Collared (Masters of Desires)
Collared: Chapter 17

Having finally found the time in his schedule to focus on something other than blueprints and compasses, Preston pulled out the white envelope he’d carried with him since Sunday evening when he’d finally gotten home.

It wasn’t often Preston rethought his occupation. Lately, it was beginning to sound and look more like work than what it was for him in the first place—something he enjoyed doing just for the fact he loved to destroy structures and rebuild them stronger, attractive, and sustainable, never to be torn apart again.

The more known his architecture became, the more business he gained. The more his bank account increased in size. The more eyes around him. The more time away from home. The more time he’d spend without his slave by his side.

And there it was. The root of the problem.

Because of work, Preston had to leave Sunday morning without a proper goodbye to Abigail or his usual trip to the club.

He thought about waking her and taking her right there on the floor, but she looked so peaceful, and she needed the rest, so instead, he worshipped her entire body.

He’d kissed her lips. He’d nuzzled into the crook of her neck. He’d sucked on her nipples. He’d spread her thighs and ran his nose across her clit in a deep languid brush so that she’d be with him at all times. Four days had passed, and the smell still lingered on his nose.

It was enough to make him hate his job for having to ride all the way to his office with a hard-on in the backseat of his Porsche with Kenneth in front.

If only Elliott had been there. He sure would’ve had a lot to say on the matter. Probably an ill joke like most of what came from his mouth.

Preston leaned back in his chair. The envelope laid open on his lap as he read his slave’s fantasies.

He wasn’t surprised to read she was into orgies because many women were—just as some were also into forced-play. There was nothing wrong with that because it was consensual. None of these women, however, desired actual rape.

In fact, Preston had been with a woman long ago who was a rape victim. If he closed his eyes, he could remember what she looked like back then.

Frail limbs. Bruised mind. Dirty clothes. She was the walking definition of destroyed.

He’d found her dumpster diving in the back of Ambrosia.

The woman was so petrified of him she’d shivered at his approach. It took everything inside her to trust Preston. That was what had gotten her raped in the first place. Trust. Trusting the wrong people. To this day, Preston didn’t know what he’d done to earn the woman’s trust but when he told her to go with him, she followed out of fear and stayed out of trust.

It took a year for her to seem better. It took two years for her to walk the streets of New York City without fright the men around her would do to her what was done many times before.

Preston knew she’d seen him as her Guardian Angel. She’d always called him her Dark Angel. She’d known from the beginning he wasn’t normal, yet she’d gone with him anyway.

Though he tried to hide what he really was from her, she’d figured it out soon enough. One day, she came to him and asked him to perform a scene with her. In the three years they’d known each other he hadn’t touched her. It wasn’t because she wasn’t attractive or because there was no chemistry between them.

Preston thought it wasn’t his place to lust after her or act upon such lust. Having been raped, sex was probably the furthest thing from the woman’s mind. But then, out of nowhere, she’d offered him a scene. A scene where she took her power back. A scene where the word no and stop meant what it was supposed to mean.

When they performed the scene, Preston fucked her because she wanted to be fucked, not because she had no choice. Not because her noes weren’t loud enough. Not because she was a walking tease. Not because she was weak. That was the last time Preston ever saw her as a victim and started seeing her as the survivor she was.

There was a thin line between BDSM and physical abuse just as there was for rape and rape-fantasies. The thin line being consent.

When a man couldn’t take no for an answer, when a man was too insecure, he blamed all his problems on a woman, when a man couldn’t control his urges, that was when the line was crossed.

Preston did everything in his power to see the men who had violated her behind bars. As a farewell gift to the person she was, he’d given her, in a gift box with a giant fucking bow, her abusers’ sentences: life in prison without parole.

Where his previous slave did scenes solely to please him, Abigail proceeded for her enjoyment.

Preston scratched his jaw in consideration. His fingers grazed the five o’clock shadow that’d grown.

What was Abigail doing now? Was she flirting with other men? Would she take them to her house and have them fuck all her holes like in her fantasies?

After she asked Kenneth to drop her off at Grand Street—and the audacity behind such an act still stunned him. Kenneth was Preston’s driver, not Abigail’s the slave, the whore, the slut. Of course, Kenneth didn’t follow her request and took her home as he’d been told.

He did, however, call Preston to let him know of his slave’s outings. They’d agreed to two days, two nights. He wouldn’t break their deal by having her followed.

Why would he if she meant nothing but a hole to be filled?

Abigail might be mischievous when he wasn’t around but that didn’t mean she was different than his other submissives. If she had made the disgraceful gesture she made when she left his house in front of him, she’d have a broken middle finger. And if she would’ve said what she wrote under additional comments/questions aloud, she’d be icing her jaw.

Either Preston hadn’t done enough to tame her, or Abigail Bennett was a true masochist.

Fear. Suffering. Powerlessness. Humiliation.

It suggested nothing less.

She was a masochist in bed but was she a masochist in the outside world? It was pure curiosity. He didn’t mind if she wasn’t. In fact, he loved she was financially stable and wasn’t with him for his riches like past submissives had been.

Preston hoped she was because what he had planned for her would suit a masochist, not a sulky young adult who needed to be disciplined.

Thinking gave him a headache. He needed a break from everything, and he knew just the man to call for a getaway.

Without deliberation, he picked up his phone and dialed a number he knew he’d regret later. The person on the other line answered on the first ring.

“What are you doing tonight?” Preston went straight to the point.

Elliott let out a whistle. “I’ve only gotten this type of call once. Who’s ruffled your feathers, my mighty king?”

Feathers? Someone ruffled his life.

“Just answer the question, El.”

“There’s this new club opening on—”

“Send Kenneth the address.” He hung up. A night of drinking and loud music was what he needed to quiet the thoughts in his head.

Removing a piece of paper from his notebook, he answered Abigail’s questions with a hidden smile on his face. That sass drove him to the edge.

What was he so happy about? And why did he feel the need to hide his smile?

Just as he was filling a new envelope with papers, an altercation outside his office caught his attention.

“He knows I’m coming, Jacqueline.”

“Please, just let me phone you in.”

What in the world?

A second later the door to his office opened.

Oh, Lord.

No.

Not. Now.

“Preston!” Mrs. Trice waltzed into her son’s office with her arms as wide as the smile she carried.

Preston rose his head and met her dark eyes. His mother was wearing a black knee-length dress with leggings to avoid the cold. She wore her checkered jacket and large disk-shaped earrings. Her thick hair was pulled up into a low bun just as his father liked it.

Behind her, Jacqueline, his secretary, looked disheveled. Her chest rose and fell as she tried to look composed. “I apologize Mr. Trice. I tried to stop her.”

Preston let out a heavy breath before raising his hand in dismissal. He stood and walked into his mother’s embrace, kissing both her cheeks.

“Don’t worry about it, Jackie. I know how persistent my mother can be.”

Mrs. Trice rolled her brown eyes and stuck a tongue out to Jacqueline as she left them alone. But nothing her son said or anything Jacqueline did could erase the smile off her face. She was ecstatic.

“Oh, my son! How are you doing this fine day?”

“I’m well, Mother, and you?” Preston guided her to the couch on the left side of his office that overlooked New York.

“Mother,” she mocked. “You’re so formal, just as your father. I am splendid!” She clasped her hands under her chin. Mrs. Trice was practically dancing on the cushions.

“What are you doing here?” Preston treaded carefully with his questions. She was the only woman he couldn’t stand to hurt her feelings.

“Can’t a loving mother visit her son without there being a reason behind it?” She shrugged her shoulders innocently.

“A loving mother, yes,” he joked.

“Oh, Preston. Come on!” She twisted her entire body to face her son. “I feel like I’m walking on eggshells here. Tell me! Tell me!”

“About what, Mother?”

“Abigail, of course!”

His heart elevated to his throat. He was sure his mother could see it moving through his collar. Was Preston Trice blushing?

“There’s no Abigail.” The words hurt more than he’d let on to believe.

“Oh, Preston. I’m your mother. I held you in my womb for nine months. I raised you. I can tell when you’re lying.”

He stood, a migraine poking his left eye. “Mother, if you came to my office to talk about nonsense, then please, go see Elizabeth. Unlike her, I have a business to run. I’m busy.”

“Okay, fine. We won’t talk about you-know-who.” She raised her hands in a backup motion. “Tell me about your weekend then.”

“Mother.”

“Oh, that’s right, you spent it with her.” Her giggles were getting on Preston’s nerves.

“Mother, please. That’s enough. Either talk about something else or please, leave.”

He walked to the bathroom in his office and took out three tablets of ibuprofen, swallowing them down with a glass of tap water.

“You should see a doctor.” His mother leaned on the doorframe. “You’ve been having them more frequently than before.”

His knuckles turned white as he gripped the sink with ferocity. Part of the reason why he was getting migraines was her meddling. And his job. And fucking Abigail.

“I’m fine, Mom.” He took a deep breath. “If you promise not to bring the woman’s name up again, then we’ll go have lunch.”

“Okay. But Preston, if this relationship—ah, ah, let me speak. If this relationship turns serious, I expect to meet her.” He tried to stop her from using that word. They weren’t in a relationship. She was his sex toy. Nevertheless, Preston agreed, knowing his mother would never meet Abigail.