Fatal Submission
By Nicole Austin
Release Date: March 4, 2016
On edge, body humming with arousal, Claire aches to have her desires sated. And ruggedly handsome Dominant Mason Burke is the man she wants. But for Mason work comes first and Claire’s tired of waiting.
Mason’s loss is Dr. Carl Skinner’s lucky break. The bonus—Carl’s a rich, drop-dead gorgeous Dom with a real dungeon in his basement.
Getting what you want isn’t always a good thing and the game takes a drastic turn Claire never saw coming. According to the Dungeon Master’s victims who still haunt his torture chamber, submission has fatal consequences and she’s running out of time.
Note: This scary tale contains graphic scenes of erotic torture and violence that may cause the reader to stay up late reading with all the lights on.
*This previously published title has been re-edited.*
Excerpt from Fatal Submission
Copyright © Nicole Austin, 2016
Ever the gentleman, Carl held the door and allowed her to
precede him down the stairs.
Second thoughts stopped her for only a few seconds before
stepping through the strange entryway. Nothing ventured…
With her heels clicking on the wooden steps she couldn’t be
certain, but Claire thought she’d heard the soft snick of a lock being engaged.
Every hair on her body stood on end and her muscles tensed.
Why the hell would he lock the door? Weren’t they alone in
the house? If she ran back up the stairs and turned the knob, would it open?
Taking a deep breath, she descended the stairs and shoved her
crazy fears aside. She’d gone into this with her eyes open and she would not
freak out. Carl was a Dom. Her Dom—at least for tonight. If she went into this
without trust, limiting her submission, they might as well not even bother.
When she safely cleared the last step, she lifted her gaze
and looked around the room in awe.
An actual dungeon.
Heat washed through her body as her nipples puckered and her
panties grew damp. Lord, she felt as if she’d waited her whole life to submit
in a real dungeon
Gray cinderblock walls and cement foundation. Track lighting
fixtures on the ceiling cast a soft glow yet left areas in shadow. A pegboard
held a wide variety of floggers, whips, crops and paddles. There against one
wall was a strange chair with a padded V-shaped seat to spread the legs open
and leather cuffs attached in strategic locations. She noted the familiar shape
of a St. Andrew’s Cross looming in the shadows next to an ancient-looking
stockade. The dungeon was well-stocked with various padded tables and spanking
benches, each one equipped with built-in restraints.
A small part of Claire hadn’t believed Carl had a dungeon in
his basement. But the proof surrounded her. At that very moment in time, she
stood in the middle of a private, subterranean, fully equipped dungeon.
Anticipation supercharged her blood, sending it zooming
through her veins. Her abdominal muscles fluttered and she wasn’t sure if the
cause was excitement, fear or a combination of the two. She hadn’t thought this
far ahead or even got around to wondering how it would feel to be in a dungeon.
To know that soon, Carl would restrain and dominate her.
She shuddered as slender fingers skated over her shoulder and
down her spine. Carl. How had she forgotten she wasn’t alone?
“Go ahead. Take a look around. Check out the equipment while
I fix a drink.” He nodded toward a small wet bar. “Would you like anything?”
She had to pry her tongue from the roof of her dry mouth to respond.
“Water.” A strong drink might help bolster her courage, but Claire didn’t want
anything to dull her senses.
Carl turned to the bar and she moved about the room to get a
closer look at things. Hanging from a sturdy chain in the ceiling was some kind
of contraption with thick, flat metal vertical slats and horizontal bands. It
was elongated, rounded at the top then broadening before tapering again toward
the bottom. She estimated it at six to six and a half feet tall.
Her hand flew upward, covering her mouth to hold back a gasp.
It couldn’t be? But it was. The damn thing was some kind of
cage, roughly in the shape of a human.
Moving past it quickly, she came to a standing device, shaped
like the one hanging from the ceiling but solid. An iron maiden? The device had
hinged doors, one of which had been left open, revealing an interior lined with
spikes. When a person was shut inside, those spikes would press into their
flesh.
Shooting a nervous glance over her shoulder, she located
Carl, still at the bar with his back to her.
Lord, had she made a mistake believing in this man? If he
went too far and she asked him to stop, would he?
Kind of late to get nervous.
Skirting around a gynecological table complete with stirrups,
she approached the center of the room and the least threatening apparatus she’d
seen so far. Similar to a padded massage table with thick wooden legs but oddly
canted, as if the maker cut one set of supports shorter than the other. The
table surface itself was short, perhaps two-feet long. At the higher end the
padding curved over the rounded edge. She noticed a cut out section at the
lower end and off to each side were wide, hinged metal cuffs that would lock
someone in place. She stepped around the table and saw similar cuffs toward the
bottom of the taller legs.
Just as she stepped forward, hand extended to test the
thickness of the leather padding, a scraping sound had Claire turning her head
toward Carl. The toe of her shoe caught on something and her forward momentum
threw her off balance.
Several things occurred at once. She felt herself moving
through the air as if she’d been pushed, practically flying with her arm
extended, her pelvis slamming into the curved table edge.
Her hips folded and her upper body continued, coming to an
abrupt halt on top of the table, knocking the breath right out of her. The
material of her skirt flapped up, bearing her panty-clad ass to the chilled
air.
She heard the scrape of wood on the concrete floor as the
heavy piece of furniture was shoved by the hard impact of her body. This was
followed by the loud clang of metal on metal.
Claire struggled to draw air into her abused lungs and make
sense of what had happened.
After several painful, wheezed breaths, she pushed with her
hands to lift her upper body but was stopped short, her right wrist held firmly
in place. Horror dawned as she turned her head to see the cuff had snapped
closed over her wrist.
Her palms were sweaty, her heart pounded against her ribs and
her ears were filled with the loud swish of her galloping pulse.
Lord, she wasn’t sure what won out, her mortification over
the indignant position or fear that she’d had help getting into this mess. Had
Carl pushed her or had it been an innocent trip and fall?
“Umm…Carl. Could you help me up?” A burst of nervous laughter
passed her lips.
Catching movement in her peripheral vision, Claire arched her
neck to watch Carl’s slow approach. Too slow for her comfort. Apparently the
jerk was enjoying the view of her bared butt sticking up.
Men, ugh!
She blindly reached back with her free hand, trying to catch
the hem of her dress and push it down. As she grasped at material, hard fingers
closed over her wrist and forced her left arm toward the open cuff. Claire
kicked, bucked her body and struggled against him but Carl had strength on his
side. Within moments he had her left arm and both ankles locked down to the table.
As she continued to struggle, he fastened a wide leather strap over her hips,
severely limiting her movement.
“Carl, let me go. We haven’t talked about my limits yet.”
Oh God, this couldn’t be happening. Nobody knew where she’d
gone and Carl had turned into a complete psycho. He had her immobilized in his
basement dungeon, far from any other house. No one would even hear her scream.
“Carl,” she screeched, “this isn’t funny.” Claire put all her
strength into trying to break free knowing the effort was wasted but unable to
stop fighting for her freedom.
“I will allow no limits, Claire. You will take what I give
you and thank me for it.”
Nicole Austin lives on the sheltered Gulf Coast of Florida, where inspiration can be found sitting under a big shade umbrella on the beach, sipping cold margaritas. A voracious reader, she never goes anywhere without a book, but started looking for something more. Something hotter.
A passion for erotic romance led to Nicole’s creation of sizzling characters and boundary pushing stories. Now she lives in an incredible world where fantasy comes to life in bold, vivid detail. Well, until real life intrudes and she has to share the computer with the rest of the family.
Email Nicole: nicole@nicoleaustin.net
I KNEW HE WOULD RUIN ME FROM THE MOMENT WE
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New York Times bestselling author Avery Aster pens The Manhattanites, a contemporary erotic romance series of full-length, stand-alone novels, and the naughty new adult prequel companion series The Undergrad Years.
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