Read Becoming Theirs (Dominion Trust Book 1) Online
Authors: Trent Evans
Tags: #MFF BDSM erotica
About This Book
A Dominion Trust story.
What is a modern, independent woman to do when the only thing she truly wants is to surrender herself completely? Erica, a young, beautiful college student is looking for that something which speaks to what she truly is deep down inside. Is it possible to finally find peace, even happiness within the strict bonds of utter submission?
When Blaine, a powerful, successful businessman realizes he and his wife are ready for something new, a deeper exploration of the love and lust they've shared as husband and wife, the naive, fetching Erica enters the picture. As a member of the Dominion Trust, Blaine has witnessed the fascinating dynamic of other couples who've taken a submissive into their beds, and into their lives. And now it's time to experience it for himself.
Blaine's wife Kathryn — a fiercely driven executive in her own right — submits to her husband in all things, but as the years have gone by, new needs, darker desires have stirred within her. Is she ready for a submissive of her own? Is their D/s marriage ready for a third, a woman who will submit to them both?
In this story, three people come together to find out if happiness really can be found in the complicated dance of dominance and submission, pain and pleasure of a BDSM menage relationship.
Intended for mature readers. 18 and over only!
This is a MFF BDSM menage erotic romance, with sexual contact among all three members of the menage.
Word count: approximately 22000 words.
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By Trent Evans
Published by Shadow Moon Press
The Chronicles of Muurland Series:
The Dominion Trust Series:
Her Troika — The Complete Story
Published By Stormy Night Publications
The Doctor and The Naughty Girl
What The Doctor Ordered (Box set)
Copyright © 2012 by Trent Evans
All rights reserved.
Cover Design by Rachel A Olson (
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and as such, any similarity to existing persons, places or events must be considered purely coincidental.
This book contains content that is not suitable for readers aged 17 and under.
For mature readers only.
Published in the United States by Shadow Moon Press, Washington.
First Shadow Moon Press Electronic Edition: October 2012
To my wonderful beta readers: Alice, Anna, Kayla, Renee, Sadey, and Sheri. Thank you so much for all that you do.
Erica was one night away from fulfilling her lifelong dream — to experience true submission. Why does a modern, free woman seek to give away her liberty? To fritter it away in pursuit of that one state of being, that singular experience of being subject to another’s will.
Standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, she felt lost in the immense room, lost within herself. There were people outside, far below on the beach, walking along the car-choked road crowded on both sides with businesses all jockeying for the same tourist dollar. Atop the hill, nestled among Douglas fir and towering Western Hemlock, the sprawling house — her temporary prison — surveyed all.
The late afternoon sun hit the water at just the right angle, the light captured, reflected, transforming the blue green, foam-flecked ocean into the mottled iridescence of flowing, molten metal. Erica had always loved the sea, and though she’d lived most of her life within ninety miles of it, she could count on one hand the number of times she’d actually
it. Every time, it took her breath away; the enormity of it; that confirmation, at once humbling and freeing, of just how small and insignificant a human being really was.
“Come to the ocean to be… not free,” she whispered. “You should have listened to your Mom.”
A mother’s job is to protect her young, and Erica remembered that night she’d told her mother she’d be taking a break from school. There were the questions, the suspicions, all of it overlaid with the unspoken fear a good mother feels when her young, naive children stray from carefully laid parental plans.
Erica found those plans nothing less than a numbing path to invisibility, the captivity of normal expectations; she sought captivity of quite another sort.
No, mom, it’s not because of a boy.
Erica couldn’t really tell her could she? Some things just can’t be processed.
No mom, it’s not because of a boy. It’s because of a boy… and a girl.
When your life has been meticulously planned, managed by your parents all the way up to college, you’re going to be taking some flack when you decide to quit said college — and Erica took a lot of it.
Worse than her worried mother though, had been the stone-cold silence from her father. He wouldn’t even talk to her. It was like something you’d watch in a Lifetime™ movie: daughter delivers Big Reveal; seething Father, brow properly furrowed, stalks off accompanied by mournful piano score. End scene.
Erica didn’t blame him, of course — not one bit. She’d have been
if she’d been in their shoes. But they didn’t really know, couldn’t really understand. How do you explain the appeal of subjugation, the frisson of lust a girl experiences amidst diabolically cruel humiliation, the soaring, otherworldly high following the searing pain of a caning? Trying to explain that to her loving parents would be about as successful as attempting to teach algebra to a toddler.
So she ran. It had been six months since that night.
The door opened behind her, but she stayed rooted to her spot, gazing out at the freedom just beyond the glass. The elegant maid Ana had said she’d be up soon to deliver Erica’s “meal,” How bread and water were regarded as a meal, Erica would never understand. She’d been warned though. Sir had outlined to her over the phone what accommodations she could expect at the beach house, and part of her at least (that unthinking part south of her waist), really didn’t mind the idea of mealtime as penance. As long as it was by his direction, by
direction, she would obey… and want even more.
Down there, a lazy summer evening unfolded, the crisp, salt-scented wind banishing any trace of the afternoon’s summer heat while atop the hill, Erica, the tall, lonely bird, caught in her gilded cage looked on, at once wistful and grateful. Her keen vision could pick out the red flash of color as someone slid across a sheen of waterlogged sand on a boogie board. Much further out she could see the white smudge of a low-slung cabin cruiser, bobbing as it drew too near to the surf zone.
Then a moment before she felt it, she saw the slight movement, the black color out of the corner of her eye, reflected in the thick double pane of the huge plate glass window. She moved to turn, but a hand pressed to her upper back, pushing her against the cold plane of the window. Nipples stiffened under the thin blouse, her chest against the hard glass. “Stay right there. Hands on the window.”
It was him! Her heart hammered in her chest, her hands shaking. She put her heated palms against the cool glass.
She ran them along the smooth surface, grateful for something to mask her shakes.
“Mm, so tall,” he murmured, standing close behind her. His cologne wafted over her, along with something else.
“You stay right where you are. I’m taking a shower. Need to get this fucking cigarette smell off of me.” He pressed the solid length of his body to her back, the bulge at his crotch against her buttocks. “If I come back to find you’ve moved
, I’ll be giving that cute ass of yours a beating earlier than I’d planned.”
His lips nuzzled her earlobe, his stubble rough against her skin. Then he was gone, leaving her trembling against the glass, held as fast as if he’d bound her in truth. She wondered what one of those summer tourists would see if they but turned to look up the wooded hill? Could they spot the slim woman spreading herself against the window as if she were being frisked? The sudden mental image of Sir’s big hands roughly manhandling her vulnerable flesh sent her clit humming. She knew the locals would smile knowingly, moving on with the remainder of their day.
Blaine Forster meant as much to the town as ten thousand tourists did, and the long-time residents knew it. So what if the rumors of what went on at his stunning vacation home occasionally drew raised eyebrows and clucking tongues? Those who knew him knew what he represented, understood when it was wise to make an issue, and when it was prudent to simply move on with life.
“I’ll just leave your lunch for you here.” Erica nearly jumped out of her shoes. The maid. How had she missed the woman’s entry?
Erica heard a tray laid down on the wood of the bar. She smiled. Only someone as loaded as Blaine would feel the need to have a goddamn
in his bedroom. “Ah, thank you. I—”
“No need to explain, Erica.” The satisfaction in the woman’s soft voice made Erica want to crawl under the bed as her face burned. She heard the door close behind her, grateful that the maid had not shown up later — though she had no real idea what was coming later.
Fighting the absurdly strong urge to turn to look at her meager repast, she kept herself plastered to the glass like a perp thrown against a convenient wall by a cop to search and cuff.
She assumed the cuffs would be coming a little later.
The sun had lowered considerably, its waning, filtered light shining directly into the room. Erica wondered at the shadow her body must have cast on the wall behind her. Alas, she didn’t dare turn to look at it. Yes, the idea of Blaine whipping her ass didn’t exactly sound
bad, but she hadn’t yet summoned up enough courage to defy one of his orders outright. Besides, she knew she wasn’t a brat; she found it a richer, far more exciting experience to obey him… in everything.
So there she stood, watching the daytime world slowly give way to that of the night. She grew up in Portland, OR, and she remembered the remarkable transformation that occurred in downtown on the weekends. Where during the daylight hours there were the business suits, the tasteful, stylish skirts, the occasional garishly dressed hippie bucking the conformity of the business day, those gave way to the night — and an entirely different city seemingly grew right out of the ground. There were the street kids, the slumming, BMW-driving teenagers, the punks, wannabe gangbangers, the hookers — she had even seen a man walking across Ankeny wearing nothing but a pair of assless chaps.
That concept of two beings in one had stayed with her, for it was something she felt particularly keenly. She’d given up trying to relate to friends swooning over the romantic dinner their boyfriends had taken them on, when her idea of “romance” was to be bent naked over the back of her couch and spanked. She’d ceased arguing with friends who’d used sex as a tool, leverage to be used against boyfriends that she generally found rather nice (though there were one or two douche bags as well, truth be told).