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Chained Heat

35800 words

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

Gwen Ryan has changed cities, hairstyles, and jobs, but she\'s still the same tough, beautiful, and cocky young FBI agent we saw in Dark Desires. Unfortunately for Gwen, she hasn\'t been able to leave the past behind her. Her new boss has discovered videos taken while she was a prisoner, and used them to blackmail her into lewd and painful sexual submission. Worse, he forces her to go undercover at a strip club run by the Russian Mafia - as a stripper! When her cover is blown she is subjected to excruciating torture as they attempt to discover who she is working for. Gwen tries to hold out until rescue, but it may come too late.

The second stoery featuring Gwen Ryan

Price:  $5.95

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

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My hair is raven black.
Once it had been blonde. I had tried to transform myself since the events of last winter. My hair had fallen well past my shoulders then, usually kept in a braid. But that braid, my long hair, had been used as a handle to tug and twist on my head, to punish and control me. I had wanted it cut, and wanted a new image, one that was less helpless, less sexual. And men had always seemed to associate blonde with sex. That was why so many sluts who wanted to get men dyed their hair blonde.
So I had done the opposite. A blonde dying her hair black. If that wasn't a statement then what was? I had cut my hair, too. It was still thick and rich and silky, but didn't even reach my shoulders now. It was about collar length in the back. Along the sides, it reached just about to my chin and kind of curled inwards like a loose, thick pageboy. No girlish bangs, either. I parted it in the middle of my forehead. It was still nice, but gave me a more sophisticated look. And let me tell you, with sunglasses, I looked hot, I mean really hot.
But I didn't look like the kind of a woman who would be tied up and beaten. I looked like the kind of a woman who would be holding the whip. I looked menacing, sleek and dangerous. And that was what I felt I needed.
Because I didn't feel dangerous. Not any more. Now I felt vulnerable on all fronts. I had not only been forced to do things against my will, but my own body had betrayed me.
I'm an FBI agent. I joined the Bureau out of college. They had been eager to recruit an athletic girl of six foot two who was going to finish very high in her class at law school. They'd made a lot of promises they hadn't kept. They'd stuck me in a little room with geeky young men who had just graduated from Ivy League colleges and given me background checks to do. Do you have any idea how unexciting it is to do background checks on potential civil service employees?
I had gotten out of it by volunteering, after a fashion, to go undercover, to be the partner in a visit to a BDSM club. That had gone wrong in so many ways I could fill a book with them. I had allowed myself to be gagged and restrained, and then the idiot who was supposed to be my “master” had lost sight of me. The next thing I knew I'd been in a bathroom being violated.
And I had let a woman lick me to the edge of climax, completely against my will, tied back by my long braid, legs spread, I had been turned to jelly by her talented tongue. And then, when the guy had stepped between my legs and pushed himself into me, the girl had shoved her tongue into my ass and I had come like a whore.
After that they had put a hood on me, stripped me completely, and led me around the club to be fucked repeatedly. What could I do? I was being violated by people who had no idea I was there against my will. And to have made a scene, even if I'd have been able to, would have exposed me. They would have taken off the hood and I would have had to face the people who had been sticking their cocks into me.
I had counted more than two dozen cocks while I had been bent over a table. And I had come again. It had been the weirdest situation. They were abusing me, but didn't realize it. There was no anger in them, no contempt, and no attempt to hurt me. I had not been frightened during the endless abuse, just angry and humiliated. And as that faded, well, my body had begun to respond.
That had only been the warm-up. Later, I had been taken prisoner by a sadist, and actually whipped. Can you believe it? I had been strung up naked and whipped. It was all just a bizarre memory now. I had survived it all, and told nobody what had happened. Kim-Le was serving a long term in prison on drug charges, and the man who had been my partner was in England, hopefully never to return.
But being violated fifty or more times, being whipped, given heroin against my will, being pierced and abused, well, it had left its marks in more ways than one. I wasn't traumatized exactly. But my cockiness and confidence had been lowered. And I had been helplessly and powerfully made aware of my sexuality, and the way men saw me.
It was because of the situations, I think. Just as those people who had violated me hadn't meant me any harm, Kim-Le had meant me no ill will, at least at first. She had been convinced I was a sexual submissive, and kind of a whore. Otherwise why on Earth would I have been at the BDSM club dressed as I was? She had been determined to teach me to be a better submissive.
So she had had my arms tied tightly back and had her people teach me how to deep throat. It was bizarre. There I was, my arms bound tightly back in a blue silk arm sling, wearing an exquisitely beautiful, but painfully tight silk corset, a vibrator thrust up inside me, giving blow jobs on my knees as Kim-Le received a series of visitors and dealt with the business of the triad.
None of them had meant me any harm then, and hadn't known I was an FBI agent. There were all just perverts who had thought I was one of them. I had hated it, kind of, been mortified by having my body exposed to them, by being sexually abused by them. But the experience had not had the taint of terror or fury. It had almost been like I was just a part of the group, being trained in something new.
And to be honest, a part of me had found it terribly arousing. Once the initial humiliation had eased - and how long can one be humiliated at being seen naked and performing a sex act? An hour? Two? Three? I mean, it fades. And then you're a naked girl sucking guys' cocks while people watch. And what girl doesn't have an exhibitionistic streak running through her?
I still remember the tubby man who had been one of Kim-Le's visitors. He had watched me, as they all had, and then asked for me. And just as if she were offering him a drink, or a bit of caviar, Kim-Le had offered him my use. And so I had been pushed onto my back, half a dozen people watching, and the tubby man had thrust himself into me and used me.
I still masturbate to that memory. I don't know why. It wasn't especially pleasant. I had not climaxed. I think it was the casualness of it. They were all so casual about me being naked and having sex, as if there was no question at all about asking my consent, and nothing unusual about my services being offered. And at that time I think I had come to a full and strangely fascinated understanding of what it meant to be a sexual belonging, a sexual toy, a sexual slave, if you will.
And the feeling had not been as unpleasant as I would have expected. In fact, though I would not admit it to anyone, the feeling had been very appealing.
I was not, prior to that, a woman who had had much sexual experience. I was always conscious of my sense of dignity. For so many years I had guarded my dignity jealously, letting no one take me for granted or treat me with anything less than respect. Since joining the Bureau I had been desperate to be one of the guys, tough, competent, capable, and almost emotionless.
The experience of being a... a thing, to be used, was strangely liberating. And it had really done a lot to melt my inhibitions. And it had also blown my own image of myself as a tough chick all to hell.
And I had had fantasies since then, lewd, terrible fantasies. Too many of them had me bound as Kim-Le had bound me, pleasuring men who treated me as a thing, as a fuck toy. I had even investigated the bondage clubs in New York, not personally, but through the Bureau's files, wanting to explore these inner desires, but still too caught up in my tough girl image to do so.
But I had done nothing. The bravest thing I had done was to order, anonymously, through the internet, a couple of sex toys. I had a vibrator, a large dildo, and a pair of leather restraints. Together they helped ease my sexual frustrations a little.
But not entirely.
I often found myself impatient, irritated. And had a growing tendency to act in ways which an FBI agent steeped in rules, regulations and formality, ought to never contemplate.
For example, the street gang on the subway.
They were four black guys, probably about eighteen to twenty, full of themselves, faces locked in sneers as they had boarded the subway car late at night. It was late, and there were a dozen of us there. I was tired after a long day of reading through files. The Kim-Le incident had been very successful as far as the Bureau was concerned, resulting in long sentences for Triad members, and the recovery of a big haul of heroin. They had known nothing about the real details and so, to reward me for my good work, had finally kicked me out of the background checking job and into, of all places, Organized Crime, specifically, Asian Organized crime, and transferred me to New York.
Since I had known almost nothing about Organized Crime, especially the Asian part of it, I had been spending fourteen hour days studying up. I was irritated, tired, and not in the mood for these punks when they had begun to saunter around the car, taunting the women and trying to encourage the men to make “donations” to them.
Once, I would have gleefully pulled out my badge and gun and shouted at them to surrender to the forces of law and order. Now I just stared at them in irritation, hoping they didn't do anything which would force me to get off my cozy corner seat, and, worse, fill out a whole bunch of forms after arresting someone.
But one of them had started picking on a pretty young secretary type with big boobs, and she was clearly out of her league, wide eyed and terrified.
I was wearing a long leather coat. I reached inside and flipped back the safety on my gun inside the hip holster.
“Hey, asshole,” I called out.
That drew everyone's attention. The people who had been sitting stiffly in their seats hoping they could go on pretending nothing was happening, and the punks out to have some fun.
“Yes, you. Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up,” I said.
Of course he didn't. He sauntered over to me instead, his buddies snickering and watching.
“You talkin' to me, bitch?” he demanded, coming to stand menacingly over me.
“I said asshole. Is that your name?”
One of his buddies snickered, and he glared at me.
“You better watch your mouth, bitch!” he growled.
He was big, and a bit drunk, and stupid looking.
“Or what? You going to drool on me?”
“I give you some of this, bitch!”
He squeezed his groin at me and I smirked.
“You got anything in there besides the underwear your mommy wrote your name on?”
“I show you what I got, bitch, an' you won't like it!” he shouted.
“Yeah, show her, Leroy!” one of his buddies called.
“I got enough to make your pussy hot, baby!”
“It takes a lot to make my pussy hot,” I said.
“I got a whole lot!”



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