ALICE: SLAVE’S FINAL REVENGE

ALICE: SLAVE’S FINAL REVENGE

(BOOK FIVE OF THE ‘ALICE’ BDSM SERIES)

By Aphrodite Hunt

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright 2014 by Aphrodite Hunt

Cover art by Aphrodite Hunt

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Dawn Steele/Aphrodite Hunt is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author. Her stories have been in the Top 5 of the Amazon overall bestselling charts, the 10 of the Barnes and Nobles overall charts and the No. 1 spot in Amazon's Movers and Shakers. She is a Top 50 Amazon Most Popular author.
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ALICE: SLAVE’S FINAL REVENGE

1

My father will burn for what he did to me.

So he prefers my brother, Max, and his cow-eyed wife, Gina Wesley, to me? Me, his once favored daughter?

I stare at the text from my lawyer back in the States.

It says:

“
Your father was here in the office yesterday with the boss. He changed his will.”

A funny flutter turns my stomach. The lawyer in question who sent me that text is one of junior partners in my family’s law firm. I let him fuck me in the ass. Occasionally. Apparently, the poor sop’s wife doesn’t like to take it up the ass, but the guy’s perennial fantasies involve the tighter passage. Everything about it, in fact. He likes to rim it. He likes to put his finger inside it. He likes to put his cock deep inside it and fuck it. And he likes to cum inside it, imagining his semen deep inside my ass.

In return, he plies me with nuggets about what my father does and does not do.

If my father changes his will, it can’t be a good thing. There’s Max, me and the twins. And mother too, of course. Those billions are supposed to be split between us.

But now, there’s another threat. It comes in the form of a What’s App photo sent to me by someone on my father’s household staff. A blonde maid, whom I have licked and sucked and fucked with a strap-on dildo.

I stare at the photo. It is of Gina Wesley by the beach. She is wearing a bikini and there’s a very obvious bump on her belly.

So she’s pregnant now.

Is that why my Dad changed his will? To include his unborn grandchild?

To cut me out of it completely?

A bitter taste bolts into my mouth. So that’s what I am to my Dad now. Nothing but a disappointment. A failed experiment. All those billions . . . going to everyone else in the family. Except me.

I still have my trust fund. There’s hundreds of millions in there. Untouched until I reach certain points in my life. A certain age.

Thirty
.

A certain milestone.

My first child
.

The only thing is – who wants to have children? Who wants to bend her body out of shape?

There will be nothing more satisfying than to take my father’s billions away from him. When he’s still alive. Before I reach any of those stupid milestones.

And to do that, I have to wrest away his company.

It’s not about the money. We all have plenty of money.

Far from it.

It’s about making him pay.

Daddy darling, you’re about to find out how much a chip off the old block I am.

2

I have a plan.

You see, my father’s company is listed on the stock exchange, but the shares are primarily controlled by a few people. I am off to see one of those people now with the help of Lord Gabriel’s money.

“
Call it a loan,” he says as he gives me a farewell fuck. “You can always pay me back when you take over your father’s company.”

I genuinely like Gabriel. I like being fucked by him. He has a great way of angling his cock so that the crown of it knocks my G-spot in a most pleasing manner, and all this while I am tied up and gagged with leather bonds.

But now I am about to embark on a different mission. I am on a plane from London to Scotland. I have never been to Scotland.

I land at the Glasgow International airport. My hired limo is outside, waiting to meet me. I get in with the familiar trepidation rising in me again.

“
Where to, luv?” says the driver.

“
To Glenwaverly Manor,” I say.

“
Visiting family?”

“
A friend of my father’s.”

Who is not exactly ecstatic to see me. But that’s just a matter of interpretation. I’ll get him excited soon enough.

*

The manor is two hours out in the country. And it is beautiful country. There are trees and meadows and flowers and quaint houses converted to ‘Bed and Breakfast’ places. I feel happy despite everything.

As we go deeper and deeper into the countryside, I can see rabbits and deer, bounding about. I am reminded of the farm and of being a milk cow. Good times, those.

 
Finally, we draw up to a pair of stone pillars, which look frankly ancient – like they are out of the period of Norman the Conqueror. A carved plaque on one of the pillars says: GLENWAVERLY. There is no fence. The entire acreage of the place blends into the meadows and forests, which are shrouded in mist. It’s also a lot colder here than in England, where Gabriel lives.

It is a mystical place. One which I can readily believe would give rise to legends of faeries and dire wolves.  

The wrought iron gates are open as well, and the car purrs its way through the pillars and on to the manor in the distance. A large brown barn and some stables complete the country ensemble.

We arrive at the manor’s front doors, which are also flung open. Does anyone live in this place?

“
This is it, luv. You want to get off?”

“
Yes.” I grab my purse and wrench open the car door.

“
Doesn’t look like anyone’s around.”

“
I’ll be the judge of that.”

I pay the driver and stand in front of the doors with my Louis Vuitton suitcase, feeling out of place. I peer into the bowels of the house as the car goes off, leaving me here.

“
Hello?” I call out.

No one answers.

I grab my suitcase and wheel it in. OK, it’s not as though they are expecting me. I am barging in here after all.

I remember the phone conversation I had three days ago with the owner of this house:

“
Hello, Mr. McArthur?”

“
Who the hell are you? How did you get this number?” The voice was gruff

“
From Lord Gabriel Wolfe. My name is Alice Devlin.”

“
Devlin? As in Russell Devlin?”

“
Yes, he’s my father.”

A pause.

“
Pity for you. I have a beef to pick with Russell.”

My ears pricked. “Oh? What about?”

“
Why should I discuss it with you?”

“
Because . . . I have a proposition that might be beneficial for us both.”

Click.

“
Hello? Mr. McArthur? Hello?”

When I tried calling the number again, it went right to Voicemail.

So there you are. They are not exactly expecting me. But I have a will of iron. I am one of those people who believe I can change things by sheer willpower alone.

But maybe he’s truly not home. For a billionaire, he certainly doesn’t live it up. The manor looks more dilapidated than glamorous.

I step into the house. Am I out of my depth here?

Inside, the furniture is dark and very old. They are all antiques, possibly dating back to the Stone Age. The walls are decked with a coat of arms as well as various hunting trophies – several fox heads, a wolf head, a magnificent stag head with a pair of antlers which would be the envy of stags in America everywhere.

A large oil painting of a hunting scene with men in kilts mounted on horses dominates the wall above the stone fireplace. They are hunting a bloodied fox with a terrified, haunted expression. The heath is filled with ashes but it is not lighted now.

“
Mr. McArthur?” I called.

No answer. Maybe no one is home. But there has to be a maid or someone. I read Gabriel’s report on Christopher McArthur: he’s old money. His family goes all the way back to . . . I don’t know, the Saxons? They probably speak Gaelic or something. Anyway, he has a very large family. The guy is virile if he is a day.

I wander into the large stone kitchen, calling out as I go along. There’s no one in there either. The house is in a bit of a mess, if you ask me. Dirty dishes are piled high in the sinks. They don’t seem to have a dishwasher of either the mechanical or human variety.

After a bit, I decide that no one is home.

Maybe they are all out hunting.

I turn back towards the entrance hall. And freeze as I stare in the barrel of a gun pointing at me.

3

The man pointing the gun at me is in his fifties, with a full head of brown hair and a thick, unkempt beard. He is dressed in a red and black tartan kilt.

“
Who are you?” he growls. He has a pointed Scottish burr.

I am guessing this must be the owner of the manor. I raise my hands. I am wrapped in a Burberry trench coat because of the cold.

“
I’m Alice Devlin,” I say quickly. “I called you.”

The man does not say anything for a while. He sizes me up.

“
Why did you come here?” he finally says.

“
I tried to tell you. I have a business proposition for you.”

“
And why should I listen to you? Your father is no gentleman. He tried to put a run on my company.”

So that’s why I didn’t see Christopher McArthur at Max and Gina’s wedding.

“
I’m not on my father’s side,” I say. I stare at the gun. “Would you mind putting that thing away? You’re making me nervous and I have a full bladder from the ride. You don’t want me to have an accident on your ancient floor and tarnish some ancestral clan memory, do you?”

The side of his mouth twitches. He’s not a bad-looking man, actually. He must have been quite a strapping lad in his youth. He certainly is very tall. Well over six feet.

He puts down the gun.

“
Please, just hear me out,” I say.

“
OK, you have one minute to talk, lassie.”

I quickly outline my plan, filled with clauses and takeover jargon. He listens.

At the end of it, I say, “Well, what do you think?”

I think I must have taken well over a minute.

Christopher McArthur throws back his head and guffaws. “That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.”

“
It’s not absurd. You know it’s perfectly legal. And Lord Gabriel and I have created just the perfect entity for that. We want you to join with us.”