His by Contract Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

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  His by Contract

  By

  Ava Sinclair

  Copyright © 2017 by Stormy Night Publications and Ava Sinclair

  Copyright © 2017 by Stormy Night Publications and Ava Sinclair

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

  www.StormyNightPublications.com

  Sinclair, Ava

  His by Contract

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Images by 123RF/captblack76 and 123RF/battle182royal

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

  Chapter One

  I don’t remember leaving the window open. It’s the curtains flowing in the morning breeze that get my attention. The air catches them and they softly rise and fall.

  I put the bag of groceries on the counter and walk over to the window, feeling nervous. It was warm last night and I opened the window briefly because the kitchen was warm. But I’m sure I shut it again before I went to bed.

  I look outside. I’ve a small yard behind my condo with a brick patio and an outdoor brick stove I tell myself I’ll use in the summer. The grass—freshly laid sod in an almost unreal shade of green—looks undisturbed. The single tree, a maple, is just coming into leaf. The chimes my secretary gave me as a housewarming gift make a pleasant noise from where they hang on the branch.

  Nothing looks to be amiss. I shut the window, and just as it closes I feel the hand go over my mouth.

  “Don’t fucking move.” His arm is strong and tight across my chest. I lower my gaze to see a brawny bicep straining against the fabric of a blue work shirt. “Don’t move,” he says again. “And don’t scream. If you scream, I’ll hurt you. Understand?”

  I nod, whimpering. The hand moves away from my mouth.

  “Keep your eyes to the front,” he says. “Don’t you dare look back.”

  “The police are on their way,” I say, my voice shaking.

  “No, they’re not,” he says. “I cased this place all week. You had the security people out yesterday for an estimate. There’s not even an alarm. And you forgot to lock your back gate. It wasn’t hard to get in.”

  “Don’t hurt me,” I say.

  “Oh, I’m not going to hurt you, honey. In fact, we’re going to have a little fun.”

  I whimper again. He’s told me not to look, but I turn my head just enough to see his chest. It’s broad, and I can tell he’s tall and a lot bigger than me. I can tell I don’t have a chance.

  He reaches in front of me and closes the curtain. Then he spins me around and walks me to the low dining room table. I see his hand reaching forward to pat it. It’s a large hand.

  “Sturdy,” he says. “This will do.” He bends me over, and I can’t believe this is happening.

  “Don’t,” I say. “I’m a good girl. Please don’t.”

  “I like good girls,” he says. “Good girls are the sweetest girls. Why do you think I chose this neighborhood? It’s the best place to hunt. It’s full of good girls, respectable girls, professional girls. Girls too busy with their careers to date.” He leans down, his weight pressing against my back, his mouth hot against my ear. “Admit it. You’re horny as fuck.”

  “No…”

  “Little liar,” he says. “I bet you have a dildo in the drawer of your bedside table.”

  “So what if I do? What business is that of… ow!”

  He starts smacking my ass hard through my thin nylon running shorts. The heat builds in my ass and my eyes sting with unshed tears.

  “Watch your mouth,” he says. “You’re hardly in any position to smart off.”

  “Let me go,” I plead. “If you let me go I promise not to call the police.”

  He’s quiet. Is he considering my bargain? I hold my breath.

  “I tell you what,” he says. “I’m going to pull your shorts and panties down and feel your pussy. If it’s a dry pussy, I’ll leave. If it’s hot and slick and ready, I’m going to fuck it hard.”

  I begin to struggle. Another blow from his hand impacts my ass and he growls at me to stay still. He tells me he has all day, and has no problem spanking me into submission. I don’t move.

  He pulls my shorts down. The panties come next. “Spread those legs,” he orders. “You said you were a good girl, so let’s see if you’re telling the truth.”

  I groan in shame, because I know I’m fucked, or I’m about to be. I know what he’ll find when he touches me. His fingers delve into my slit. His laugh is deep.

  “You lied. You’re not a good girl. You’re a bad girl with a hot, wet pussy.”

  “No…” I close my eyes, ashamed. This man has snuck into my house, bent me over my own kitchen table, and is about to ram his cock into me. And he won’t be going in dry because I can feel my own arousal building even as he unzips his fly. And I know he’s right. I’m a bad, bad girl.

  He tells me to say it. He tells me to say I’m a bad girl.

  “Please,” I whimper. “Don’t make me say it.”

  I feel him rub the head of his cock against my clit.

  “Say it,” he says. He lands an open-handed slap to my ass that ends with a squeeze. “Say it.”

  “I’m a bad girl,” I say.

  “And what does this bad girl want? What does she fantasize about every night in her lonely bed with her dildo?”

  “I want to be fucked,” I admit tearfully. “I want to be fucked hard.”

  He shoves into me so hard that I gasp. All it takes is one thrust; I’m so wet and slick. He’s huge. I moan at the sensation of being filled. He starts to thrust, taking me hard and fast. I glance back and see that his pants and boxers are down to his knees. His balls slap against my pussy.

  “How bad are you?” he asks. “Are you so bad that a stranger can make you come?”

  “No…” I start to say, but I’m already there. I cry out, my hand flying to steady myself. I hit the bag of produce I brought home and it falls over. Oranges roll out and fall to the floor. I’ll always remember the smell of oranges and sex when I think of this day.

  And I’ll think of it many, many times.

  I come with a cry.

  “That’s it. That’s it,” he says, and I feel him tense, feel spurts of hot cum flooding into me. He holds me fast by the hips, making me take it all, emptying into me. Afterwards the room is silent save for the sounds of our breathing.

  He steps back. I hear the jingle of his belt as he pulls up his pants. I stand slowly, fuck-drunk and dazed. I pull my panties and shorts up and slowly turn to face him. He’s smiling at me as he tucks his slowly wilting cock back into his jeans. I shake my head and manage a grin.

  “Where the hell,” I ask, “did you find a chambray shirt?”

  He winks. “You like it? I thought it was a realistic touch. And if you must know, there’s a thrift store on the corner. It was a buck.”

  There’s still a name tag attached. Fred. If poor Fred only k
new.

  “I put your key back in the cookie jar on the counter.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “At least this time you remembered. Last time you took it home and had to come back and let me in.”

  “I did that on purpose,” he said. “I’m fine coming by twice in one day, even if once isn’t a surprise.” He walks over to me. “So, were you scared?”

  “A little,” I admit.

  He tips my chin up. “You weren’t too scared. That was definitely a welcoming pussy. I hope you’re not that friendly to anyone else. Remember. You belong to me.”

  “Like a lawyer’s going to forget an agreement,” I say.

  “Good girl,” he says. “Remember, I can come to you as a stranger anytime, anywhere.”

  “I know,” I say, turning to pour myself a glass of water. “You don’t need to remind me. That one was my fantasy, too.”

  He smiles down at me, and for a moment I think he’s about to say something but instead he turns away. “I wish I could stay, but I have a meeting this morning.”

  I don’t ask what kind of meeting. It’s none of my business, and he doesn’t ask me what I’m doing either. We don’t have that kind of relationship. We get together when he decides. Lately it’s becoming more frequent, but I don’t read anything into it.

  “Enjoy the rest of your Sunday,” he says, and leans down to pick up the oranges. “Mind if I take one?”

  “Not at all,” I reply.

  “Thanks.” He winks. “Watch for my email in the morning.”

  “I will.”

  He leaves by the back door. I watch him walk through the little courtyard and out the back gate. I remind myself to get the security people over, and to get a lock for the gate, which leads to an alley. What just happened was consensual, a game, another experience in an unusual arrangement. But if it had been a real stranger? Fuck, I don’t even want to think about it. All I want to think about right now is how much better I feel starting my day with an orgasm.

  Chapter Two

  I will say this much: I’ve saved a fortune in clothes. Before Mr. M., it was all low heels and black or blue business suits five days a week, except on nights and weekends when it was yoga pants paired with whatever t-shirt I’d gotten from a yoga retreat or 10K race.

  It’s different now. My closet is still packed with power suits, but they’re all outrageously expensive and specifically tailored to my figure. The heels of my designer shoes are also a little higher. Not by much, but enough to accentuate what M. calls my killer legs.

  Suits and shoes were the easy concessions, even if knowing just how much he spent on designer labels sometimes makes me uncomfortable.

  A harder concession was what I now wear under the suit. Usually it’s comfortable. But today as I sit reviewing paperwork for a merger, I’m very aware of the cut of the demi bra that barely covers my nipples already forming hard tight peaks as my mind strays from my work to what will come later. He once told me one of the greatest pleasures in life was removing perfect underwear from a perfect body. I glance at the clock. Only a few more hours remain before he frees my breasts from the lacy confines of his gift.

  Is gift even the right word? No. The underwear is part of the required uniform now that I’ve agreed to having someone else outfit me from head to toe.

  When I get up in the morning, I check my email before I do anything else. I’m looking for one in particular, the one that says, ‘Outfit of the day.’ That’s the one that tells me what I’ll be wearing.

  Today it read Blue Armani suit with the white silk wrap blouse and Christian Louboutin pumps. Underthings: Package C.

  The bra was in a plain white box, one of many that now line the interior shelf of my walk-in closet. They’re all labeled with letters, and I know better than to open them before I’m told. I know better than to disobey.

  Sometimes the underthings Mr. M. picks are conservative. Other times, they’re more daring. But this morning I almost gasped. This was more Frederick’s of Hollywood than Victoria’s Secret. There was something borderline slutty about the lacy half bra and the skimpy panties paired with a matching garter belt.

  It’s not the most comfortable ensemble. I shift in my chair, aware of the narrow back of the panties riding up the crack of my ass. The garter straps rub the sides of my thighs when I move. “Garters make me feel bound,” I once told Mr. M. And he’d just smiled and said, “You are bound, remember?”

  Of course. How can I forget?

  He’s right, and my nipples are aching now as I wonder how absorbent the crotch of these little panties is, because I’m already wet. I flush at the fear of having the arousal soak through my skirt.

  The phone on my desk saves me, the ring distracting me from the sexy daydreams I shouldn’t be having. I pick up without even looking at it.

  “Sloane Millbank,” I say.

  It’s Garrett Lowe. I sigh and roll my eyes. Garrett was hired by my firm around the same time I was. When he didn’t make senior partner, he left to join a firm across town. He always sounds strained on the phone, and my assistant privately jokes it’s because the chip on Garrett’s shoulder is so heavy.

  He’s on the other side of the merger I’m working on, and wants to know where the draft agreement is. That he’d called himself rather than asking his secretary to ask my secretary is just another dick move, and I’m not having it.

  “Accuracy is more important than speed, Mr. Lowe,” I tell him. “That’s one of the reasons Warner, Privette, and Millbank was named the city’s top law firm last year.” I put emphasis on Millbank, and could almost feel the resentment coming through the phone lines. My meticulous work is one of the reasons my name is on the door instead of Garrett Lowe’s. He’s not only arrogant and unlikeable; he’s also sloppy.

  He starts to rebut, but I cut him off. “If you have any more questions, direct them to my secretary.”

  I can practically hear him seething on the other end of the line. Garrett was so sure male privilege would get his name on the door. Fortunately, the partners recognized the firm needed more talent than talk, and chose me as the youngest and first female partner.

  I love my work. I truly do. It feeds my need for accomplishment, perfection. It also feeds my obsessive compulsion. I’m a consummate professional and a hard worker, partly by choice but also partly because I always feel the need to be better. “Driven,” Mr. M. once observed. “You’re driven.”

  “I like to be driven,” I told him. I smile to myself and shift in my chair, feeling the garter against my leg. Now someone else is in the driver’s seat, at least in my personal life. And that’s exciting.

  I turn back to my work, and for the rest of the afternoon I’m able to immerse myself in the minutiae of the agreement I am working to finalize. Time flies when you’re writing in legalese and before I know it, I hear a ping coming from my purse. My cellphone. I rise and walk over to the coat rack by the door and pull the phone out of my purse. I don’t have to guess who the text is from. Mr. M. texts me at 5:15 sharp to make sure I’m winding down my day. It’s another way he takes care of me, making sure I don’t forget to stop.

  Stopped by your place to drop some stuff off. Going to the gym. Won’t be back over until nine.

  I scowl, feeling disappointed. If he wasn’t going to take the underwear he’d chosen off, what was the point of asking me to wear it?

  Should I stay in uniform? That’s our slang for what he has me wear. Uniform.

  Not necessary, comes the two-word reply, and my disappointment deepens.

  Fine. I’ll just change into my yoga clothes, then. If I’d spoken the words, it would have been as a petulant whine. My yoga clothes consist of a loose sleeveless top and my favorite stretch pants that had been laundered so often they were all but threadbare.

  Wear what you like. See you later.

  It’s times like this that make me almost regret what I’ve gotten myself into. It’s times like this that vulnerability feels more like helplessness. I don’t want
to do yoga. I want him to stay at my apartment, to wait for me and then ravish me when I walk in the door. I want him to toss my jacket on the floor, push my silk shirt down over my shoulders, and then tell me what a dirty little whore I am to wear trashy underwear under my business suit. I want him to ask what kind of woman does that as he bends me over and hikes up my skirt. I want him to tell me what a bad girl I am as he fucks me.

  But I don’t get to call the shots.

  I don’t get to call the shots because that was the deal.

  I’m a submissive, but not the kind of submissive who is claimed or taken.

  I don’t want someone to control my life. I’m perfectly capable of doing that. I want to be sexually owned, to be carnally enslaved to one powerful dominant man who will treat me as an equal while possessing and engineering my erotic pleasure. I’m the kind of submissive who gives herself to a man contractually, and in a manner that legally binds me to him. It’s a business arrangement. A quid pro quo. That’s all it is. Pre-agreed submission without strings. No commitment, no complications. This is the life I wanted. This is the life I have with Mr. M. It’s the best of both worlds.

  The underwear is still stuck in the crack of my ass, the lace tickling the soft inside of my cheek. But I dare not reach up to pull it out; it would be just my luck to have someone walk in at just that moment, and at work I affect a flawless image of the consummate professional. If my hair caught on fire, I’d get up and excuse myself to a private room to put it out.

  As if confirming my instincts, Langford Warner walks in.

  “Sloane. Glad to catch you still here.” The senior partner nods at my computer. “Did you finish going over that agreement?”

  “I emailed it to you,” I say. “I’ll send it to Garrett Lowe tomorrow.” I smile to myself at imagining Garrett’s fuming over getting it on our timeline and not his.

  “I’m sure it’ll be impeccable,” Langford says.