Properly Whipped by Everett Bedford
When Roslyn's husband wagers her in a game of cards and loses the bet, he thinks it's just a joke. He finds out otherwise the next day, when the winner, James Martin Halstead, comes to collect his prize. James Halstead is in the business of breaking and training females, then distributing them to wealthy sadists for a steep price. As his latest acquisition, Roslyn, will be trained and eventually auctioned off.
Unfortunately, Halstead runs into a snag with one of his regular buyers, sadist Edward Lammierre. After Edward inexplicably rejects his latest submissive, Jenniver, calling her flawed merchandise, Halstead learns that Lammierre intends to train females on his own, using a potent compliance drug rather than good old-fashioned submissive training. This could be bad news in Halstead's slave trading world. While his assistants search for the missing Jenniver, Halstead pulls a down-on-her luck nineteen-year-old girl from an alley and takes her home. Unlike many of the women he trains, he takes a special interest in the innocent Sandra. He sees in her a potential submissive, and in slow, deliberate but sometimes shocking steps, he introduces the wary young girl to the pleasures and demands of sexual service. He titillates her with BDSM DVDs, bondage, sex, exacting discipline and sadistic demonstrations that leave her reeling. Regardless of her reservations, it's clear that she'll soon be his collared and obedient submissive.
But when the newly trained Sandra is suddenly snatched by kidnappers, it becomes clear that she has a special value in the trading world. Will Halstead be able to rescue her before she's sold? And what role does the cunning Lammierre play is this unfolding drama? Readers can expect the unexpected as this fast-paced, exquisitely written tale of S&M erotica, comes to its stunning conclusion.
Graphic content is far-reaching and includes, bondage, whipping, needles, electric play, collars, gags, SM clubs, public exhibitions, kicking, punching, hot wax and much more!
Halstead said, “I’m here to collect your wife.” To her, he said, “Pack one bag. You have five minutes.”
“Uh, what’re you talkin’ about?” The man looked fully at Halstead for the first time and stood a little taller. “Honey, what’s he mean?” To Halstead he said, “She’s not going anywhere.”
“But she is.” Halstead looked at her, seeing her shudder this time. “Go,” he said, and his voice commanded her. She left them in a fast walk, going deeper into the house.
“What the hell...?” The husband seemed nonplussed. “I’m not sure what’s going on here, but—”
“Do you remember last evening?”
The man blinked, then gulped. A look of realization gilded him. “You’re...”
“James Halstead.” When this produced no further recognition in the man, he added, “We played Chemin-de-fer.”
“Oh.” The man clearly remembered, now. “But that was just—”
“You wagered your wife on our final cards.”
“But that wasn’t serious.”
“A wager in that club is always taken seriously.”
The man took a step back just as wifey appeared, carrying an overnight bag and wearing a different, better set of clothes. She looked collected but nervous. Her hair had been brushed. Her fear was held in check, but visible. So was her eagerness.
Glancing at her, the husband said, “You’re not going with him, are you?”
“But she is. You wagered her, and lost.”
“As a joke. It was just good fun. Everyone was drunk and joking around, having a good time, and I thought you were messing around when you—”
“Sir. I do not joke about wagers. Not everyone was drunk, and I certainly meant what I said.”
“She’s not even mine to bet, for God’s sake.”
Halstead had not wanted to bother with this. He had expected protestations from the husband, but had planned simply to walk out with her. Let the twit say what he would.
To the woman he said, “Get into the car.”
She took a step toward the door, head lowered, and her husband grabbed her by the arm. She simply stopped moving, retaining her posture and pose.
Halstead said, very quietly, “Take your hands off my property.”
“She’s her own property. She was never mine to bet.”
“Is she not your wife?”
“Yes, but she’s not my property.”
“Not any longer, no.”
“There are both laws and religions that would argue with you.” Halstead again felt a wave of distaste. Debating such things with an obvious mundane disgusted him.
He turned to leave, taking the woman’s arm himself to pull her along with him.
The husband, his voice raising in volume and rising in tone, called, “I forbid you to take another step.”
Halstead knew, from the tone, that the husband addressed the wife, but turned as if to question the order. As he did so, he pushed the woman ahead of him so she could walk to the car. He then gazed calmly until the husband looked away. “She is no longer yours.”
“Ro, what are you doing? You’re my wife.”
The husband actually bounced up and down on his feet as he cried out to her.
She said nothing, and kept her head down; Halstead was thinking what an excellent learner she’d be. He watched her reach the car. The door popped open. She got in.
Turning to the husband, he said, “Get yourself another one, and train her better.”
“You can’t do this. It’s kidnapping. It’s no fair, it was a joke, I never meant—”
Halstead slapped him, once. “Try to find some dignity,” he said, quietly, going to the car.
As he slid into the passenger seat, Halstead said, “Airport,” and glanced around at the woman. She was sitting, meek and hunched, her seatbelt on, gazing at him from under her brows. Her hands were folded in her lap. Halstead smiled at her and said, “What’s your name?”
“Roselyn,” she said.
He slapped her and said, “No. You’re name is Bitch until I say otherwise.” He watched her blink away tears and work her way through the shock; he’d hit her hard. When she’d gathered herself again, he asked, “What’s your name, girl?”
courtesy of www.powershotz.com