The Trip

Noble Romance Publishing, LLC

The Trip ISBN 978-1-60592-635-3 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Copyright 2011 Bianca Sommerland Cover Art by Fiona Jayde This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any existing means without written permission from the publisher. This book may not be shared electronically. File sharing copyrighted materials not only takes money from an author's pocket, it's a crime. Contact Noble Romance Publishing, LLC at PO Box 467423, Atlanta, GA 31146 for written permission to reproduce or use this book. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously. Blurb On the long trip back to Toronto from an art show in Detroit, Shawna’s bus makes an unexpected stop in the middle of nowhere. When the bus is evacuated, she ends up alone with a man who’s just as dark and dominant as the heroes in her favorite books. Her desires tempt her to let her guard down—to take a chance that he might be everything she needs—but how far is she willing to go? She’s afraid to find out . . . and even more afraid not to.

Chapter One Wind whishing on glass drowned out the rumble of the heavy engine, rising to an off-pitch howl as the bus swerved and picked up speed. Napping on the road—not something to be undertaken unless one was desperate or getting paid. Shawna angled her hip beneath her, trying to find a more comfortable position. Each spring inside the worn jacquard polyester seat jittered into her pelvis like a minijackhammer, sending vibrations along her bones straight up to her teeth. The fuzzy veil between sleep and wakefulness wavered. A loud laugh from a few seats back tore right through it. God, she hated this. Being hogtied for an hour would be preferable. She checked her watch, rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger, and checked again. No way. She'd only slept for forty minutes? Uck! My definition of hell. This ride's gonna take forever! If only the gallery that had displayed all her best paintings wasn't all the way in Detroit. If only she'd braved a plane—which would have gotten her there from Toronto in an eighth of the time it had taken her on the bus . . . . Too late now. As usual, she'd ignored all the sage advice she'd been given. Fear trumped practicality. This is what she got for making last-minute, emotional decisions. She'd have to deal with the trip and learn from the experience the same way she learned every other lesson. The hard way. Less than an hour in and five more to go—there had to be a better way to pass the time than trying, unsuccessfully, to sleep. A book might help, but the one she'd started at the hotel . . . . She glanced around at the other passengers, who were all either sleeping or absorbed in their own books or in conversation. She doubted they'd notice— or care about—the image of the bound woman on the cover of her dog-eared book. And they were all sitting too far away to see the bloody stripes crossing her pale back. Do you really care if they notice? It's just a book.

A voice in the logical part of her brain said, no, she didn't care. But the entire trip had worn down her social defenses, and all she could think about now was how much she hated being embarrassed. Unlike the heroines in some of her favorite books, she wasn't turned on by humiliation. At all. Ever. Actually, the thought of being humiliated made her feel a little sick. But boredom wasn't high on her list of favorite experiences either, and, since the batteries in her laptop and e-reader were dead, she could either read the book or watch the pretty scenery through the bus window. And, tempting as it was to observe scores of trees shrouded in darkness whip by, finishing the scene in which the blindfolded heroine strapped to the sawhorse got fucked by all her master's friends held much more appeal. Decision made, she reached up, flicked on the small, round light over her seat, and fished the book out of her carry-on. Tucking her feet beneath her, she flipped through the pages until she found the one with the folded corner and picked up where she had left off. Immersed in the story within seconds, she chewed on her bottom lip while hands stroked the heroine's silky, blond hair, caressed her breasts, and molded her heart-shaped ass. Fingers stroked the heroine's wet folds, filled her—oh god, there were more pressing into her anus, shoving past her body's natural resistance without any lube. The pain would be almost unbearable, calloused fingers scraping soft tissues . ... The bus jerked forward, and her stomach flipped. Bile rose in her throat with a feverish wave of heat, and she swallowed spastically. The last time she'd gotten motion sick, she was ten, and she'd picked more strawberries for her belly than her basket. This time, she hadn't eaten in hours, so she should be fine. I will be fine. I'm not puking in front of these people. The intercom sputtered on overhead, giving her something to focus on besides her efforts to not throw up. "Attention, all passengers. Due to unforeseen mechanical difficulties, we're going to have to ask you to temporarily disembark. Please remain

close to the bus. Flares are being set up to warn oncoming traffic, but, for your own safety, stay off the road." Static, and then the nervous chatter of passengers as they made their way off the bus . . . . Shawna felt nothing but relief. The mere thought of getting off the stuffy bus helped her stomach settle. Too bad she couldn't walk the rest of the way home. Her feet would hurt like hell, but her tummy would be very happy! Laying her book facedown on the empty seat beside her, Shawna grabbed her carry-on and propped it on her knee so she could retrieve her thick, gray sweatshirt. If it was this chilly in the bus, it would be worse outside. And who knew how long they'd have to wait? She dropped her bag on the seat and then pulled the sweatshirt over her head. Heavy footsteps coming from the back of the bus halted at her side. "If they want us off the bus, there's probably a good reason. You might want to hurry." Her thick, golden blond bangs fell over her eyes as she pushed her head through the neck hole. She blew her hair away from her face and found her field of vision filled with a large, muscular chest straining the buttons of a black, silk shirt and framed by massive biceps. Her gaze traveled up to the face of a man who looked like he could be either a professional wrestler or a bouncer—she'd never met a bouncer who wasn't hot . . . in a scary kind of way. "Yeah, well, I don't want to get cold." She straightened and picked up her carryon, holding it in front of her like a bulky, rectangular shield. "It's nippy on the bus." "The driver had the AC on too high." Arching a thick, dark eyebrow, the man reached over and picked up her book, using his thumb to mark her page. "Hmm . . . interesting reading material. Have you tried the tie 'em up and beat 'em stuff, or do you just fantasize about it?" Damn the man. He was looking at her exactly the way the Doms in her book would. His tone was light, but, beneath the words, she sensed exactly the kind of edge she craved. And she hadn't played in way too long.

Hiking up her chin, she frowned at him. "That's none of your business. And you're right—we should get off the bus." "Perhaps." He smiled a slow, knowing smile as he tucked her book in the opened top of her carry-on. "But you have to admit—the privacy we have is rather convenient. We'll have awhile before anyone notices we're gone." He's got some freakin' nerve! Hugging her bag, she shook her head. "No. I don't think so." The muscles in his jaw ticked. "No? Are you sure?" She wasn't sure, and that made the whole scenario even more wrong. How could she even consider letting the jerk have his way with her on a broken-down bus? Was she really that . . . pathetic? Great big NO. "I'm sure. Please move." She turned sideways, prepared to jet the second he gave her the space to pass. Or knee him in the balls if necessary. He gave her a curt nod and backed up a few steps. She scurried toward the front of the bus, wincing as his cold words reached her. "You're going to regret this." Chapter Two

Mark eyed the woman, standing right near the edge of the circular barrier of flares, her hands shaking as she lit yet another cigarette. The woman smoked too much—she was on her third while he'd just finished his first. But that didn't bother him nearly as much as the way she avoided even looking at him. She swayed from side to side on her spiky, silver stilettos, looking like a teenaged hooker in her huge sweatshirt and miniskirt. Her expression gave the impression of frightened innocence. What was she playing at? Was she really as scared as she seemed? Maybe he'd come off too strong, but he didn't think so. Ever since they'd boarded, he'd watched her, studied her face once he'd managed to tear his gaze from

her thighs which were fit to split wide. He pictured her tied to a suspension rack with her legs stretched out, her tits jiggling as she struggled, her pussy glistening and wet. But she wouldn't be wet unless he could figure out what had her all wound up inside. Even in sleep, she'd been tense, tossing her head from side to side as though plagued by nightmares. Several times, her quiet whimpers had pulled at him, tempting him to go to her, to pull her into his arms and soothe her, but he knew she wouldn't welcome him. Not yet. But soon. Between his experience and her barely restrained passions—obvious in her body language and the flush in her cheeks while she read her book—the rest of the ride would offer plenty of opportunities for mutual satisfaction. Once she realizes there's nowhere else for her to run. Mark approached her when she turned away from him to light another cigarette and whispered in her ear. "You smoke more when you're nervous. Tell me I'm not the reason you're turning your lungs black." Letting out a bitter laugh, she tossed her hair over one shoulder and looked up at him. "Please. After the week I've had, you don't affect me at all." Well, now, that was a bit harsh. His eyes narrowed, and she edged away from him. "I mean . . . I . . . ." She ducked her head and gulped. Better. He smiled and grazed her chin with a knuckle. "Was it really that bad? What were you in Detroit for? Work or pleasure?" She rolled her eyes. "Work." "Ah. And what was so horrible about it? What are you, some kind of secretary? Not important enough to travel with your boss?" Her nose wrinkled, and she scowled at him. "I'm an artist." "A struggling artist apparently." He grinned when her scowl darkened. "Oh, don't take it like that. I think it's sexy." "Right." "Seriously." He didn't like how quickly she assumed he was mocking her. Didn't she have any faith in her own talent? "Everyone starts somewhere."

"I know, but . . . ." She cut herself off and hunched over. "I don't want to talk about it." Mark could almost feel her pull up steel walls of defense, hardened by insecurity, by uncertainty. He wanted to take a torch to those walls, find a way through them so he could stand beside her, so he could wield the flame to strengthen all the weak spots in her armor. But he knew his interference would be unwelcome at this point. She'd have to let him in; force would only get him so far. But it would get him somewhere. Reaching out, he took her bag and set it aside. Then he put his hands on her shoulders and massaged the rigid muscles through the bulky cotton of her sweatshirt. "What do you want to talk about?" Her muscles went slack, and she leaned into him. "I don't feel like talking at all." "Then what would you like to do?" He nestled his chin in the soft slope between her throat and her shoulder, grazing the soft lobe of her ear with his lips. "Tell me." The muscles under his hands bunched up and she groaned. But not with pleasure. She sounded quite irritated. "Ugh. Just leave me alone." Not likely. He let out a low growl and set his teeth into her throat. She whimpered as he slid his hands down her arms and clasped her wrists, pulling them behind her. "I won't leave you alone. But I will give you what you really need. Tell me your safe word." "Maple leaf." She gasped, curving her throat until he could feel her pulse against his lips. "Good girl." He held her wrists with one hands and hitched his thumb under the thick elastic of her skirt. "Use it if you need to. There's some nice cover in those bushes just beyond the ditch. I'll release you go so you can maneuver your way down there, but, unless you use your safe word, that's where I'm going to fuck you. Understand?" For a while she said nothing, and doubt, murky as swamp water, filled the silence. What if he'd read her wrong? What if this wasn't what she wanted? But then she whispered. "Yes."

He tightened his grip on her wrists. "What?" "I said 'yes.'" She swallowed and shivered in his arms, causing his dick to press against the confines of his snug boxer-briefs. "Sir." He released her, and his chest swelled as he watched her carefully make her way down the rock- and weed-ridden ditch. No one had called him 'Sir' in months. In all honesty, he hadn't earned the address yet, but he would earn it now. And, damn it, whatever he had to do, by the end of the night she'd call him Master. Dust and rocks kicked up from the road as the driver strolled up to him. "You have twenty minutes. I'm not throwing away my job for this." Pulling a wad of cash out of his pocket, Mark counted out a thousand bucks, and then pressed the bills into the driver's hand. "You won't have to. Just consider this a nice bonus. You were ahead of schedule anyway." "True." With a gruff chuckle, the driver tucked the folded stack of cash into the snug pocket of his uniform vest. Then he shook Mark's hand and nodded towards the dark overgrowth along the road. "Go get her, buddy." A predatory smile curved Mark's lips as he climbed into the ditch. He stalked around the bushes, silently at first, then cracking branches under the heels of his boots just to make the woman gasp. Blood pumped into his dick so fast it felt like his erection had its own heart, wedged up in the mushroomed head that had probably turned purple. Fuck, he wanted her, so bad he considered forcing her to her hands and knees as soon as he reached her and just taking her. The way she responded to his firm grip, to his commands . . . fine, there might be a token struggle, but then her ass would rise up to meet each thrust like a bitch in heat. Hell, she wants it rough. Why not give it to her? Because he hadn't paid all that money for quick, savage sex. What he had in mind would take time—and patience. Both of which he had in spades. "You didn't happen to overhear my exchange with the bus driver, did you?" Snap, snap! Silence. Snap! "I paid him not to disturb us."

Hearing a soft rustle to the left, he paused. Light padding sounded from a little deeper in the undergrowth. She'd taken off her shoes, sneaky brat. Did she really think he'd let her get away? "You didn't just pay him not to disturb us," she said, quietly. Her voice sounded like it came from the right. He squinted, but he couldn't see her. She must be crouched down low. "You paid him to stop the bus." "Clever girl." He crept forward—there!--he caught sight of a patch of gray between the branches of a bush. "So you understand, I can do whatever I want to you out here." He reached out and grabbed a fistful of fabric. And nothing else. She'd taken the sweatshirt off.

Chapter Three

"I don't think so." Shawna stood and bolted for the highway. Moisture smeared between her thighs, and flesh rubbed raw against flesh, but she kept going. The man turned her on, and she'd been tempted, but the danger felt very real now. She'd made a rash decision, but she'd smartened up just in time to avoid becoming a victim. A few more steps and she'd be safe . . . . Something hard slammed into her back, and dirt filled her mouth as her face thumped against the earth. She spat out a mouthful of mud, swinging her fist at the solid form that covered her. Her wrists were pinned over her head, and she opened her mouth to scream. The man's big hand covered the bottom half of her face. His dark eyes glistened, reflecting the faint light of the bus headlights. "None of that. You'll spoil our fun." He moved his hand, and she sucked in a mouthful of saliva, prepared to spit it right in his face. Then she turned her head and spat on the ground. She'd been stupid enough for one night. Aggravating the man would only cause her more pain.

And there would be pain. The twisted smile he gave her promised as much. But that didn't scare her half as much as the calm in his level gaze. Like all her secrets were written on her face, in her eyes, and he was focused on reading the words. How much you want to bet he doesn't see a 'No.' She couldn't help making a last ditch effort to talk him out of whatever he planned. "Who says I want to have any 'fun' with you?" He raked his fingers through her hair and tugged her head back. "You have a safe word. If you want me to stop, use it." Use her safe word? Never. Her nipples hardened as her body accepted the inevitability of exactly what she had invited. Insane, but part of her wondered how far this little game of his would go. What would he do when he figured out she didn't want to play? Gritting her teeth, she sneered at him. "Fuck you." Letting out a feral snarl, he slapped her. Her eyes burned as the sting spread, becoming hot little spikes of pure sensation, traveling down her nerves. "Don't test me, you little bitch." He bit her throat, and her back arched. More spikes stabbed into her, and she moaned. No, no! I can't give in! Yet the words left her before she could stop them. "Don't test you? Or what? If you're going to rape me, get it over with." "Really?" He laughed, sounding as insane as she probably did. He released her hair, sat up, and pushed her thighs open. Before she had a chance to kick, he clamped his hands around her ankles and hooked her calves over his shoulders. "You think that's the worst I can do to you?" Yes! Something inside her cried. But a remote part of her wanted more. Wanted something wild, something extreme. She wanted nothing more than to have control ripped away so thoroughly she would never have to face it again. But he couldn't give her that. No one could.

"Like I said." Her muscles went slack, and she rested her head on the dirt. "Get it over with." He rose up on his knees, lifting her ass high off the ground. "If you insist." He put one hand on her knee and shoved the other in the pocket of his black jeans. Tearing a small packet open with his teeth, he bent down and spread her ass cheeks apart. "Try to relax." Something with sharp edges pressed against her anus, and cold, slick fluid filled her. Then something big and hard pressed into her, stretching her, stretching so far she felt she would tear open. Her asshole wasn't meant to stretch like that. And the burning . . . oh, god, it was too much! The tip of whatever he was shoving into her felt small at first, but bigger and bigger as he worked it deeper inside. She whimpered and shifted her hips. "Relax." He bared her stomach and kissed the dimple above her navel. "If you force me to tear you, I won't be able to fuck your ass later." Later? As though she'd let him near her again. He pushed harder, and she felt his hand slip. The hard object nearly slid out of her. Her insides rippled as though missing the intrusion. So wrong, yet . . . yet she didn't want him to stop! "No!" Her hips shot up. The emptiness was worse than anything else he could possibly do. "Please . . . ." "That's what I like to hear." And with that he slammed the thing that felt like a chunk of stone deep inside her ass. Before she could adapt to being full from behind, he stuffed fingers inside her pussy—two, no . . . three—and started pumping so hard she felt as though he was punching her swollen, wet folds. Every muscle in her body, from her abs to her thighs, clenched as climax threatened. She felt like she'd exposed her most vulnerable parts to an open flame. She tossed her head from side to side and gouged her tongue with her teeth to keep from screaming. He let her legs drop from his shoulders and bent over her. "There we go. I think we can head back now."

"You son of a bitch!" She ground the back of her head into the dirt. Damp earth coated her scalp as she writhed and bucked her hips. "Finish it!" "'No." He circled her clit with his thumb, around and around, not quite close enough to stimulate, but just close enough to keep her aroused. "You're not getting off until you're ready to beg. Get back on the bus, and read more of your book. I think I'll take the empty seat next to you—you've been looking a little lonely." His fingers were still inside her, but he wouldn't move them, damn him! They were seated deep like the thing in her ass, simply . . . there. Her juices seeped out and quickly turned cold, as though to remind her she'd get nothing until he decided to give it to her. Incredible, unbearable. Tear spilled from her eyes as her pride folded, and she sobbed. "Please, don't do this to me." "Begging already?" He clucked his tongue. "You really are a shameless little slut, aren't you?" Bastard. She glared at him, but held her tongue. He could call it begging if he wanted. She didn't care. But she wouldn't do it again. "That's what I thought." He eased his fingers out of her pussy and then paused with his large second knuckles stretching the ring of muscle. "You're so tight and wet—I really want to stuff my cock in this sweet, juicy cunt." Bending down, he flicked the tip of his tongue right over her clit and added another finger alongside the ones already inside her. "Ah!" Her core clenched around his fingers, and her clit sparked like a wet live wire. He kept pushing and pushing, as though he wanted to stuff his whole fist inside her. She threw her legs open wide, ready to let him. "Yes!" "You like that." He sucked on her clit and shoved his fingers deep. "Oh, fuck, I love this pussy. Nice and snug and stretchy. Perfect for fisting or DP." He climbed up without moving his hand, resting his weight on her, trapping her. "I'll do that to you— soon. And you won't be able to stop me. I'm going to use you like the little whore you are."

"Mmm." She wiggled her hips when he stopped pushing against her. A little bit more and she'd come. She was there . . . right . . . . He gently removed his hand and rolled off her. After scrubbing his hand on his jeans, he stood and tugged her to her feet. "How does the butt plug feel? Do you think you can keep it in for a while?" Legs shaking as though her bones had dissolved, she clung to his forearms and stared at him. The strange, hypersensitive soreness of being denied made her insides throb pitifully. She didn't think she could form a coherent word. But she finally managed one. "Why?" "I'm waiting for you to beg for your master's mercy." He pulled away from her slowly, keeping one hand extended for a moment as though to check her balance. Then he turned away. He searched for something among the bushes. Seconds later, he returned with her shoes and took a knee to help her put them on. "You're not ready to do that yet." She shook her head, digging her spiked heels into the dirt as he started tugging her up to the road. "I am ready. Please, Master,"—you evil fucker—"Please don't make me get on the bus feeling like this. I can't—" "You can, and you will." He wrenched her into his arms, cupped her ass in his hands, and pressed his erection against her belly. "Keep your head down like a good little slave. Stop letting your pride overrule passion, and you'll be rewarded. You're filthy anyway; everyone will assume you've been fucked already." He was right. Shit! She smoothed her short skirt over her thighs and pursed her lips at the sight of the thick mud smeared on her legs. Bending over, she brushed the dry flakes away. The butt plug shifted inside her, and she gasped. Her pussy had grown so sore, she hadn't noticed the slight burn in her ass, but it returned now with a vengeance. He expected her to sit on this thing? "Take the butt plug out." She walked stiffly to where he'd dropped her sweatshirt and then stood with her back to him as she pulled it on. Her face was burning hot, and

she didn't want him to know how embarrassed she already was. "I'll do whatever you want if you take it out." "You'll do whatever I want either way." Arrogant asshole. Fine, she'd do it herself. Reaching under her skirt, she felt around for the wide end of the plug. Her position made her ass cheeks clench, and her anus held tight to the plug. She'd have to sit to take it out herself. Or bend over so he could do it. She lifted her head, and her forehead hit his chin. The already rapid beat of her heart sped up until it felt like there was a frightened bird trapped under her rib cage. He moved so quickly, so quietly. She didn't stand a chance against—there'd be no escape. Not now. Maybe never. His arms wrapped around her waist, his hands around her wrists. He whispered in her ear. "Leave it, or I'll stuff a great, big vibrator in your cunt. One so loud every passenger will hear the buzz." "No." Her throat tightened, and her mouth went dry. What if he didn't hear me? She tipped her head up, shaking her head, licking her lips, and breathing out the words. "Don't, Master. I'll leave the plug. I'll do whatever you say." On the road above them, the bus engine rumbled, and the headlights flicked on and off. The driver was ready to go. The man slid his hand up her back and raked his fingers into the hair above her nape. He tugged hard. "Go get on the bus." "Okay." She swallowed, and then yelped when he pulled harder. "What?" "What do you say?" Pride squirmed like a rattlesnake caught in a muslin snake bag, but need became the soothing darkness, lulling it to sleep. Peace filled her as she lowered her eyes. "Yes, Master."

Chapter Four

The light condensation of her breath on the bus window where she rested her head, along with her relaxed slouch, might have fooled some, but Mark knew she wasn't really sleeping. Her book lay on her lap, held open by her thumb, right on the page where the heroine was first penetrated by two men. He'd read the book a few times and enjoyed the imagery—enough that he'd used that very scene to whack off several times. So he knew exactly how she must be feeling. Painfully aroused and unsure of how to tend to her needs on a bus full of strangers. The slick juices he'd briefly tasted were probably spilling right out of her swollen cunt and soaking her tiny skirt with no panties to stem the flow. Her asshole must be sore from clenching on the wide, ribbed plug. By the way she squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her thighs together, he could tell she'd decided to ride out the sensations until they went away. Which just wouldn't do. Hooking his hand under her elbow, he pulled her over so abruptly she almost fell right over his lap. Catching her balance, she stared up at him, lips parted. Not a hint of defiance in her eyes. She didn't even try to push away from him. Finally, the submission he'd been looking for. "Once you get over yourself, you're a very good slave, aren't you?" He touched her lips with the tips of his fingers and shook his head. "No, don't speak. Listen. I am very pleased, but I can't be too easy on you, can I? We wouldn't want a repeat of your behavior outside." She nodded and then shook her head. Unsure of the right answer, determined to give it. Very nice. "You want me to be happy, right?" She nodded. "Good girl." He moved his fingers and slid his hips forward. "Show me." The tone he used brooked no argument, but, still, he braced for one. A huff, a scowl, narrowed eyes—instead she licked her lips and rested her elbow on his knee, bracing herself to undo his zipper. She kissed the tip of his dick even as she freed it

from his boxers. Her lips slipped over him, and his balls tightened. Little flicks of her tongue, right under the head of his cock, made him groan. He petted her hair and glanced down to find her watching him with a naughty smile on her lips. Then she licked right up his shaft like she was licking melting ice-cream from the side of a cone. "Jesus." He fisted his hand by his thigh, gritting his teeth to hold back a moan. Her hand closed the base of his dick, gliding up loosely to meet her lips as she took him in her mouth. Gentle pumping and sucking caused pleasure to rise like a stroked flame. Feeling himself about to come already, he let his gaze drift to the seat in front of them where an old man slept. He looked over to the seat one row back across from them. The middle-aged woman who'd hit on him after he boarded was curled up under a big, flannel blanket. Good. No chance of getting caught. He'd used exposure as a threat because he'd sensed that she'd fold faster, but, in truth, he didn't much like being watched. Not unless the observers were going to participate, and the bus didn't offer enough space for that kind of fun. But, one day, soon, he'd arrange it. He had a couple of friends this little slut might like. Not that she'd have a choice either way. Once he got her tied up and gagged, all she could do was take whatever he wanted to do to her. If he wanted to fill her cunt and her ass with his and his friend's dicks, then he would. His dick twitched in her hot, little mouth, and his attention returned to her sweet manipulation. She moaned, and his thigh muscles clenched. She lifted her head again, spit on her palm, and stroked him harder, faster. Then she continued sucking, sending vibrations through him by humming softly. When he caught the familiar melody, he coughed out a laugh. I Know You Want Me by Pitbull, one of his favorite new songs. He pulled her off him and kissed her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth just the way he'd soon thrust his dick into her tight, wet pussy. "All right, babe. That's enough." As he backed away, she pouted. She enjoyed being kissed, and he would give her more. But later. There was no way he'd waste time

making out with her when they could be fucking. "Go to the bathroom, and leave the door unlocked. I want your bra off, your blouse open, and your skirt around your knees. No higher, no lower. Lean over the sink, and wait for me." Her eyes went wide. "But—" Anyone can come in? He shut her up with a dark look before she could voice her concerns. "Now, slut." Biting her lip, she bowed her head and climbed over him. She tugged at her skirt as she stood in the aisle between the seats. Then squared her shoulders and moved towards the back of the bus. Brave girl. Admiration filled him as he watched her disappear into the bathroom. Despite her uncertainty, she'd obeyed with grace and poise. He rested his arm on the back of his chair. The occupied light flicked on. Then off. A moment of indecision, then acceptance. She probably trusted him to make sure no one else would walk in on her. He smiled and settled in to wait, curious how long that trust would last.

Chapter Five

The door opened, and Shawna's breath hitched. She lifted her head to look in the mirror, wanting to make sure the right person had joined her. A firm hand pushed her head down. Fingers probed her pussy, and she whimpered as dread settled deep in her gut, warring with the neediness that had left her desperate. But not desperate enough to let just anyone touch her. That's just funny. The voice of reason in her head mocked her. Could she really say she wasn't that desperate? Honestly? Reason and doubt both folded as slippery fingers spread the moisture spilling out of her over her clit and then around her stretched anus. The presence behind her shifted away until all she could feel was the pressure holding her head down. Smack!

A sharp sting exploded over her butt. She choked back a sob as her ass cheeks clenched and the butt plug shifted inside her. The hand moved from the back of her head to her hip. Something smooth and hard slid between her thighs, held tight together by her skirt. She felt the head of a dick, pulsing steadily against her pussy, straining into her snug cleft. She shifted to ease the passage, but another smack, this one on her thigh, stilled her. "Don't move." He said. Relief loosened every muscle in her body. She knew that voice. It was him. With one hard thrust, all the emptiness was filled. The sleekness within wrapping around something solid—it felt so damn right. The slight discomfort of adjusting became another kind of pleasure. A little wiggle would probably get her off. At which point, her brain just might start functioning again. She whimpered as a little voice in her head chanted 'wrong wrong wrong,' and then she gasped. "Please, Master." "Master?" Roughly pulling her hair to force her to look in the mirror, he chuckled, and then gave her a thin smile. "You really are a slut. You weren't sure it was me." "I—" Smack! He slapped her thigh, jerking her hips to drive his dick in deeper. "Shut up." Teetering unevenly on her spiked heels, her head wrenched as far back as it could go, she could do nothing but cling to the sink as he fucked her. Again and again, he pistoned in and out. His hips ground against her ass, moving the butt plug with each thrust. Full, fuller than she'd ever been, she felt heat gather in her core and billow outwards. Her thighs shook as raw pleasure tore through her. She opened her mouth to scream as the violent sensations exploded. He covered her mouth with his hand. "Shh. We don't want someone to break down the door. They might think I'm trying to kill you."

Aren't you? His hand smothered her whimpers as he pounded into her, not giving her even a second to come down before driving her right back up. Her insides were so sensitive she could feel every ridge of him as he slid in and out, giving her more and more, circling to open her wider. "Hold on." He slowed for a moment and reached down to rub her clit. His other hand pushed between her thighs, and he drew his dick out almost all the way. Then he worked two fingers into her alongside his cock. "Ah, that's good. You're tight, so fucking tight, but, with a bit of work, I'm sure we could get two dicks in here." "Oh, god!" Her whole body clenched up at the possibility. As he thrust, wiggling his fingers a little every time he plunged in, she imagined another man taking her, using her. If she felt this full already, with only one man and a butt plug, how would it feel . . . . But both in her pussy? She bit her lip and groaned. She'd be afraid of being torn apart, yet, she had to admit, she'd be willing to try. If it got to be too much, she could cry off. Like now? Maybe not. She'd wanted to be powerless, and this man had given her that. Whatever he decided to do to her, she would take it. Neither of them would have it any other way. "Come for me, baby." His lips caressed her cheek, and he licked away the tears she hadn't felt spill. "You're beautiful when you come. I want to see it again." Again? She didn't know if she could. But, as with everything else, he didn't give her a choice. He pinched her clit and fucked her hard. The top of his dick grazed a spot deep within that sent electricity sizzling right through her veins. Her toes curled, and she threw her head back. He paused and then angled his dick so that it hit that same spot over and over. "Ah . . . ah!" The electric sensation overloaded and burst like a transformer struck by lightning. Her hips bucked as she tried to absorb the fiery currents flowing through

her. His dick dragged every last spasm out. He grunted and slammed in, his dick twitching as he came. He slipped out of her, hands shaking as he turned her. Holding her against him, he took several deep breaths, and then picked her up to sit her on the edge of the sink. After tugging her skirt off, he tapped her knee. "Spread your thighs." She gaped at him stupidly and then shook her head. "Please, I can't take anymore." "I doubt that." He frowned at her until she spread her thighs. "Good girl." Smiling, he grabbed a handful of paper towels from the dispenser by the sink. "But if it makes you feel any better, I've got nothing more to give you. That hot, little cunt drained the life right out of me." His praise dissolved the embarrassment of his cleaning her. She hopped off the sink and pulled her skirt back on as he cleaned himself. The blood rushed to her head when she straightened, and he grabbed her arm to steady her. "One last thing." He bent her over his arm, flipped her skirt up, and then gently removed the butt plug. "There we go. We're all done." "Thank you." She smoothed down her skirts and flushed. "May I go now?" "Are you okay?" He waited for her nod and then opened the door. A young man seated by the bathroom glanced at her as she passed and winked. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she hurried to her seat. Before long, her eyes drooped. Arms folded against the window ledge, she rested her head. The seat beside her creaked. "Come here." He said, putting his arm over her shoulders and easing her head down to his lap. "Isn't that more comfortable?" "Mmmhmm." She closed her eyes, lips curving in a sleepy smile as he began petting her hair. "You're very comfy." "My pleasure, love." He gave her shoulder a squeeze and whispered. "So was this trip more pleasant than you thought it would be?"

"The end was," she said. "More than I could have ever imagined."

Chapter Six

People crowded by the bus, jostling each other to get to their bags. Mark watched Shawna take a hesitant step forward and then retreat as an old lady cut her off. She fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, looking completely lost. Poor thing. Spotting her luggage still underneath the bus, he squeezed into the space between the weary travelers and the bus, reaching right over a couple of teenagers to fetch the bulky, pink suitcase. His height made it easy to avoid conking anyone in the head with the bag as he shuffled backwards and joined her by the sliding terminal doors. She reached for her bag, but he shook his head and pointed at the parking lot. "Go on, I've got it." "Thanks." She bit her lip, glancing at the sports bag slung over his shoulder. "That's all you brought?" "That's all I needed." He sighed when she ducked her head and took her hand. "You must be exhausted. Let's get you home." She walked with him to the car. As he loaded her bag into the trunk, she stood beside him, shifting from foot to foot. He slammed the trunk and then folded his arms over his chest. "You've obviously got something to say. Out with it." "I just don't know if I want to go home. My parents—" "You're coming home." He growled and curved his hand under her chin when she shook her head. "Haven't I proved myself yet? What else do I have to do?" Blinking fast, she opened her mouth, but then closed it. Tears spilled down her cheeks and over his hand.

"I appreciate the effort, Mark, and I enjoyed myself, but . . . ." She swallowed and pressed her eyes shut as though to hold back more tears. "We want different things. I don't want you changing just to please me." I'm such a fucking ass. After everything I've done, what else would she believe? "Shawna, did you get the impression, at any time, that I was doing something I didn't want to?" She frowned, little creases forming between her eyes like they did whenever she was thinking hard. "Actually, no. But that was just a game." "Was it?" He turned away from her and dropped his sports bag on the hood of his car. Opening one of the side pockets, he quickly found what he was looking for. "Get on your knees, pet." Her lips parted. Then she wrinkled her nose. "Why?" "Every time you question me, you get ten lashes." He arched a brow when she sputtered. "And not with the flogger—I know how much you enjoy that. The tawse will get the message across." The color left her face. She dropped to her knees so hard he winced. "And, apparently, we'll need to revisit your training, pet." He tipped her chin up with a finger. "What happened to moving gracefully? Seeing you hurt yourself doesn't please me." A little hiccup escaped as she opened her mouth. Then she sobbed. "I'm sorry . . . Master." The happiness glowing from her tear-rimmed eyes made him want to kneel with her so he could take her in his arms—but, no, she needed his strength. He opened the square box in his hand and pulled out the solid circlet of metal. Using the Allen key on the chain around his neck, he opened the collar. "Is that . . . ." She nibbled at her bottom lip, and a flush rose high on her cheeks. "When—" "You do not have permission to speak," he said sharply. "Lift your hair."

She lifted her hair, and he put the collar around her neck. The lock clicked, and the sound filled him with a feeling of ownership, something he'd never felt before. This was what she'd wanted from him all along, and he'd been a fool to deny her. It had taken almost losing her before he could accept that nothing either of them wanted was wrong. Never again. He cupped her face in his hand and warmth pooled inside as she peered up at him, hope glistening in her eyes. "You're mine. Forever." He inhaled deeply as the weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders. He waited for doubt to creep in. But all he felt was peace. He held out his hand. "Get up." She rose as smoothly as a dancer and gave him her hand. He shook his head. "The other one." Biting back a smile, she gave him her left hand. He took her wedding ring out of his pocket and slipped it on her finger. "Don't ever take it off again."

Epilogue

Curled up on a huge, velvet cushion on the floor, Shawna flipped through the pages of her diary. Months of pain, of being lost and alone, and after only a few weeks she could honestly say that was all behind her. The safety and security she'd assumed came along with marriage vows finally felt real. Mark had been a player in the lifestyle when they met, but he'd never shown any interest in going further than light bondage and rough sex. Since she'd never experienced either, she hadn't even considered wanting more. Yet she developed a taste for the formality imposed during the intensive, weekend-long submission workshops they'd participated in. She fell even more in love with the man Mark became when he took his dominant role seriously. But he always left that man in the dungeon, along with the whips and chains. At home he wanted to be "normal."

Which made her feel like her fantasies, the ones in which he tied her to their bed to flog her and fuck her, were wrong. They'd always communicated well, so she tried to explain, but he simply teased her and scheduled another "play session." Tired of playing, she spoke to one of their instructors at the club, wondering if maybe something was wrong with her. She couldn't enjoy what they called "vanilla" anymore. The Domme asked her how much control she wanted to give up. Her answer? All of it. "You want to be a slave, pet," the kind Domme had said before bringing her to the dungeon where Mark waited. "Tell your Dom. He loves you, he'll understand." But Mark hadn't understood. Instead, he'd canceled their memberships and signed them up for marriage counseling. The counselor tried to convince her she didn't really want what she thought she wanted. All the books she'd read, all the roleplaying she'd seen in the club, had created an elaborate fantasy world. Her demands on her husband weren't fair. She couldn't help but agree. So she turned her focus to painting and did her best to content herself with this boring life she hadn't signed up for. Once her paintings started selling well, she'd immersed herself in advancing her career, and the distance between her and Mark grew. Not to say he hadn't tried, but his offers to bring her back to the club were too little, too late. Feeling like she was cutting her own heart out of her chest, she'd taken off her wedding ring and asked for a divorce. Then she moved out. The trip to Detroit was her first step toward really letting go of the man she loved. Because, as the counselor had convinced her, that man didn't exist. Socks scuffing the carpet near her head startled her, bringing her back to the present. She tried to sit up, and the big cushion flipped out from under her. Her back hit the ground, and she looked up at Mark, stunned. "Clumsy, pet." He clucked his tongue and put his hands on his hips. "I rented that new movie you wanted to see, but perhaps we should go down to the dungeon for another lesson."

Heat pooled in her core even as a chill crawled up her spine. The room he'd fixed up in their basement wasn't a "dungeon" by most lifestylers' standards, but the sawhorse he'd bought and the Saint Andrew Cross he was building were a good start. There were chains, ropes he'd been using to practice the technique he'd learned in their latest workshop, and, best of all, plenty of space for him to use his new whip. Punishments never took place in the dungeon, so she didn't fear being brought there, but her "lessons" were rarely pleasant. Even though Mark always massaged her sore muscles after, spending hours moving from one formal position to another so she wouldn't forget—not fun. But the day Mark had proudly displayed her flawless knowledge of high protocol in front of a group of new subs at the club made the training worth all the aches and pain. His approval meant more to her than any amount of pleasure. Rolling onto her knees, she bowed and stretched her arms out over her head. Mark chuckled. "Suck up. Come, love. Sit with me." On the sofa? She pressed her lips together, careful to keep her expression neutral as she sat up, and then stood with all the poise she could muster. With even steps, she moved to join him on the sofa. "Stop." His hard tone struck her like the lash of a whip. Only with no warm up to make the kiss of leather erotic. She automatically stood at attention, arms at her side, fingers slightly curled. What did I do? Her Master didn't wait long before answering her unvoiced question. "I expect you to follow my orders without question." "I—" She cut herself off and had to resist slapping her hand over her mouth. Stupid, stupid, stupid! She didn't have to be told this was a situation where she didn't speak unless spoken to. "The question was in your eyes, Shawna." He stood, jaw clenched, and she winced. He hardly used her name anymore unless he was angry. Usually, he called her "pet" or "love." "Voicing it would have been honest at least."

This, this was the man she loved. The one who knew her so well nothing she did escaped him. Her body, her mind, her soul belonged to him. Why had she doubted that? At his hand gesture, down with two fingers apart, she lowered to her knees. Sitting on her heels, she spread her thighs and rested her hands on them, palms up. "I've told you before, and I'll tell you again. I will not suddenly stop being your master. But, being your master, I decide whether I want you at my feet or curled up by side." He reached into the top drawer of the antique end table and pulled out the tawse. It seemed like he kept the damn thing close at hand no matter where they were. Did he have more than one? "Twenty is a good number, isn't it, slave?" Twenty? Holy shit. The last time he'd given her fifteen, and she'd cried every time she sat down for days. She'd earned the punishment by swearing at him just to get a reaction. Didn't take her long to realize he knew the difference between bratty behavior for attention and straight out insolence. He'd figured out quickly that insolence was her way of testing him. Which he told her again and again he had no tolerance for. "I expect you to answer when asked a question." The disappointment in his eyes hurt more than the tawse ever could. "Let's not add rudeness to your offenses." "Yes, Master." His tone turned cold. "Yes, twenty is a good number?" She closed her eyes. "Yes, Master. Twenty is more than reasonable. I deserve it." "Really? And what makes you say that?" He put his hand on the back of her neck. "Stand before you answer." When she stood, he circled her. She had to fight not to turn with him as she spoke. "I promised I would trust you, but I have a lousy way of showing it." She swallowed at his dark look. "Sir."

"Eloquently put." His sudden smile warmed her like the sun did when she stepped out of her cold office in the summer. He returned to the sofa. "Now, strip and come sit with me. You will be denied clothes for this weekend and whipped with the tawse in . . . let's say four intervals of five strikes each." As she stripped, she tried to figure out what the amusement in his tone at the mention of the "four intervals" meant. That he didn't sound mad anymore was good, but what was he planning? Snuggling up to his side on the sofa, she rested her head on his chest and peeked up at him. "Permission to speak, Master?" "Granted." His hand slid down her arm, up her ribs, and then settled on her breast. "What is it, pet?" He rolled her nipple between his fingers, and little sparks of lust zipped down to her clit. She almost forgot what she'd wanted to ask. Then he pinched her nipple, and she jumped. "Yes, pet?" He asked again. "Will we be doing something different this weekend?" He laughed, and the sound rumbled right through her. Flipping her onto her back, he loomed over her, lips twisted in a positively evil smile. "You could say that." He reached between the cushions and pulled out the cuffs attached to chains bolted into the sofa's wooden frame. After they were around her wrists, he sat up and pulled her feet onto his lap. He massaged the sole of her foot with one hand while he idly fingered her with the other. "Is that a problem?" She thought of the list he'd made her fill out and sign, of the few things she'd checked off as hard limits. Since neither of them would consider pushing those limits for another six months, she didn't have to worry about that. Whatever he chose to do to her, she'd love. Or learn to. "No, Master." She groaned and lifted her hips as he pumped his fingers deeper, adding a third, then a fourth. "No problem at all."

~The End~

About the Author Bianca Sommerland was born and raised in Montreal, Quebec. When not reading neurotically or writing as though the fate of the world rests on her keyboard, she is either watching hockey or teaching her daughters the beauty of a classic, steel pony while reminiscing about her days in Auto Body Mechanics. Her time is balanced with utmost care between normal family life, and the internal paranormal realm where her characters reside. For the most part, she succeeds. You can find her athttp://imnoangelauthorsblog.wordpress.com/ If you enjoyed The Trip, you might also like Deadly Captive, available now from Bianca Sommerland and Noble Romance Publishing, LLC