Break Me, I’m Yours

BMIY_1 Cover Small VersionComing soon, a new saga by Kevin H. Woodward!

“Red light!” the bitch screeched. “Red light! Redlightredlightredlight…”

A young man’s arms stretched over his head, locked in place by a pair of cuffs and chains attached to a hook in the ceiling. A spreader bar kept his legs nicely separated. Every muscle in his naked body was taught, and he shimmered with a sheen of sweat. His back, ass, and thighs were cherry red from the whipping he had just endured.

A blindfold blocked his vision, but his mouth remained free so his Master could hear his beautiful cries.

Beautiful, that is, until the safe word.

The riding crop fell from the Master’s fingers. When it clattered to the floor, the bitch jumped.

“Let me go!” he squealed.

Something rose up in the Master, bubbling just under his breastbone. An anger born of frustration, and a temptation to…

His fist clenched, then deliberately loosened. With a step forward, he released the latch on the cuffs, and the bitch fell to the floor in a heap. While the naked man divested himself of the blindfold, the Master released his ankles and turned away.

He walked over to the large, floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a perfectly-framed view of the garden, the pool beyond, and the forests and mountains in the distance. Behind him, he could hear the bitch scrambling to gather himself.

A final shriek: “You’re a fucking lunatic!” and then a slammed door.

Then, oppressive silence.

The Master stood for a time staring out the window, lost in dark thoughts, until the door clicked open again. Shuffling noises signaled the toys were being gathered for cleaning.

“Miss August,” he sighed, without looking away from the window.

“Yes sir?” Her tone, as always, was kind. Non-judgmental. Perhaps that was why he kept her around. Why he paid her so generously.

Or perhaps it was because she and the butler were the only servants who hadn’t fled from him in horror.

He forced himself out of his morose thoughts and turned to face the slender, blonde servant in her modest black and white maid’s uniform. Her arms were already full of accessories from the day’s play session. She was nothing if not efficient.

She smiled, but there was a ghost of wariness in her eyes that weighed heavy on his heart.

“Make sure that he’s paid appropriately for his inconvenience,” the Master ordered, making a point to keep his tone neutral and soft. No point taking his frustrations out on the help, after all.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, with the slightest dip of a curtsey.

“And tell the agency to be more careful about who they send over.”

“Yes, sir…”

By the way her words trailed off as she bit her lower lip, it was obvious there was something she wanted to say.

A headache loomed, announcing its presence with a pressure just between his eyes that he knew from experience would soon turn into a sharp dagger lancing his skull. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. It didn’t help.

“Miss August, if there’s something you want to say, just say it,” he ordered, mildly.

She cleared her throat and dipped another slight curtsey. “Of course, sir. It’s just… Well, I’m worried about you.”

The words threw him for a loop. He tried not to show it, but couldn’t help taking a second look at her, reassessing the extent of her loyalty.

Can money buy concern?

He didn’t think so. And yet, here she was, looking at him with deep compassion.

Suddenly, he felt uncomfortable and turned away, walking over to the dresser to remove his gloves. “There’s nothing to worry about. Carry on.”

“Yes, sir…”

He thought that would be the end of it, but by the time he had placed his gloves on the table, she had finished her work and appeared at his side, like some sort of fey creature straight out of a fairy tale.

“If I may, sir?” she requested, gently.

He stared intently at the top of the dresser to avoid those sympathetic eyes.

“Go on,” he said, stiffly.

“I noticed something in your mail that you might like to see.  Perhaps it might offer a solution to your… special needs.”

Silence lingered as he turned that over in his mind. Dare he even hope?

“Leave it on my desk.”

“Yes, sir.”

She was gone again before he could thank her.


Dear Mr. Israel Copeland,

You are cordially invited to attend the Trans-American Trading Company’s 42nd annual servant auction. This year’s crop looks particularly promising, and we’re sure that whatever your tastes, we will have something to suit you.

Please call the number below to contact your dedicated consultant.

Sincerely,

Oscar Matthews

Chief Executive Officer, Trans-American Trading Company

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