Code Of Command (A BDSM Erotic Romance Novella Trilogy, Book 1)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

EXPLICIT ADULT CONTENT DISCLAIMER

These stories are for mature audiences only. They contain adult language, violence, and sexual content. This adult content is intended for MATURE READERS ONLY.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

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If you like Vampire Erotica then don’t miss S. Brandon King’s first ever novelette trilogy Tales Of An Immortal’s Love Affair:
A Kiss Goodnight
Forsaken
Forsaken and
Eternally
. Also check out new author P.C. Jacob’s
The Dark Memoirs of Iris Sharpe
The Dark Memoirs of Iris Sharpe.

PROLOGUE

I watched as the cold, hard steel of the handcuffs covered my wrists. Hearing the click as they locked in place, I shuddered, my body quivering.

“Will you fall to your knees for me now, sweetheart?” he asked softly.

This is it. This is the moment he’d led me to since his first email had arrived in my inbox. My body will be his to ravish, my mind his to seduce. I will be his toy. I will become his private pleasure possession. I am the ravishing, sexual doll of which he now has ownership; to play with any time of the day or night, whenever, wherever and with whatever instrument he commands. My mind reeled with the deliriously pleasurable thought of offering my body whenever his magnificent cock engorged and demanded a sweet relief only I could give him.

Centering myself, I lowered, slowly, to my knees, the plush of his soft, white carpet cushioning my landing. Leaning my head back, my eyelids fluttered as I looked up and into his piercing blue-grey eyes. He stood above me, dominant and powerful, more beautiful a man than I’d ever seen or written within the pages of my novels. He was my hero come to life. He was real. He was flesh and bone. He was here. I was his.

“This will be the only time I
ask
for your submission, Alexandra. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I replied, my voice nearly catching in my throat, the sound of my rapidly beating heart near deafening.

He touched the top of my head with his hand, running his fingers through my hair momentarily before trailing his finger down my cheek and curling just underneath my chin, locking his intense gaze with mine. His face, stoic and stern as always, said nothing, but his eyes, fiery with desire, said it all.

“Your body will no longer be your own, but instead it will be mine. It will belong to me. Are you sure this is what you want, Alexandra?”

My body shivered uncontrollably, my heart swelling with an inexplicable emotion I’d never felt before. “Yes, I’m sure,” I whispered with excitement, half weeping from the intensity of my betrothal.

Reaching into the pocket of his Armani slacks, he pulled forth a black, leather collar with a sparkling, silver, engraved pendant attached. He looped the pendant through the ring, removing it from the collar, and held it between his fingers before closing his hand and clasping it safely within his palm.

Lifting the collar coolly, he spoke, ”You will accept my collar as consideration.

Consideration for this, for us.” He hesitated dramatically as he pointed his finger first toward me and then back at himself several times. Clearing his throat, as if overcome with his own words, an emotion I thought I’d never see exhibited through his cool, almost icy exterior, he continued, “You will wear this collar -- this symbol of our dedication to a growing bond -- in my presence at all times. You will never remove or be seen without it in my presence. To do so shall incur punishment in an effort to correct the ways in which you defy my command.”

Lowering his arms, he stretched the collar, pulling my long hair aside and circling around my neck. I could swear he felt the rapid beats of my pulse as his hand grazed against my skin. Hearing the clasp click shut, I closed my eyes momentarily in acknowledgement of the bond that had just been contracted.

Rising again, he opened his palm, showing me the pendant. It sparkled against the light streaming through the large bay windows of his living room. Inscribed were two letters: TS.

“This…” he said, pausing and lowering gently to one knee to kneel face-to-face with me. My heart fluttered with the humble nature of this action. “… Will determine when it is time to rightfully collar you, when your training will begin.” He tossed the pendant gently up and down in his hand, lowering his gaze to glance upon the sparkling jewelry, and back up toward my pleading eyes. “With this pendant, I will become not only your lover, but your master, your teacher. I will teach you all things pleasing to me: How to address me appropriately; how to kneel properly; how I desire you to crawl to my feet. When we are together in private, you will forfeit your clothing privileges to me so that I can bathe my eyes in the loveliness of your body. Your mouth will be taught how to service me as I desire. Your body will be taught to serve me and give me ultimate pleasure as I command. You will be naked, exposed, vulnerable and ready for me to take as I see fit. Your body shall open and allow me to dine upon the fruits of your sex whenever I so choose. ”

Closing his palm again, the pendant disappeared from my view. The next time I would see it, he would be attaching it to the leather around my neck, owning me, claiming me, beginning the seductive ritual of making me his forever.

He leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee, kissed my cheek softly and rose to his feet.

“Are you ready to begin, pet?”

Swallowing the large lump in my throat, my voice caught, only a small whisper of my voice escaping. Closing my eyes and regaining my composure I thought back to the first moment I saw his handsome face gazing at me from the corner of a small coffee shop on Valencia Street. Never, in a million years, would I have thought I would surrender myself to any man the way I was about to surrender myself to him.

Giving him my body, my soul and my future, I spoke. “Yes, Tobias. I’m ready.”

CHAPTER 1

The tea was hot, painfully scalding the roof of my mouth as I sipped haphazardly.

“Damnit!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, tossing the mug to the desktop and spilling hot liquid across my keyboard. Swiveling in my office chair, I reached for a napkin inside my large, brown leather satchel, which sat on the floor next to my desk, a mountain of papers and small notebooks falling out as I rummaged.

I grunted at the amount of materials I carried around with me. It was time to get serious about this book, the publishing house having left several messages already this week in order to track me down and discuss deadlines. Against my better judgment I ignored the calls, buying myself more time.

This would be my first book on an unfamiliar subject, but my fourth erotic novel over a five year period. They liked rolling out my books fast; aware the public possessed a fickle and fleeting attention span. Marguerite McKnight, the pen name under which I’d begun my erotic writing career online independently publishing short stories and novellas, was suddenly a hot commodity and Orchid Street Publishing, the company I’d signed with three years prior, wanted to capitalize on “her” titles as fast and furiously as they possibly could. With the current erotica craze sweeping the globe, they called me early one autumn morning to discuss penning a hot, BDSM novel with a compelling plot and, most importantly, an unforgettable male protagonist women would go crazy for.

Based on the sales of my second novel, I was given a significant advance to focus entirely on research and writing exclusively for this project over the course of the next six months. With as hot as BDSM seemed to be at the moment, Orchid Street Publishing was eager to have one of their hottest female writers supply them with a manuscript that would rival the titles on the market currently selling like hotcakes. Always up for a challenge, I decided to give it a shot.

“Sure,” I’d said coolly, knowing good and well I knew nothing about BDSM and would have to step outside of myself as both a writer and a woman to get the job done. Ever the curious researcher, and always interested in penning a scorching tale, I was prepared to put in a little more effort than usual to get this book written.

I barely knew anything about sex anymore; well, sex that occurred between two living, breathing humans anyways, but it hadn’t stopped me from writing three seductive novels that thousands of women loved reading.

I was a simple twenty-five-year-old city girl, with the usual number of former lovers under her belt: twelve or thirteen or so, just enough to consider myself appropriately experienced, a couple of male-female-male encounters in there somewhere for good measure. I knew sex and knew how to write about it. The problem was I was forgetting how to actually have it. The writer’s life; it was usually more fiction than fact. The pages of my novels regularly sizzled, while the sheets of my bed embarrassingly fizzled. My oats properly and enthusiastically sewn throughout college and a few years following, I was now in a stage of comfortable complacency when it came to matters of the bedroom, not having a lover of any sort in over six months.

This city was full of men, but none I’d felt a particular connection with or attraction to. When you write sex for a living it’s difficult to find men who match up to the characters you’ve created in your mind. These days I was much happier to give my time and my body to the handsome, debonair heroes I’d conjured up for my books; many a night sliding between my sheets, caressing my body, spreading my legs and pleasuring myself to their hottest pages. They were all glorious amalgams, curious and entertaining combinations of the many men I’d known and met over the years: Gerard, the handsome millionaire with a masterful stroke on the golf course and in between a woman’s legs, whose favorite pastime was making love on the deck of his yacht under the moonlight sky of the Caribbean. Or Dax, the model/artist with the long, magnificent cock he lavished upon his nude models and lovers in the mornings as sunlight streamed in onto their naked bodies through the skylight of his loft in SoHo. And, my favorite, Giuseppe, the fiery Italian winemaker, sensitive single father and broken-hearted widower, whose pleasure was to lick tiny droplets of an exquisite Pinot Noir from the belly button of his new lovers.

These were my lovers. These were the men to whom I returned over and over, giving my body in elated orgasm and my mind in exasperated delight.

The video call software on my Mac began to ring, snapping me from my hazy thoughts. It was my publisher, tired of leaving me phone messages and resorting to tracking me down online. Smoothing my hair and pushing the tiny tendrils floating around my eyelids behind my ear, I hit the accept button, allowing the video feed. As the screen buffered, Roderick Burchfield’s puffy, pink face appeared on screen. His high-pitched voice greeted my ear.

“Heeeelloooo! Alex, darling. We haven’t heard from you in several weeks,” he said, looking into his monitor sternly, though the glossy,pink, pursed lips he always wore softened the evil glare he attempted to toss my way.

“I know, Roderick. I’ve been,” I stalled a moment. What
had
I been doing besides surfing the internet and reading BDSM sites, chuckling at the ridiculous ads I’d came across? “Planning.”

“We really need to get some sort of timeline for a manuscript, darling. BDSM is hot, hot, hot!” Roderick screeched, clapping his hands together. “We take too much time putting the wheels in motion and we’re going to miss opportunities… profits… pilots… movie offers. We need to set a budget and plan our editorial calendar and we can’t do any of that, darling, without some idea of when we’ll get your ideas. We want to move you up to the next level. It’s time to make Marguerite McKnight a worldwide brand.”

“Remember, you guys chose me for this, so you’ll have to work with me a bit on a timeline. I can’t just write about a whole bunch of butt spanking scenes in a matter of weeks and call that art or BDSM. We’d be vilified,” I retorted.