'Shall we go?' Damian Gold asked, and before she could agree, he imperiously clicked his fingers for the bill.

Outside, Damian hailed a black cab. It was such a warm evening that Malora carried her coat in her hands. Damian gave the address to the cab driver and they climbed in. Malora's dress rode up her thighs, and when she tried to pull it back down, Damian put his meaty, white hand over hers and in a firm voice ordered, 'Leave it.'

Embarrassed, Malora looked into the rearview mirror. The taxi driver was observing them. Wordlessly, she draped her coat over her exposed thighs and knees and turning her face away from Damian, stared out.

Damn him, and Damn me for agreeing to this in the first place.

Then she remembered why she was doing this, and she had to bite her lip to stop the cry of anguish threatening to escape her lips.

How she came to be in the company of someone like Damian Gold was of her own will and his orchestration.

After the devastating call that changed her life, Malora had approached Damian, the man who owned the publishing company she worked for, to ask him for quite a outrageous amount of money. As the company's accountant, she'd known exactly how much the man had. In response to her request, he'd asked her to accompany him out to wherever he went tonight without any question.

She'd agreed.

First, they'd stopped at a fancy French restaurant, where Malora drank an unhealthy manner of fancy, bubbly champagne. She'd declined the Oyster and ordered vegetable salad instead, not sure she could stomach that food because deep down in her mind, she knew what was coming next. But that didn't mean she was prepared for it.

And now, here they were, in a cab heading to an unknown destination.

As she gazed unseeingly out, Malora felt his hand slide under her coat and settled on her thighs. Biting her lip,  she tried to ignore the hand, but it was steadily slithering upwards. When it was almost at her crotch she caught the offending hand in a firm grip. Malora turned to him and looked him in the eye.

'We don't have a deal yet.'

'True,' he said in a mild and reasonable way, and retracted his hand, but the smile on his face was taunting and smug. He had already figured out that she needed the money desperately and would do anything for it.

The rest of the journey passed in silence while her stomach churned.

Malora was so nervous she actually worried she would lose the few vegetables she did eat on the floor of the cab. Fortunately, the taxi turned into Bishop's Avenue and they came to a stop outside a massive stone building loomed over the extensive grounds like a forbidding castle in some gothic novel. There were fancy cars parked bumper to bumper along the length of the street.

Damian paid the cab driver and they walked up a short flight of steps to a set of black doors. Damian rang the bell and looked down upon her orange dress in dismay. Malora tried to pull at the hem, but her efforts at modesty were counter-productive, as more of her cleavage fell into view.

'Don't worry,' Damian said cheerfully. 'You'll do.'

The door swung inwards to show the small entry room, where a huge security guard stood behind a table, looking so ogrelike he was almost cute. 'Good evening, sir, miss.'

Damian's grip closed around her arm like a band of steel.

'Good evening.' Malora closed her mouth before she called him Shrek.

He held out his hand. 'Papers, please?'

Malora knew what he was talking about. Damian had asked her to stop at the doctor's the day before. As Damian handed over the doctor's certificates and money, Malora eased her arm away.

The guard finished looking at the papers and handed them off to another man before saying, 'I'll take your jacket, sir. And miss? Please leave your shoes, and your coat with me now.'

'My shoes?' After a glance at the guy to see if he was serious—he was—Malora slipped off her orange block heels.

The guard patiently kept his hand outstretched until she handed over her orange coat too. 'Thank you, miss. Well, folks, have a pleasant evening.' Smiling, the guard pointed them toward a door on the right wall.

Wait a minute. Malora frowned at her bare feet, then looked at the man. 'Excuse me, but why is Mr. Gold allowed to keep his shoes on?'

The guard blinked. 'Did I make a mistake? Which one of you is the Dom or Domme?'

'I am.' Damian gave her a disgusted look. 'Just be quiet, Malora. Don't talk at all.'

She bit back her first response—and the second—and settled for a nod.

What the Shrek mean by 'Dom'? Surely, it's not what I am thinking, right?

Before they reached the door, Damian yanked her to his side, his fingers digging into her skin. 'There will be  Doms here and subs. Remember you're with me. Don't talk to anyone else. Don't look at anyone else.'

'Got it. Now let go of me.' With an exasperated sigh, she pried his hand from her arm, then followed him.

Malora stifled a gasp at the sight that greeted her as they stepped through the door. The walls were covered with museum quality paintings. She gazed up with awe at the cherubs and Madonna-like women looking down at her. They were so beautiful that Malora wanted a closer look, but Damian was guiding her firmly by the elbow towards another door. They walked through the entry, and into a huge room crowded with people. Her eyes widened as she looked around.

This place must take up the entire first floor of the house. A circular bar of darkly polished wood ruled the center of the room. Wrought iron sconces cast flickering light over tables and chairs, couches and coffee tables. Plants created small secluded areas. The right corner of the room had a dance floor where music pulsed with a throbbing beat. Farther down, parts of the wall were more brightly lit, but she couldn't see past the crowd to make out why. Her steps slowed as she realized the club members were attired in extremely provocative clothing, from skintight leathers and latex to corsets to—oh my—one woman was bare from the waist up. A long chain dangled from. . .clamps on her nipples.

What in the world? Wincing, Malora glanced up at her boss. 'Uh, right. Exactly what kind of place is this?'

Over the music and murmur of voices, a woman's voice suddenly wailed in unmistakable orgasm. Heat flared in Malora's face.

Amusement glinted Damian's dark eyes. 'It's a private club, and tonight is bondage night.'

He tightened his grip around her elbow and led her deeper into the room close to a large palm plant. With his back to the room occupants he said, 'I don't like fucking inert bodies so no more drink for you tonight.'

Malora's eyes widened. Still the champagne must have already gone to her head for she felt inordinately courageous. She was ready to talk terms with him. 'Right, you don't want inert bodies. What do you want, Damian?'

From the camel's lips came cold breath. 'Have you read Fifty Shades Of Grey?'

Almost all the other girls at the agency have read the book and Malora had been present while they have raved about it, but she had been confused by its popularity. Did women really have a secret desire to be owned by a powerful man? Could it be love when a man wants to tie you up and flog you raw?  When Malora mentioned it to her sister, she'd smiled and astutely remarked, 'The Western woman sneered at the woman in the purdah and now she dons a dog collar and worships at the same altar.'

Malora looked into Damian's dark eyes. 'No, but isn't it about a sick man who abuses his lover?'

'Perhaps it is not a sickness, but a matter of taste.'

'Is that what you want from me?'

'Not quite. What I really like is taking a woman by force. A dangerous activity likely to end me behind bars, so I am willing to settle for consensual rape. You will let me tie you up in one of the public scene rooms here and you will pretend to resist while I overpower you, tie you up, and rape you. There will be a bit of pain and sometimes it will involve a little bleeding as I like using the bullwhip, but I will never mark your face or leave any permanent scars. And when I am finished I will leave you in the parking lot to make your own way back. Would that be acceptable to you?'

Shocked to her core, Malora heard her own voice as if from far away ask, 'How many times would you expect this. . .service from me?'

'Let's say five times?' Damian's face froze into a cold, calculating mask. A businessman to the end. Ten thousand must be the going price.

Malora felt as if she was a stick-figured bird precariously perched on a thin wire. Can I really agree to let someone rape me? Incapable of forming any speech, she nodded.

'Perhaps I should let you lick the brim to taste the poison,' he murmured, and moved closer to her. Instinctively, Malora took a step back on her, and if not for the solid wall against her back, Malora would have fallen. With the trailing fronds of a palm tree and his big body hiding her from view, his hand came up to pinch her right nipple. It was so hard she gasped in shock and pain. He took that opportunity to crash down on her parted mouth, bumped his teeth against her lips, and poked a pointy, muscular tongue into her mouth. His tongue tasted coppery and bitter.

Copious amounts of saliva pour into Malora's horrified mouth making her want to gag. The oysters she had not eaten but watched him eat flashed into her mind. His tongue felt slimy and dirty. It made Malora want to brush her teeth, rinse, spit, and rinse again with the extra-strong mouthwash that her father used to have in the bathroom cabinet.

Malora truly, truly needed to go somewhere and be sick, but pinned tightly to the wall by his strong ox-like body she was totally unable to move.

Malora felt his hand force itself between her thighs and slide up quickly. His rough, sausage-like fingers were already grasping the rim of her knickers and pushing the material aside. And there was not a single thing she could do about it.

Helpless tears gathered at the back of Malora's eyes and began to roll down her face.

Suddenly he removed his smelly mouth and looked down at her.

Malora's face, she was certain, must be white with horror and she was gasping for breath. Her distress seemed to please him and her suffering appeared to have brought him pleasure. Without knowing it Malora was playing the part perfectly. If she had enjoyed it, it would have spoilt it for him.

He brought up a hand and touched her face. 'For most part the symptoms of excitement and fear are so similar most men cannot tell the difference. I can,' he whispered close to her ear, the thick fingers of his other hand moving into the folds of her flesh. 'I am going to finger-fuck you amongst all these people, and they will see you for the slut you are.'

Malora's brain scrambled for escape. 'Don't you care,' she whispered back, 'what these people will think of us?  Of you?'

His laugh was harsh and sudden. 'Did you see anybody come to greet me or talk to me? Darling, I am as invisible as you are, probably more so. Nobody is looking at us, because nobody cares about us. Here, everyone pretends not to know anyone. What you do in here is no one's business.'

Desperately, Malora pushed the palms of her hands against his chest. The nausea was already almost in her throat. She must be sick.  'I need the toilet,' she gasped.

He stepped aside.

The first thing her shocked, ashamed eyes met were deep gray eyes. They were blazing.

It could have been only seconds, but it seemed like ages that Malora was held locked and hypnotized by the stranger's insolent eyes. When she recalled it later she would remember how startlingly white his leather jacket had been against his tanned throat, and swore that even the air between them had shimmered. Strange too how all the background sounds of pleasures, voices and laughter had faded into nothing. It was as if she had wandered into a strange and compelling universe where there was no one else but her and that devilishly handsome man.

With broad shoulders, a deep tan, smoldering eyes, a strong jaw, and straight-out-of-bed, vogue-cool, catwalk hair that flopped onto his forehead, he looked like one of those totally hot and brooding Abercrombie and Fitch models, only more savage and fierce.

Devastatingly more.

For a moment Malora stared back.

Then she snapped her mouth shut, tore her eyes from his, and pushing herself away from the wall took a step forward. Malora's knees felt shaky and she was terrified she would fall, but she did not. She just needed to get away. Away from the scene of her humiliation. Malora sensed heads turning to watch her, haughty whispers and pitying gazes. They pitied her, yet no one stepped in to save her. Malora stumbled away towards the doors hardly able to control the rising nausea.

She didn't dare open her mouth to ask anyone where the loo's were but she spotted two young women disappearing down a corridor and she staggered after them. They led her to a cloakroom and Malora rudely pushed past them, ignoring their offended cries of 'hey'.

Malora ran into one of two cubicles and falling to her knees, violently throw up the bits of vegetables she had eaten and almost all the champagne. One of the girls asked if she was all right and Malora choked out, 'Fine'.

Malora heard them go into the other cubicle and locked the door. She sat back on her heels and the hot tears came. Malora covered her mouth to muffle any stray sounds. She had made a complete fool of herself.

What do I do now? 

What can I do?

Dedicated to: prettyvernita123

A/N:

So, what do you think would happen in the next chapter?

Would Damian Gold have his wicked way with Malora?

Who was the stranger and why was his eyes blazing?

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