First, I must apologize for the delay in updating the blog. Real life has prevented me from posting much of late, and it just hasn’t been feasible to get back to the blog until now. I will do my best to get things back on schedule.
My newest book Night Beach is somewhat of an experiment. It is the first in a planned series of connected stories that will reveal different personalities and aspects of the Dominion Trust. There are several other stories either mostly written or fully sketched out, but the order and number of the stories will really depend on the readers. If they hate them, and want something else, it may be a rather short series. We shall see 😉
The first couple rounds of edits are almost done, so this thing should be buttoned up and ready for the beta readers by this weekend (about three weeks later than originally planned, unfortunately). As a result, the book likely won’t be released until the first or second week of October. I will get it out sooner if at all possible, but at this point, it’s looking doubtful.
Until then, I’ve included an excerpt below (please excuse any errors, as editing is not quite finished). Have a look and let me know what you think!
Night Beach by Trent Evans
Erica was one night away from fulfilling her lifelong dream — becoming a slave. 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 that is true submission 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 seen 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 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 arranged, managed by your parents all the way from diapers to term papers, 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 livid 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 Eva had said she’d be up soon to deliver Erica’s “meal”. How bread and water was 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 their direction, she’d 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; 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, Erica. 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 one inch, 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 fucking bar in his bedroom. “Ah, thank you Eva. 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 be searched and cuffed.
She assumed the cuffs would be coming out 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 all 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, Oregon, 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 staid 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, wanna-be gangbangers, the hookers — she’d even once 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 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 and bound over the back of her couch to be spanked and fucked. 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 douchebags as well, truth be told).
The very idea of withholding sex seemed. . .alien to her. Erica couldn’t really get enough of it, as long as it was kinky — preferably depraved. She liked giving pleasure, and her drive, her urge to serve had always unnerved her. Her mother tutted at Erica when she deferred to others, strived, often at her expense, to make others feel better. She loved taking care of people — and that drive naturally extended into her sexuality.
The blue white of arc-sodium streetlights randomly flickered on below. The coastal road was almost gridlocked with vehicles, a single, poor police car, strobes and blues flashing, crawling up through the mess. It surprised her to see only one cop on the night of the Fourth of July, but then again, the night had barely begun. People from the valley would be flooding in, and the cops would have more pressing matters to attend to than directing traffic. Up in her world though, none of that mattered, really, for her concern was only for him . . . and for her. It was a big night, and she just hoped she didn’t fuck it all up.
“You’re a good girl.”
Erica had been leaning against the window, her shoulders burning, and she straightened at his voice.
Glass clinked together somewhere behind her, a mass of humanity gathered down below her, preparing to celebrate.
“Do you remember our first meeting, Erica?” She felt him moving close behind her. Her arms trembled with the fatigue of holding them up for so long.
A finger tapped her shoulder. “Don’t ‘of course’ me, girl.”
“I’m sorry, Sir.”
“I’ll let it slide, but only because my fearsome wife hasn’t arrived yet.”
“She’s coming . . . here?” Erica gulped, thinking ‘fearsome’ to be a particularly apt description for her strict Mistress.
“Mm hmm,” Blaine said sipping from his drink, and leaning his back against the window, letting her see him. His close-cropped hair, white t-shirt and muscular arms made him look more like a mixed martial arts fighter than an executive, but she knew he purposely eschewed the look of a “suit.” The fact that he owned this house and close to a dozen other properties in this town alone confirmed he was every bit as successful in business as she had no doubt he’d be in an octagon.
He cocked his head. “Why the face? I thought you’d be happy.”
“I—I just didn’t know, Sir.”
His eyes glinted, and he smiled over the rim of his glass. Though he looked like he could tear phone books in half with his hands, his eyes gave the whole game away. It was what struck her that first night, and it still struck her now. Despite the fact that he was her Sir, commanded her obedience, those eyes of his held such warmth, such kindness. She’d not realized how much her life needed those two things until the night she’d agreed to let her friend Cam set her up to meet a friend. Cam knew what kind of man Erica was after, and when she’d first gazed in those hazel depths, and seen the playfulness, the caring, she thought maybe Cam had known more than she’d let on.
“You’ll have to get used to that.” He winked at her, shrugging. “I don’t know where she is half the time, either.”
Erica smiled. “Yes, Sir.”
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see Kathryn — quite the opposite, really. But the woman was a lot to take in, a trial to be sure — and Erica wanted to be ready for her. She was attracted to the cold beauty of her Mistress, like a supplicant to a cruel Goddess. She craved kneeling at her feet, wringing whatever kindness she could from the smallest of gestures from the aloof woman. Those kindnesses gave Erica pure joy — perhaps because such things from her Mistress were so very rare.
Truth was sometimes hard for Erica to come to grips with, and in this case she knew it wasn’t just that fleeting kindness she craved from her Mistress. No, she needed the other part of her, needed that darkness, that willingness to revel in Erica’s pain, take pleasure in her humiliation. It was only with Kathryn, did Erica realize fully what she was, what she’d been all along but hadn’t the words to describe it.
Blaine’s hand reached out, molding itself around her ribcage, stroking the fabric of her blouse. His touch sent a ticklish electricity through her skin. “You do remember that night don’t you?”
“Every second, Sir.”
“Then you know what I want you to do, don’t you?”
She shot a glance at Blaine. “Now?”
Lips tight and jaw firm, he nodded slowly, light dancing in his eyes.
She unbuttoned the blouse quickly, keeping her eyes on the task, not trusting her trembling fingers to complete the job without direct supervision.
His hand patted her ass, and he walked away. She turned toward him, slipping the last button and pulling the blouse from her slacks.
“No, turn back around.”
He glared at her, his jaw clenched.
“Sorry. It’s just that . . .they’ll see.”
“And what if they do, Erica?”
She inhaled, her breath shaky. “I don’t. . . know.”
“That’s something else you’d better get used to, girl. If you really want to do this, be mine, that body is going to be on display. A lot.”
He was at her back once more, his lips touching her cheek, kissing the smooth flesh at the join of shoulder and neck. “Yes, I think you’ll have some adjusting to do won’t you?
“Yes, Sir.” Her hands clutched both sides of the blouse. She was grateful for something to hold on to, her fingers trembled so.
His arm reached around her, the warm hand sliding up her belly. Fingers worked at her bra, releasing the front clasp in moments, the lace falling away to let cool air caress her breasts. “How will you react when we make you walk down a city street in a skin tight shirt but no bra? Your hard nipples on display for everyone to see?”
Clutching them both in his big hands, he squeezed her breasts firmly. “I think we’ll make you wear some nice tall heels too. Get those hips rolling and these tits bouncing.”
She dropped her eyes as her deep blush traveled down her neck, the flushing evident even on the slopes of the breasts still clutched in his big hands.
“I love your reactions,” he murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth. “You can’t hide anything from me, you know.”
“Yes, Sir.” She didn’t want to hide anything from him — ever. She only hoped it would be enough, her submission the key that would unlock his heart to her.
He spun her around, forcing her chest against the window. His hands pulled the blouse and loose bra out to the sides and she gasped as her breasts made contact with the cold glass.
“Don’t you dare move,” he growled. He clawed at her slacks, yanking them down along with her black thong.
“Sir, wait I—”
“Shh, just be a good girl. Obey me.”
Breathing labored, heart racing, she closed her eyes against the embarrassment of it. She felt as if every eye down below was trained upon her now, watching the girl with her naked boobs squashed against the window.
Urging her to lift each foot in turn, he slipped off her heels. His hands massaged the grooves the straps left in her flesh, then pulled her slacks completely off. Naked from the waist down, she fought the insanely powerful urge to bring her hands down to cover her pussy. They could see everything!
“Spread your legs.”
His hard hand stung her ass, and she tried to ignore the embarrassing jiggle of her flesh. “Wider.”
She moved her feet shoulder width apart, trying to ignore the image of what she must look like, the dark patch of pubic hair drawing the eye like a beacon to the sex nestled between pale thighs.
Strong hands gripped her buttocks, kneading the flesh. “God, I thought about this ass all day long.”
Erica’s breath hitched as his fingers dipped into the valley between the cheeks, stroking the velvet flesh of her bottom hole.
“I had Jack Weber giving me construction estimates for the new server farm, and all I could think about was being inside you, fucking this wet cunt.”
A hand smacked against her soft labia, and she yelped. Despite the sting, she could feel the slickness of her sex increase by the second. He always knew how to touch her — just that right mix of roughness, possessiveness. His fingers spread her labia apart, the air cool on her heated inner flesh. Two thick fingers slid in, sinking deep into her wetness, and a low moan escaped her lips.
“All ready I see,” he chuckled, planting a light kiss behind her ear. “Soon enough, bad girl. Soon enough.”
There was a sound of a zipper lowering.
No, not here. No fucking way!
Erica turned, dropping her hands from the glass, moving to step around him. “Wait, not—”
His hand clasped her upper arm in a bruising grip, his other hand grabbing her by the hair, pulling her up short. “What are you doing?” His voice was so quiet she had to strain to hear it.
“I can’t do that . . . there.”
Blaine’s hazel eyes locked with hers, boring into her, searching. She saw the warmth there, warring with the lust, the need to control, to own her. He kissed her, hard, his tongue plundering her mouth even as his fist twisted further in her hair, holding her fast. He bit her lip, sucked on her tongue, the almost imperceptible growling from deep in his chest making her pussy spasm.
“You’ll do what I tell you, girl. No questions.”
“Sir, I’m sorry, it’s just—
A finger, scented with her juices pressed its wet length across her mouth, silencing her.
“What happens to girls who disobey? Slaves who disobey?”
Erica knew this was right, had fantasized about this as long as she could remember. It had felt like a dream come true meeting a man like Blaine. But sometimes it unnerved her, the reality of her submission more raw, more intense than even the darkest of her fantasies. She reveled in it even as she tried to flee from it. Flee from the woman she was deep inside . . . the slave who craved this.
She whimpered as he jerked her head, the sensitive roots of her hair protesting.
“Slaves are — punished, Sir.”
“That’s correct.” His voice lowered, the sound vibrating in her chest, through her pussy. “And do you deserve to be punished?”
No! Yes! I don’t fucking know!
“Yes . . . Sir.”
“Good. You will be.” He released her hair, and pointed at the bed. “Bend over the side of the mattress and wait for me.”
Copyright © 2012, Trent Evans