Excerpt for Dominated by his Bodyguard, part #1: ‘Submit Against your Will’ by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

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‘Submit Against your Will’ is the first part of the ‘Dominated by his Bodyguard’ series by Tara Jones. Each story can be read and enjoyed separately or together (like episodes in a mini-series!).


George K. Jameson is a famous billionaire from New York. He has a serious heart condition and he needs to travel to London for surgery, which must be kept secret from ruthless business rivals and hungry journalists.

But nothing goes according to plan and George gets kidnapped on his way from his Wall Street office. His female kidnapper turns out to be a dangerously attractive woman, and before he knows what has happened he’s tied to a chair in an old abandoned house.

However, her plans are much more pleasurable than George could ever have imagine…

Warning: This story is for adult reading only and contains BDSM erotica content including: Bondage, handcuffs, duct tape, and a strong, dominant woman with a British accent.

Dominated by his Bodyguard (Romantic male submission erotica):
Part #1 ‘Submit Against your Will’
Copyright © 2017 Tara Jones
Published by Dubious Press

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reused.

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s peculiar imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be regarded or constructed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, actual events, locales, organisations, or groups is wholly coincidental.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This story is written and dedicated to all of
my readers and fans!

xxx/ Tara Jones

Also by Tara Jones

Dominated by the Librarian - series

Part #1: ‘Surrender to your Desire’

Part #2: ‘Surrender to Please Her’

Part #3: ‘Surrender to Obey’

Part #4: ‘Surrender to your Mistress’

Part #5: ‘Surrender to Submit’

Part #6: ‘Surrender Forever’

'Dominated by the Librarian': The Complete Series (Part #1-6)

Dominated by his Bodyguard – series (NEW!)

Bonus story: ‘Submit to Her’

Part #1: ‘Submit Against your Will’

Part #2: ‘Submit and Obey’

Part #3: ‘Submit and Please Her’

Part #4: ‘Submit to Punishment’

Part #5: ‘Submit Against All Reason’

Part #6: ‘Submit Forever After’

'Dominated by his Bodyguard': The Complete Series (Part #1-6) (Coming soon!)

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Dominated by his Bodyguard

Male Submission: Submit Against your Will
by Tara Jones

I had no idea that I was going to get kidnapped later that day when I woke up in the morning and after a quick shower went to the office on Wall Street in my bulletproof black Mercedes.

I hate Wednesdays, I thought tetchily while I spun my fountain pen rapidly between my fingers as a miniature outlet of my frustration. When will the security check be finished? Next year?

Wednesday was the only day during the week when I didn’t work. I’m one of the best stock market analysts in the world and I’m the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar company, which is located on Wall Street in one of the tallest and most impressive buildings in Manhattan. However, on Wednesdays my entire company was shut down for half a day for inspection. This included screening all the company’s computers and a random vigorous check of my employees. I admit the whole procedure was a little bit 1984, but time had shown that even if it was a rather paranoid system, it worked and had proven to be remarkably efficient.

I was a little bit more impatient than usual, which–although I didn’t want to admit it!–was a result of not receiving any phone calls, mysterious messages, or further erotic visits from Kithira since our meeting on the rooftop of my penthouse apartment a week earlier. The fact that I hadn’t heard from her left me equally disappointed, relieved, and highly on edge at the same time. And although she never contacted me directly, Kithira figured in my dreams at night over and over again and effectively invaded my private life, whether I wanted it or not, something which I was not accustomed to.

I was used to being in charge and control of everything, from my multi-billion-dollar company down to the sock index in my drawer.

Not that I did my own laundry, of course, but still. You get the idea.

“Hannah said she’ll be finished in about thirty minutes, Mr Jameson.” My personal assistant, Jonas Sørensen, showed up in the doorway, carrying a small metal cup of hot coffee.

Jonas had been my personal assistant for several years and was impressively well-organised, loyal, and had an uncanny knack for mind-reading regarding my coffee addiction. He was tall, ridiculously fit, and–for lack of better words–quite stunningly beautiful. Born in Norway, he had Scandinavian blond hair and clear blue eyes and he was so good-looking it would make even the straightest guy at least momentarily ponder their sexual orientation, since Jonas also was openly gay.

The last part had shown to be strategically beneficial, especially if I had an important meeting with people that I wanted to get off balance, since most guys–regardless of how modern and metrosexual they would like to appear–were often deep down rather homophobic. And having a tall and beautiful blond man serving coffee or brushing biscuit crumbs from their laps tended to get people quite distracted.

“Half an hour?” I said and stifled a sigh. “Really?”

“Yes, sir,” Jonas replied and handed me the stainless steel cup of steaming Vietnamese drip coffee. The coffee was strong enough to turn even the calmest Buddhist monk into a frolicking hyper Border collie. I sipped the coffee carefully, not because I wasn’t used to the strength of the beverage, but because it was hot.

According to my doctors, I should avoid caffeine and alcohol. It had been a strict recommendation, but I had decided that it was more of a slightly overambitious suggestion and therefore I thoroughly ignored the advice, despite the fact that I had recently been diagnosed with a serious heart condition and that my operation was in less than two weeks’ time.

The success rate is fifty percent, I heard my doctor’s voice echo in my mind. For anyone who wasn’t completely mathematically impaired, that also translated to “the risk of failure is fifty percent”. The odds that I was going to be alive in a couple of weeks were equal to flipping a coin. Heads you live; tails you die.

I pushed the unwanted thoughts out of my head. There was no use dwelling on the outcome of the operation. Or the fact that I needed to leave the country as inconspicuously as possible and travel to the UK to get the operation done. Kithira had promised she would help me, but so far she hadn’t been in contact.

“Has Hannah found anything yet?” I asked and clenched my jaws, refusing to think about Kithira. Or my birthday party. Or the black dress that she had worn, which seemed to mould itself around her body and which had had ridiculously thin shoulder straps…

The memory of her warm, bronze skin under my hands and her uneven breath when she ordered me to take her against the wall entered my mind. With a frown, I had to stop myself from pursuing the memory further.

I’m not thinking about it! I decided sternly and threw a longing glance towards my office room opposite the conference room where I was sitting. If only I could work today.

It annoyed me that I couldn’t let myself fall into the tranquillity of manic work and my normal insane work hours and push the highly disrupting thoughts of Kithira and our hot meeting on the rooftop out of my head.

My office was a massive room with naked white walls, which currently was being occupied by a skinny girl who was dressed in mismatching second-hand clothes that Kurt Cobain in his grave would have been proud of. She had short pixie hair–purple this week–and wore a ragged T-shirt with some sort of animal welfare symbol, a knitted striped scarf in various colours, together with mandatory Dr Martens.

I knew from my own background check that Hannah was twenty-two years old and lived in a small flat together with various rescued animals in the shabby part of Brooklyn. She never finished high school and she had a criminal record for trespassing, break-ins, and violent demonstrations often connected to animal rights.

I had hired her three years ago after she had hacked my email account and later absolutely thrashed the computer security system, which had been installed and maintained by a whole department of technicians from MIT and Stanford University.

“Well, you know how good Hannah is,” Jonas said and interrupted my thoughts. He carefully stroked one of his perfectly trimmed blond eyebrows. “She always finds something.”

“What did she find this time?” I asked while I studied Hannah through the large glass wall.

She must be some sort of savant genius, I concluded and studied the girl, who sat surrounded by her homebuilt laptops, which were covered in anarchistic stickers and indie punk band names. I frowned when I noticed that she sat with her feet up on my clinically clean desk while she typed quickly and ran various programs that searched through my computer and the company’s intranet.

Hopefully she isn’t hacking the FBI from my company’s IP address, I thought and took another sip of the strong coffee. I knew that she had tried to hack the Pentagon a couple of years ago, but luckily she had never gotten caught by the police.

Jonas cleared his throat slightly, a sign that I knew meant I wasn’t about to like the news that he was going to tell me.

“Well, according to Hannah, it might have been Mr Clark who was responsible for leaking the information regarding the Mayfair files to the Westfall Corporation,” he said carefully.

“Steven Clark?” I said and nearly raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Really?

I had known Steven for years. He was one of my closest employees and on the board of directors. I had even been to his wedding when he married his secretary a couple of years ago and I had always considered him honest and completely trustworthy.

Clearly I had been mistaken.

See, I reminded myself silently. Never trust anyone.

“Hannah found an encrypted email correspondence between him and another person, which unfortunately seems to indicate that he has leaked some sensitive information.”

“Hmm,” I said. “What a pity.”

Perhaps it would be best to increase the personality background checks of everyone who works at the company? I thought with a frown. It might not be legal, but there are ways around that.

“Yes, sir,” Jonas agreed diplomatically while he fussed with the empty stainless steel coffee mug.

“Well, there isn’t anything to be done about it.” I said and added, “Let’s see what else Hannah can find, and if it’s convincing enough, have him fired at the end of the day.”

“How do you want to proceed, sir? Should I inform human resources to deal with it quietly?

“No,” I decided. “Make it a public display when everyone is back. And make sure that he’s aware of what my lawyers could do to him, his family, and friends if he even considers selling any further information.”

“Of course, Mr Jameson,” Jonas replied neutrally, but I noticed that his shoulders sank as he left the room.

The alarm on my Rolex beeped quietly, and with a swift glance around, I made sure that I was alone in the large conference room and that no one was watching me from the corridor through the large glass wall. Discreetly I shook out one of the white, round tablets from a small metal mint pastille case, which I kept in the inner pocket of my tailored suit. The medicine was bitter and I washed it down with a glass of mineral water.

Two weeks until the operation, I thought with a slight chill.

The rest of the day crawled forward like a very tired millipede.

Hannah found some more information regarding the Mayfair files leak and a couple of malwares on one of the computers down at the reception, but that was all.

Steven Clark was fired and left the office in disgrace. Security firmly guided the elegant businessman through the open office while most of my employees pretended that they could not see them and stared blankly at their computer screens or fidgeted nervously with their papers.

“I’m innocent! I swear!” Steven shouted while the security guards steered him towards the lift. “Please, Mr Jameson. You must believe me!”

I watched him silently with cold eyes as he continued to loudly protest that he had not had anything to do with leaking information to anyone.

“I would never do something like that!” his words echoed. “Never!”

Some people just can’t go gracefully, I concluded as the door to the lift closed behind him.

No one believed that Mr Clark was innocent, of course, and as a matter of fact, he served as a perfect reminder to everyone else what could happen to employees who were unfaithful and who thought that they could sell their loyalty. None of my employers dared to meet my eyes for the rest of the afternoon and even Jonas was unusually quiet, but I knew that the company’s productivity the following day would increase by at least ten to fifteen percent.

Nothing makes people work harder than fear and guilt.

I paid Hannah her normal fee and added a five-thousand-dollar bonus. I knew that she spent all of her money on computer parts, unhealthy frozen fast food, and donated the rest to the RSPCA, but she seemed pleased nonetheless with the bonus. She left the office together with her scruffy backpack filled with laptops in all her shabby glorious appearance, which stood in stark contrast to the designed glass and chrome interior and all the immaculately dressed businesspersons, who all followed the company’s dress code as if their lives depended on it.

I left the office early that evening.

At eight o’clock I shut down the projection of the Frankfurt and London stock exchange market, which was displayed against two of the walls of my corner office. The white walls of my office were used as large-scale screens with real-time data feeds gliding swiftly over the walls, which contained information of the current stock markets. I could spend hours watching the data feeds, sometimes covering the entire walls while I silently scanned them for patterns, anomalies, and peaks.

I had a very specific gift that few people possessed. My visual memory was highly developed and I had an unusual knack for recognising patterns and systematisation that normal people didn’t seem to have. Together with a joint degree in mathematics and economy from Yale University, I was–without bragging–one of the best trade analysts in the world. And with the right background information and carefully chosen timing, I could effectively tear down not only a single corporation, but more or less the entire company’s structure, including all their sister companies.

And when one corporation crumbled, others would flourish in its place.

Which was more or less how I made my money, because I invested in the other competing companies before I targeted the main company and destroyed it. I bought and sold stocks in very large quantities until the market became increasingly unstable and other people began to panic and sell off as much as they could, which tended to start an avalanche that was unstoppable.

It might sound deceitfully easy, but it took a lot of skill, planning, and perfect timing to pull off larger operations. You needed to have nerves of steel, a little bit of luck, and just the right amount of foul play. The stock market was very nervous and highly sensitive to rumours and psychology, which you could–if you didn’t have a crystal-clear, perfect conscience–play to your advantage.

Information is everything, I concluded.

Wall Street was the heart of the American and worldwide trading centres, where millions and millions of dollars changed hands every day. For some people trading was just a job, a quick chance to get dirty rich or–to be honest–broke, but for me it was so much more than that. It was a lifestyle that I’d built my entire world around since I was in my late teenage years.

It wasn’t even about the money anymore.

Once you’d earned your first million, money became less interesting. No, it was all about the chase and the wonderful thrill when you first sensed that vague, nudging awareness of a pattern until you could see the whole intriguing design in your mind, and then the rush when it all fell into place, just like you’d planned. The nervous feeling when you gambled with millions and sometimes even billions of dollars, and then the truly exhilarating feeling when you broke it, followed by a mixed sensation of serene triumph and supressed, dark guilt as you watched the company fall and crumble while the other stock market shares started to rise, greedily feeding on the other’s failure and the window of opportunity until the temporary gap left behind the doomed company was closed.

Of course, it wasn’t entirely legal, but it wasn’t outrageously illegal either. However, it could most certainly be described as rather shady business, which was why I demanded that my employees be deeply dedicated to the company. People who weren’t had to be found and rooted out, like unwanted weed or vermin.

Wall Street belongs to successful people who possess high intelligence, a certain willingness to play high-stake games, and a somewhat low moral sense, I thought to myself just as the light from the projector winked out.

As if on cue, Jonas showed up and materialised by the door to my office, like he had somehow known that I was finished for the day.

“Are you about to leave, sir?” Jonas asked.

“Almost,” I said. “Tell Diaz and his team that I’ll be ready in a couple of minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

We went down in my private lift to the ground floor, where six armed security guards waited for me in silence. Even at this hour, there was still a bustling activity going on down at the lobby, with stressed businessmen and women walking past rapidly, undoubtedly on their way to their respective offices to follow the stock markets in Asia, which were about to open. The lobby was modern with a high irregular glass ceiling and a massive curved desk, where several receptionists were busy at work, all of them acutely avoiding looking at me, as an aftermath of Steven Clark’s dismissal earlier. In the middle of the lobby there was a fifteen-foot-high water wall stone sculpture surrounded by a symmetrical and futuristic pond. It was grotesquely ugly, as if the artist had tried to copy a Pablo Picasso interpretation of a Star Wars spaceship and failed miserably.

No wonder suicide is more common among artists in comparison to other occupations, I thought and nodded at Diaz, the head of my personal security.

Diaz had army-short hair and he was built like a formidable tank; his short Hispanic stature made him look even broader.

“Ready, sir?” he asked with a professional neutrality that could make even a stone jealous and probably made Diaz an excellent poker player.

Not that I could imagine him playing poker. His leisure time probably consisted of dedicated weight lifting followed by… some more dedicated weight lifting, I concluded.

“Yes,” I replied. “Bring the car around.”

Diaz gave a short order in his walkie-talkie, which was attached to a strap by his shoulder, for my specially built bulletproof Mercedes to be brought to the entrance.

“It’ll be here in three minutes, sir,” Diaz told me after he had decoded the electronic buzzing noise from his walkie-talkie.

Jonas stood next to me and Diaz half a step behind me. Jonas was talking about the following day’s morning meeting with the board when I noticed an attractive woman in her late twenties was walking straight towards us. She was dressed in a smart grey business suit and had her chestnut brown hair in a French braid and long well-shaped legs. Her high heels made a sharp clicking sound against the stone flooring. She was carrying a business briefcase and seemed to be deeply absorbed in texting on her iPhone. My first thought was that she must be so focused on her phone that she didn’t notice where she was going, because she was heading right towards us without looking up.

One of the security guards stepped out in front of me.

“Excuse me, madam–” he started to say.

The woman looked up from her phone, and her hazel eyes, framed with long dark eyelashes, met mine for a short moment. But instead of looking confused or possibly annoyed by being interrupted in the middle of her important text conversation, she looked entirely composed and strangely focused, which for some reason made an icy shiver glide down my back.

A second later, everything went absolutely mad.

“Now!” she yelled out loud.

Before I or anyone else had time to react, the woman in the grey business suit dropped to the floor in one smooth movement. She efficiently kicked the guard in front of me directly on the side of his knee with a sickening, crunching sound. The guard sank to the floor with a strangled sound of pain. He tried to reach for his gun, but the woman was faster and produced her own oversized gun from her briefcase.

What the hell is that? I thought when I saw the large plastic gun in her hand.

It looked like something directly from a sci-fi movie. Without hesitating or blinking, she aimed it at the guard in front of me and fired. Instinctively I ducked and raised my arms to cover myself, anticipating a loud gunshot and potentially a shower of sticky, warm blood. But all I heard was an odd electrical sound, and when I looked down, the guard was on the floor, out cold. Two thin red cords went from the woman’s black-and-yellow gun to a set of metal clips that were imbedded in the guard’s throat.

Aha! It’s some sort of weird Taser gun, I thought with an odd sense of detachment.

Vaguely I noticed that several of the other guards were being attacked all around me and it felt like I stood in the middle of a hurricane of violence. The air smelled of burnt electricity and I thought I heard Diaz swear loudly in Spanish. Nearby someone threw a smoke grenade to the polished floor and suddenly the lobby was quickly filling with white, billowing smoke.

From the corner of my eye I noticed a businessman who had been sitting next to the god-awful futuristic pond, reading The Times and sipping coffee. He produced a Taser gun and swiftly took out two guards to my left before Jonas–to my vast surprise!–threw himself over him with a short shout. I didn’t have time to appreciate Jonas’s heroic actions or see the outcome of his unwise attack, because at that moment the woman in the grey business suit emerged from the thick smoke in front of me. She walked calmly towards me and seemed to be almost immune to the chaos around us. Casually she dropped her Taser gun next to the unconscious guard at my feet and I noticed vaguely that she held a pair of metal handcuffs in her hands.

“I’m terribly sorry about all this,” she said in a surprisingly polite tone in an unmistakable British accent before she viciously and with extreme effectiveness elbowed me hard directly on my temple.

The world went spinning and the floor came up to meet me as I fell to the ground hard. My eyes tried to focus on the forgotten Starbucks coffee mug next to a crumpled copy of The Times. My last thought wasn’t very original, but at least it neatly summed up the whole situation.

Fuck, I thought as the green and white coffee mug became more and more blurry and my consciousness quietly left me in the hands of a cold and dark oblivion.

I woke up blindfolded and handcuffed in the boot of a fast-moving car. My head throbbed and my body position was incredibly uncomfortable, especially since the car seemed to be going at a very high speed, which tossed me back and forth in the boot like a rag doll.

Where are we? Who are they? I thought and mentally added to my growing list of questions: And where the hell are we going?

The handcuffs cut into my wrists and effectively destroyed all possible attempts of trying to open the lock from inside the boot.

“Just remain calm,” I told myself while I tried not to freak out, as my claustrophobia was sneaking up on me.

Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be any sharp metal objects or forgotten large metal clippers around, which otherwise seemed to be almost mandatory in any kind of action thriller, I concluded after a quick blind search of the small luggage area.

Judging from the wild driving, the abundant sound of long and angry honking horns, and the nearly iconic New York swearing from outside the car, I assumed that we were still in Manhattan and that I hadn’t been unconscious for a long time.

It was pretty clear to me that I had been kidnapped, but my brain refused to understand how it could have happened. Diaz, my personal security guard, was incredibly good at his work and all precautions around my safety had been taken, especially after the incident when I got abducted by a quite insane sociopath a couple of years ago. I never went anywhere without bodyguards and both my penthouse apartment and office were under constant surveillance twenty-four seven. I even wore a light bullet-protection vest when I went out running during the few weekends of the year that I spend at my estate down at Palm Beach.

But then again, Kithira had warned me that my security was compromised when I met her during my birthday party earlier, and she had successfully managed to drug my guards and get through the security.

On the other hand, Kithira is one of the ten best hit men in the world, I thought before I came to the cold conclusion, However… that means that the people who have kidnapped me are professionals and have the same level of expertise as Kithira.

Against my will, the thought made me increasingly nervous. I felt my throat go dry and cold sweat broke out on my forehead while my pulse increased rapidly.

This is bad, I concluded. Really bad.

I started to run through the list of enemies that I had accumulated over the years. The list was quite long and it was impossible to guess who was behind the attack. All I knew was that they must be highly skilled, which didn’t bode well. And here I was, neatly blindfolded and handcuffed and with a throbbing headache, which could quite possibly be the beginning of a lovely concussion.

Diaz and the rest of his crappy security team are not getting any Christmas bonus this year! I thought, both angry and scared at the same time, when the car came to a screeching halt.

The unexpected jolt made me bang my head against the inside of the car with a solid thump that made me swear. I didn’t have time to ponder why we had stopped before the car boot lid was opened and I was roughly lifted from the boot.

“Hurry up!” someone yelled. “Make the switch!”

“Five seconds!”

“Go, go, go!”

Since I was blindfolded, I couldn’t see anything, but I was aware that an unknown muscular man carried me effortlessly from the car and dumped me without any ceremony into the boot of another car.

“Four, three, two, one–” someone counted down.


The muted surrounding sounds and traffic made me wonder if we were in a car tunnel, and I briefly speculated where we could be, but I didn’t have time to verify my observations before the boot slammed shut and the car made a nauseating sharp U-turn before it drove away.

It felt like I spent hours inside the cramped, dark boot of the car, but it was impossible to estimate how much time went by. I noticed that whoever drove the car seemed to be driving significantly slower now and was probably even driving legally. In the beginning of the ride the car stopped repeatedly, which made me think of traffic lights, and then we continued in a steady pace along what I guessed must have been a highway.

My heartbeat increased when the car left the main road and suddenly drove slower on what sounded like a gravel road.

Are we there? I thought and tried not to wonder what awaited me, because it was probably not something good.

Finally, the car stopped and everything went quiet. I heard a couple of cars in the far distance, the whispering of autumn leaves, and something that sounded like an owl nearby.

With my heart in my throat, I tried not to panic in the small dark car boot as I mentally went back to the list of my enemies and tried to convince myself that I was not claustrophobic.

The Westfall Corporation? Or the Steinbeck brothers? The Allegretto family? I thought with a sinking feeling. I tried to relax and calm down. I can afford any ransom they demand and Jonas will sort it out, surely.

But a small voice in my head whispered slyly: But what if they don’t want money? What if they want something else… Revenge, for example? Or something else?

The list of my enemies dissolved from my mind and unbidden thoughts of torture entered my head instead. I tried, but failed, not to remember the last time I had been kidnapped. A mentally unstable sociopathic stalker had kept me in a rusty silo for days while he planned–and described in sickening detail!–his grand experiment to “extract knowledge from my brain”, as he called it.

This is Diaz’s fault, I thought angrily. If I make it out alive from this, I’ll have him and his stupid, neglectful team fired!

I flinched badly when the car door opened suddenly and closed with a dull slam. I heard the sound of slow footsteps approaching on gravel. The footsteps stopped next to me and I caught my breath as cold sweat broke out and covered my clammy skin.

“Mr Jameson, we can do this in several ways,” a female voice said so calmly it made all my hair stand up on the back of my neck. “Either you choose to cooperate and I’ll let you out of the car, or you’ll spend the night sleeping in the car boot. Which option would you like?”

The woman spoke with an unmistakable English accent and she sounded suspiciously similar to the person who had rendered me unconscious earlier by elbowing me hard in the head. I stifled the urge to swear abusively, since I–quite correctly–assumed that it would most certainly disqualify me for any opinions or decisions at all. Instead I took a deep breath and tried to exhale slowly while I mentally went through the Kidnapping 101 course, which I had attended five years ago and which Diaz forced me to recap every year.

Stay calm, breathe slowly, think clearly, I rehearsed silently. And don’t do anything stupid.

“I would like to cooperate,” I managed to say in a steady voice.

“Good choice,” she replied. “I’ll explain everything once we’re inside.”

Right, I thought. Now that doesn’t sound ominous at all.

The lock to the boot made a little click and blindly I tried to orientate myself, which was quite useless, since I was wearing a blindfold that was made out of a very thick and apparently non-transparent material.

“Don’t even think about trying to scream for help or run away,” she warned me.

“Okay,” I said as meekly as I could, all according to the kidnapping guide.

Stay calm, be cooperative, and try to communicate and establish a bond with your kidnapper, I rehearsed silently. Never argue or disagree.

She linked her arms around my body in a fireman’s grip and I felt her strain her muscles. Her soft hair smelled slightly of vanilla and tickled my forehead. Somewhat distracted, I could not help but notice how her body tensed and that her soft breasts brushed against me.

She must be quite strong, I thought, rather impressed against my will, because she easily pulled me from the car boot and lifted me down to the ground.

Great. My kidnapper is an English woman, surprisingly strong, and she uses vanilla hair conditioner, I thought to myself sarcastically. Excellent, that should narrow it down.

I tried to shake off my strange reaction from our brief body contact, but the truth was that I had reacted physically to her. It was oddly distracting, and had the circumstances been different, I would not have minded the experience at all. I shook my head at myself and instantly denied my response to her touch and mentally filed it away firmly under ‘stress reaction’.

My kidnapper interrupted my silent inner thoughts by grabbing my arm firmly above the elbow and guided me forward.

“We’ll walk a short distance,” she said. “Don’t do anything foolish and I won’t hurt you.”

Oh, that’s rich, coming from someone who nearly bashed her victim’s skull in, I thought sourly.

“Are you threatening me?” I said before I could stop myself.

“No,” she replied calmly, “I don’t threaten people.”

“It sounded like a threat,” I commented in a slightly sarcastic tone while I ignored the small voice in my head that told me that it would be wise to shut up now.

“It’s not a threat, it’s a promise.”

Okay… that kind of killed the conversation swiftly, I concluded and stumbled blindly after her along the gravel path.

In retrospect, I’ll admit that what I did next was rather stupid and absolutely against all the rules in the Kidnapping 101 guide.

We stopped briefly on the gravel path and I heard her fumble with a set of keys.

Suddenly I had a bold idea. Following a rash and sudden impulse, I spun around quickly. I turned my body and roughly pushed her away from me with my shoulder as hard as I could, knocking her over. My weight was to my distinct advantage and I had the satisfaction of hearing her swear as she fell to the ground.

Yes! I thought. This is my chance!

I stumbled forward and ran blindly in the direction of where I had heard the distant cars before, while I tried to rub off the blindfold against my shoulder. It probably wasn’t a very dignified way of running, but it worked. After a couple of hundred feet or so, the blindfold fell down around my neck like an odd scarf.

It was just in time because I was about to run directly into a large tree!

At the last second I made a sharp turn and missed the trunk and ducked under a low branch with less than an inch to spare.

“That was close!” I exclaimed and I picked up speed again.

It was dark, but luckily the moon was up, and since my eyes were already adjusted to darkness, I had no problems seeing where I was going. I was a pretty good runner, and although I normally ran on a treadmill and wasn’t used to running cross-country, I had no doubts that I had already left my kidnapper far behind. I picked up speed and I tried to run as fast as I could, despite my handcuffed arms, while I ignored my erratically beating heart. The adrenaline was pumping through my bloodstream, nearly making me dizzy.

Civilisation! I thought.

A wild sensation of hope and relief washed over me when the sparse forest gave way to a field with high grass, and further down I could see an old country road and the wonderful sight of car lights in the distance.

However, both my optimistic hopes and daring escape attempt were permanently terminated when I suddenly got viciously tackled from the side.

Since I was running fast, my balance was off and I fell to the ground hard, knocking the air out of my lungs in the process. Before I knew it, I was on the ground together with a very angry kidnapper. I tried to shake her off and we tumbled around among the autumn leaves before she managed to straddle me. She pinned me down with a tight choke grip that probably wasn’t even legal in MMA fighting before she placed a Taser gun hard against my bare neck.

Grappling while being handcuffed is a significant disadvantage, I concluded, gasping for air.

“Are you bloody daft?” she shouted and our eyes met.

She glared at me angrily with narrowed hazel eyes. Her brown, chestnut hair was messy and had fallen down from her previous tight French braid. It was shoulder length and currently decorated with a couple of stray orange autumn leaves.

“Get off me!” I said, but she simply snarled in reply and increased her grip.

Somewhat distracted, I noticed that her lips had a very pronounced Cupid’s bow, which reminded me of actresses from the silent-era movies. It made her look feminine and pretty and stood in stark contrast to the rest of her somewhat violent and wild appearance. And despite the situation, I couldn’t help but realise that she was strangely attractive in the bleak moonlight.

What the fuck is happening? I shook my head at my own thoughts. The Stockholm syndrome in express speed?

I mentally reminded myself that this was my kidnapper and not some hot–and seriously weird!–date. Besides, the women that I generally dated tended to be more glamourous, like models or famous actors, and they most certainly didn’t viciously elbow me or tackle me to the ground!

“Are you deaf?” she hissed without expecting an answer. “Now let’s go back to the house nicely and quietly before I decide to hurt you for real. Do you understand?”

She pressed the Taser gun harder against the naked skin at my neck until it hurt. It made a small ominous electrical sound.

I did the equation.

Taser gun plus heart problem equals disaster, followed by body bag, toe tag, and funeral.

I didn’t dare answer, so I simply nodded slowly in reply.

I didn’t have much choice, so obediently I followed her as we walked back through the woods in silence until we reached an old house, where a Toyota was parked. The windows were boarded up and covered with large pieces of broken plywood and worn planks. It looked like an abandoned house from the 1930s or thereabout, with a large veranda and an octagon tower, which made it look like a mini version of the Addams Family mansion, complete with a moonlit sky and a couple of passing clouds that were chasing each other.

My female kidnapper turned on a small torch and unlocked the front door before she ungently pushed me over the threshold and guided me through what felt like a maze of dusty rooms. Our footsteps echoed against the wooden floorboards. Most of the rooms were empty and the few remaining pieces of furniture were covered with white sheets, which gave a slightly spooky impression in the moving light of the torch. A scent of dust and mould hung in the air, which made my nose itch vigorously at first. A family of small grey mice scurried over the floor when we entered what must have been a once grand parlour room with a massive open fireplace.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Be quiet,” she replied and ignored me.

We continued through the high double doors at the opposite side of the room and reached a large dining room. A thick layer of dust covered the massive dark wooden oval dining table and a set of twelve high-back chairs. The large Oriental rug on the floor had obviously seen better days, and the crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling was covered in generations of spider webs. Thick curtains covered the old windows, but a modern camping radiator had been placed in a corner of the room and was turned on, which made the room surprisingly warm.

“Sit,” my kidnapper ordered and pushed me down on one of the dining chairs.

She lit an old-fashioned brass storm lantern on the table and started to go through a large black Adidas sports bag. My heart sank as she produced several rolls of duct tape from the canvas bag in the flickering orange light from the burning oil lantern.

This is going to be bad, I thought and wondered how long she was planning to keep me in this room. And what she would do to me.

I could tell that she was still seriously annoyed at me and I tried to ignore the little voice in my head that whispered that getting transported to a remote and isolated area was never a good sign for a kidnapping victim.

Finally, the silence was driving me mad and I could not prevent myself from talking.

“What are you going to do to me?” I forced my voice to remain steady, while pictures of various historical torture instruments danced through my head.

“Don’t worry,” she replied. “I’m just going to secure you for the night.”

I heard the distinctive sound of duct tape and her fingers brushed against my arms as she efficiently strapped my handcuffed wrists to the back of the high-backed chair. She swiftly repeated the procedure and secured each of my ankles to the legs of the wooden chair. My female kidnapper worked in a disturbingly swift and professional manner, which made me uneasily convinced that this wasn’t the first time she’d strapped someone to a chair.

“What’s that?” I asked when I noticed the small white plastic medicine bottle in her hand. “Are you planning to drug me?”

Cyanide capsules perhaps? I thought. Or something to knock me out for the night?

“It’s just your medicine for your heart condition,” she replied calmly and added when she saw my sceptical expression, “Trust me, if I wanted to kill you, you would have been dead by now.”

Is that supposed to sound reassuring? I wondered sarcastically.

“Yeah, I suppose it’s hard to collect the ransom if your kidnapping victim is dead,” I said with faked concern, but she ignored me.

I read the label on the bottle, which she held up in front of me. It was prescribed in my name, and I wondered if it really was my heart medicine and in that case if it had been stolen from my apartment or how it had come into her possession.

No one was supposed to know about my health condition and I wondered if the news had reached my rivals and enemies yet. It would most certainly mean the end of my career and company if it did, since any weakness could be used to an advantage. And a CEO with a life-threatening heart problem wasn’t exactly seen as a sign of strength and sturdiness of a company. My medication more or less forced my heart to continue beating until I had my surgery in less than two weeks, so it wasn’t like I had much of a choice than to take the tablets she offered me.

She unscrewed the cap to a bottle of water and shook out a white tablet in her palm before she gently slipped it between my lips. A strange look crossed her face as she placed the water bottle to my mouth.

“Drink carefully,” she said and tilted the bottle slowly backwards so that I could wash down the bitter tablet from my awkward position.

I didn’t answer her, but I thought I saw a ghost of a smile on her lips as she deliberately slowly dabbed my mouth with the edge of her sleeve to soak up a couple of water drops that had leaked down my chin.

Despite the fact that the whole situation was getting increasingly weird, her closeness to me was starting to have a strange effect on me, which left me rather confused, a feeling that quickly transformed to anger.

Her gaze was uncomfortably intense as she studied me, and although I’m used to staring down anyone from employees and the people from the IRS tax department to worldwide important businessmen, there was something in her green-brown hazel eyes that made me avert my gaze. Despite my efforts, I looked away first.

“Since I don’t want any unnecessary sounds during the night, I’m going to gag you,” she said casually in the same tone that others use to say things like ‘Don’t forget to buy milk on the way home, honey’.

My poker face was usually flawless, but I couldn’t help raising my eyebrows at her comment.

“I understand,” I said as indifferently as I could after a short pause.

My female kidnapper held up a folded piece of black cloth, which she tied twice at the middle.

“Open your mouth,” she ordered.

For a second I thought I saw her smile briefly before she placed the knotted piece of cloth in my mouth and pulled the gag behind my head tightly. I must have been mistaken, I concluded and shook my head to myself and my imagination.

She went around my back and pulled the gag uncompromisingly hard, which forced the cloth in between my teeth and made me utter a short groan. She tied it carefully at my neck in a way that told me that there was no chance that I would ever be able to get it off without any help.

The dry cloth didn’t really taste of anything, but the knotted gag was probably highly efficient, I noticed with a sinking feeling.

On a brighter note, so far there has been little discussion about torture and revenge. I tried to cheer myself up. On the other hand, I still didn’t know who she was working for or what she wanted.

“There,” she said and walked around me, inspecting her work. She smiled and seemed annoyingly pleased with herself. “Perfect, really.”

I tried to comment with a couple of well-chosen swear words, but my words were effectively muffled by the knotted gag.

“Oh, don’t be so cross, now,” she said and playfully ruffled my short dark hair before she began checking the duct tape around my wrists, as if the handcuffs weren’t enough to keep my arms in place. Her fingertips glided teasingly from my wrists up to the elbow in a slow motion.

I didn’t know how to reply, so I scoffed and tried to turn away from her, but against my will I could feel my pulse increase and my mouth getting dry.

I had a vague feeling that her final examination of my bonds was completely unnecessary, but nonetheless she carefully checked my tied wrists and ankles and even gently adjusted the gag. In fact, her inspection was more than thorough. Her hands seemed to linger against my skin for longer than necessary and I felt my heart beat faster, a combination of her light and seemingly innocent touch mixed with a growing sensation of anticipation, which I couldn’t explain. It was clear to me that she didn’t plan to simply walk out of the room together with the old-fashioned storm lantern and leave me alone in the dusty room for the rest of the night, but that she had another type of idea in mind.

But what kind of plans? I wondered, and nervously I shot a glance at the black sports bag at the dining table, wondering if it contained a Dexter-inspired soft leather case with a neat row of stainless knives and sharp meat cleavers.

However, I can honestly say that I would never in a million years have been able to guess what was going to happen next.

My female kidnapper finished her final check of the duct tape and handcuffs and seemed more than pleased with her inspection, because a small, nearly mischievous smile sneaked up over her face. I shot her a dark look for good measure, but it only made her smile broader.

“Actually,” she said and once again let her fingers glide through my hair, but slower this time, “you look rather cute when you’re cross.”

“Mphf?” I raised my eyebrows at her in reply.

I had expected–and even anticipated–a certain amount of torture, but not mocking. I clenched my jaw and growled into my cloth gag as her hands slowly followed the contour of my bare neck and down my shoulders.

And I swear I saw her pupils dilate as she provocatively and very slowly swung one long leg over my tied legs and straddled me. My protests were effectively muffled by the gag. I struggled in vain to get loose while at the same time I was helplessly turned on as she began to gently move against me rhythmically.

“There, there,” she whispered slightly breathlessly. “Fighting will get you absolutely nowhere.”

“Mphf!” I protested and strained my muscles to their maximum while I tried desperately to get free. “Mphf!

The dining chair made a creaking sound, but the several layers of duct tape held me firmly in place despite my attempt to break my bonds.

“You can struggle as much as you like,” she said teasingly and buried her hands in my hair before she began to cover both of my cheeks with light kisses. She leaned closer and whispered in my ear, “Between you and me, I don’t mind at all…”

Deliberately slowly, she started to undo the small buttons on my white Italian-designed shirt one by one before she pulled it open and left a trail of kisses from my neck down my naked chest. My iron willpower seemed to falter dangerously for every soft kiss against my naked skin and I inhaled sharply. The entire incident was without any doubt starting to turn into one of the most surreal–and most erotic!–experiences in my life.

Somewhat hazily I noticed that my muffled protests had turned into half-stifled groans, and I felt myself grow harder and harder as she rhythmically continued to rock her body against mine, clearly enjoying both the sensation and mild friction.

“Well, hello there,” she mumbled and smiled lazily when she noticed my betraying body’s reaction. Without a trace of shame or shyness, she teasingly pressed herself a little bit firmer against me, an action that did absolutely nothing to reduce my growing desire for her.

I made a renewed desperate attempt to get free, but this time it was because I badly wanted to let my unrestrained hands rip off her clothes. I wanted to grab her hips and pull her closer and let my hands wander all over her breasts and naked body, but instead the cold metal handcuffs cut into my wrists and the unyielding duct tape held me firmly in place. All I could do was spread my legs apart as far as I could and feel her rub herself teasingly against my hard erection until my frustration grew into a burning need for her.

I groaned with unsatisfied lust and disappointment as she stepped away from me.

Without hesitating, she swiftly took off her smart grey business jacket and shirt and casually stepped out of her trousers, which fell to the dusty floor.

The dim light from the old-fashioned brass lantern cast a flickering light over her body, which was muscular and lean and at the same time undeniably sexy and feminine. She had long well-shaped legs, handful-sized rounded breasts, and a perfectly flat stomach, which made me swallow hard and nearly bite my lip in excitement. She straddled me again before she unclipped her white bra at the front. Burrowing her hands in my dark hair, she eagerly guided me to one of her soft breasts. The gag prevented me from taking the small nipple in my mouth and my tongue pressed uselessly against the tied knot of the cloth. I growled in frustration as my lips brushed back and forth against her hard nipples since I was unable to kiss or lick–or even touch!–her breasts. However, she moaned with pleasure in response and pressed herself more firmly against me, which made me for half a second worry that I would simply come directly, regardless of still wearing most of my clothes.

I inhaled sharply and groaned in encouragement as I finally felt her fingers spread over the bulge of my trousers.

The rest of our lovemaking was both desperate and quick, as well as mind-blowing and wonderful. Clearly she was as turned on as I was, because she almost forcefully yanked my trousers and boxers down my hips before her hands surrounded my hard erection. She paused briefly before she removed her white underwear and then finally–finally!–with a firm grip guided me inside. She was warm and wet, but in the beginning she rode me frustratingly shallow as she made her way before she let me go deeper and then all the way down the shaft at last.

I growled with desire as she increased her rhythm and I felt her fingers dig into my hips as she began to ride me harder. She moaned louder and louder and finally threw her head back, clearly lost in her own orgasm. When I felt her body tremble and her muscles tighten around me, I desperately pushed my hips forward as much as my handcuffed and duct-taped bonds would let me. The tied gag effectively muffled my harsh shout as I cried out when I came.

We were both breathless and sweaty, but she continued to slowly thrust against me a couple of more times while she let her hand glide in between her legs, touching herself. I felt her squeeze me inside once again before she, with a small satisfied sigh, rested her sweaty forehead against my bare shoulder.

I had thought that the night couldn’t become any stranger, but apparently I was wrong, because after she slowly and a little bit unsteadily climbed off me, she smiled roguishly.

“Oh, and I forgot to tell you one thing.” She leaned closer and she whispered softly in my ear, “My name is Alice. I’m your new bodyguard.”

The End

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‘Dominated by the Librarian’ series!


Peter Thompson leads a fairly successive life as a graphic designer working a web agency in inner London. He has a reasonable nice flat, several girlfriends (but nothing serious) and a hip job that some people would be willing to kill for.

Then one late Thursday evening when the local library is about to close Peter follows a whim and tries to seduce the short and curvy librarian who works there.

But nothing goes according to plan and soon Peter’s ordinary life is thrown upside down as he finds himself getting more and more attracted to the mysterious and dominant librarian...

Warning: This story is for adult reading only and contains BDSM erotica content including: Bondage, spanking, sexual teasing, and a redheaded, dominant librarian.

'Dominated by the Librarian':

The Complete Series (Part #1-6)

Part #1: ‘Surrender to your Desire’ (FREE!)

Part #2: ‘Surrender to Please Her’

Part #3: ‘Surrender to Obey’

Part #4: ‘Surrender to your Mistress’

Part #5: ‘Surrender to Submit’

Part #6: ‘Surrender Forever’

Part #1: ‘Surrender to your Desire’

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(Pages 1-31 show above.)