his head away and it felt as thought the lights had gone off. I sort of slumped, letting out a long breath of air I hadn’t known I was holding. I wistfully looked on as he and Peter left the room, and tried to keep my daydreams to a minimum as I got on with the day’s work.
And then, less than an hour later, my phone rang. It was Peter, and he curtly demanded I come to his office. When I got there, dreamy Mr. Mills was sitting comfortably across against the wall, sprawled, rather, legs apart, arms spread along the top of the small sofa. My stomach did a flip and I licked my lips and nodded politely to him, then turned to Peter.
“Agent Ryan, this is David Mills,” he said. “From MI5. He’s English,” he added helpfully.
I nodded as if this had been quite interesting information.
“David is looking for our assistance in an investigation his department is running in the British Virgin Islands.”
Lovely. It was February, cold, chilly and dry out. Even hearing name of the Virgin Islands brought a contented image of palm trees, white sandy beaches and blue waves washing ashore to mind.
“It involves a Hong Kong crime syndicate,” Mills said, his accented voice so deep and smooth it made my legs tremble and that heat in my lower belly flare up anew.
“We believe they’re running drugs through there, down through the Panama Canal, and up through New Orleans.”
All lovely, warm places.
“One of the heads of this group is coming to the United States tomorrow, to Buffalo, and we want to see what happens.”
My heart sank a little, images of palm trees blown away by a blizzard of snow.
“The reason Mr. Mills has specifically asked for you is this person is female, young and female, and likes to party. He feels, and of course, I agree, that a young female of comparative age would be less noticeable in the environments she might be likely to ah, inhabit.”
“I’ll be happy to do anything I can to help,” I said.
“A single person alone is far more noticeable in the nightclubs she’s going to go to than a man and woman,” Mills said. “Do you have suitable clothing for that sort of thing?”
“Suitable?” I asked in surprise.
“She tends towards the ah, darker forms of pleasure.”
“I don’t understand?”
“The Bureau will reimburse reasonable clothing purchases for the purpose of undercover work,” Peter said.
I nodded uncertainly, wondering if that meant designer dresses I could get to keep.
“We’ll have other agents involved, of course,” Peter said. “Male and female teams where possible.” He frowned, as if the very thought was unpleasant.
“I’m, as you might have noticed, rather tall,” Mills said, smiling.
My nipples hardened again.
“And so a tall girl helps me blend in.”
I would have resented the term “girl” from anyone here, but he made it sound so natural I found myself smiling at him.
“I will brief you further later on,” he said.
“Of course, “I responded, a tad breathless.


This book is ok

3/5- Chi SL

Storyline is repedative,characters are unrealistic and the erotic element was totally missing.

1/5- loner



Delivery and Refunds

Terms of Service