Bound and Bent, Ten Tales of Serving Him (Anthology)

277 Pages·2014·3.26 MB·English

by  Bond Jessi

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BOUND AND BENT: TEN TALES OF SERVING
HIM
Gay BDSM Erotica Collection
This book is intended for adult audiences only. All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to real
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters involved in sexual activity are over the age of
eighteen.
All stories included in this anthology are published here with the express permission of the authors.
The cover art for this book makes use of licensed stock photography. All photography is for illustrative
purposes only and all persons depicted are models.
BOUND BY THE ENEMY and BOUND BY THE ENEMY: HIS WILLING SLAVE © 2012 Jessi
Bond
FIFTY SHADES PINKER: THE SISSY ACADEMY © 2014 Skye Eagleday
THE PRINCE'S DEFIANT SLAVE 1: THE CHOICE © 2013 Cherry Dare
BAREBACK RODEO #1: THE WAGER © 2014 Mike Ox
THE SILVER HAIRED DADDY BOSS AND THE SEXY EMPLOYEE © 2014 Rod Mandelli
BOTH SLAVE AND MASTER © 2014 Audrey Ellen Grace
SPANK US AGAIN, SAM © 2012 Jere Haken
SERVICING THE CEO © 2013 Mandoline Creme
PRISON GUARD SEX SLAVE © 2014 Gia Vanna
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner
whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a
book review.
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Bound by the Enemy
Jessi Bond
Copyright 2012 Jessi Bond
Secret agent Randal Blake has been captured by the enemy, soon to be tortured and held in
captivity. Or so he thinks - until his captor makes it clear that he's interested in more than information or
ransom. Bold and sensual, the mysterious kidnapper offers Blake a unique alternative to traditional
torture. Will the straight spy decide to become another man's sex slave? Warning! This 9,000 word story
contains kidnapping, bondage, caning, collaring, first-time anal sex, gunplay, and fisting. Adults only!
***
Blake woke up with a start, frigid water dripping down his face and neck. His head
shook from side to side instinctively, until a stab of pain forced him to stop. He groaned.
It was dark, wherever he was. He was pretty sure that he was lying on his back. He
squinted, trying to make out shapes. Someone must be relatively close; he'd just had water
thrown on his face, after all. But whoever it was, they were keeping quiet.
He ached all over.
When he tried to move his arms and legs, he met with resistance. It was cold. He had a
disconcerting feeling that he was naked. All in all, this was not the best situation he could have
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asked for.
Searching his mind, he tried to recall exactly what had happened the last time he was
conscious - but his mind was fuzzy and slow, either from a blow to the head or some sort of
chemical. He hoped for the latter. If he actually had some sort of concussion or head injury,
who knew how long it might be before he could get proper medical attention?
There was no use worrying about that now.
"Hello?" he rasped.
There was no sound in the room, except for a dripping faucet somewhere.
He cleared his throat and tried again.
"Hello? I know you're there."
There was a low chuckle from somewhere very close by. Goosebumps rose on his skin.
"They said you were the best," came a lightly accented voice. "They weren't wrong,
were they?"
"I don't miss very much," said Blake, his voice still rough with disuse.
"Neither do I," responded his captor. "Which, I suppose, is why you are here in the
first place."
Blake sighed. "How about you untie me, and we have a civil conversation?"
There was a long silence.
"I suppose I can arrange that," said the other man. "Wait a moment, please."
Suddenly, the room was filled with light. Blake flinched away, squeezing his eyes shut.
When he was able to open them again, he was surrounded by three hulking men with machine
guns, and another was kneeling by him, sawing at the ropes that held Blake down.
This man was, Blake supposed, the same one that he'd just been speaking to. He didn't
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look particularly sinister - just an olive-skinned man in an off-white linen suit, methodically
cutting the ropes he'd no doubt tied himself.
"Did I hit my head?" Blake asked.
The man smiled. "A bit achey, are we? That'll just be the chloroform. Nothing to be
concerned about."
Blake exhaled. The man might be lying, of course, but he had no reason to.
When the last rope fell, the man stood, brushing off his hands. "Come on," he said,
heading for the door. "We have so much to discuss."
Blake got to his feet slowly, padding across the room with painful steps. The hired
guns flanked him as he followed the man in the suit, down a long hallway and up a flight of
stairs.
The main floor couldn't have been more different from the dank basement in which
he'd first awoken. It was beautiful, lavishly decorated, with polished marble floors and statues
lining the hall. Blake took in every detail - the color of the walls, the artwork hanging on
them, and the face of every bodyguard he passed. There seemed to be an armed man around
every corner. Whoever his captor was, he'd be completely fucked if they ever decided to have
a mutiny.
The man in the suit finally slowed down and gestured towards a doorway. "Here, Mr.
Blake. Please, enjoy a hot shower. Get yourself cleaned up. Dinner is almost ready."
The bathroom was gorgeous, bordering on the ostentatious. Blake caught sight of his
reflection as he passed the massive mirror; he looked like hell, which was to be expected given
the circumstances. He ran a hand through his close-cropped hair and stared into his red-
rimmed eyes. He was dimly aware that he was exhausted, but a low hum of adrenaline
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somewhere deep in his chest was keeping him as alert as a watchdog. He stripped off his
tattered clothes and threw them in the corner.
As he stepped into the shower and cranked the hot faucet as far as it would go, the tiny
pinhole camera in the corner of the ceiling did not escape his notice. He smiled and waved.
The water felt fantastic on his skin, but Blake didn't let himself close his eyes, even
when the shampoo stung. Afterwards he folded himself into a ridiculously soft robe and
ventured back out in to the hallway, where two armed men immediately placed themselves in
front of him.
"You will follow us to your room," said one of them.
"Naturally," said Blake with a smile. The men did not smile back.
It was startlingly reminiscent of a five-star hotel room, save for the trained killers
waiting outside of the door. Blake walked to the king-size bed and eyed the clothes that had
been laid out for him. His eyes narrowed as he picked up the shirt and held it up in front of
him; it was exactly his size.
There was a heavy pounding at the door.
"Hurry up," came a gruff voice. "Mr. Sarceda does not like to be kept waiting."
So, he had a name. Blake slipped into the clothes, went into the hallway, and followed
the men back down the wide hallway and long spiral staircase leading to the main floor.
"Utility bill must be a fortune," Blake remarked, glancing at the many lights and
chandeliers as they passed. One of the men glared at him, but neither spoke.
The dining room was massive, and eerily silent. Sarceda was sitting by himself at one
end of a dining table that ran nearly the whole length of the room. He looked up and smiled as
Blake approached. One of the armed men pulled out the chair closest to Sarceda's left-hand
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side, and Blake sat, obediently.
"Thank you so much for joining me," said Sarceda. "I can't tell you how glad I am that
you decided to be civil about this. Things are going to be much easier for you than they could
have been."
"I always find that abductions tend to go better when everyone follows basic social
niceties," Blake replied dryly, lifting the lid on the plate that was placed in front of him. It was
a succulent lobster on a bed of rice pilaf, clouds of steam rising. Blake's stomach growled. But
he hadn't gotten this far in his job by being reckless.
Sarceda's eyes shone with amusement at Blake's hesitation. "You don't trust me? I
could have killed you hours ago if I wanted." He reached over the table, cracking off one of
the claws. He held Blake's eyes as he cracked it open, sucking out the tender meat and licking
the juices off of his fingers.
Blake did not break eye contact, keeping his poker face as Sarceda turned back to his
food.
He was being tested. That much was obvious. But why?
For someone as experienced as Blake, reading the average person was easy enough.
Looking into someone's eyes, watching the movements of their hands, listening to the words
they said and didn't say - he could understand everything he needed to know about them. But
a man like Sarceda, who was obviously the head of some sort of criminal empire that was
previously unknown even to someone of Blake's considerable knowledge of the underworld,
might be more of a puzzle.
He had somehow managed to become powerful, and remain unseen. Either of these
things was a difficult enough task on its own, but combined? Sarceda was not the sort of man
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to be trifled with. And he certainly hadn't gotten to where he was by wearing his true
intentions on his sleeve.
Blake took a bite of his pilaf, watching Sarceda out of the corner of his eye. The man
ate with excessively neat table manners, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin he kept in his lap,
and never resting his elbows on the table. He had, perhaps, been sent to an expensive
boarding school. Or he wanted Blake to think he had.
His suit was expensive, and tailored. Blake chewed thoughtfully, cracking into his
remaining lobster claw. All of this meant something. Already, the seed had been planted in
Blake's mind - when he considered all the clever things that Sarceda must have done to get
himself here, all the sacrifices he'd made, all the people he'd outsmarted and outgunned, he
felt a vicarious thrill. He was thinking about how he would have done it. He was comparing
himself to Sarceda.
If Sarceda knew Blake's own history, it would have been a trivial thing to make
himself seem more like Blake - expensive suit, boarding school manners, and a flirtatious way.
When you are trying to bend someone to your will, the best possible thing you can do is make
them feel as if they are looking in a mirror when they see you. Blake knew this. It was
childishly simple to do. He had done it himself.
Blake was determined not to be taken in. As long as he was aware of it, he was sure
he'd be all right. He just had to stay alert to Sarceda's attempts to manipulate him.
And, of course, he had to manipulate him right back.
"So," said Blake after a long silence. "How is it that I've never heard of you?"
A smile played at Sarceda's lips. "I prefer it that way," he said, gesturing for one of the
his hired guns, who was holding a bottle of crisp white wine in his free hand. He poured refills
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for both men.
"Of course," said Blake. "But my organization makes a point of knowing about people
like you. To what do I owe the pleasure of being the first person you wanted to introduce
yourself to?"
Sarceda watched him the entire time he spoke, his face neutral, but pleasant. His eyes
were wide and his mouth always seemed on the verge of a smile. "I needed someone from your
agency," he said. "For my own purposes. It didn't particularly matter who. But then I saw the
personnel files, and well..." his eyes dipped down slightly. "I suppose I liked the look of you."
Oh, he was an incorrigible flirt. Blake grinned, shaking his head and turning back to
the remains of his food. "You certainly know how to make someone feel appreciated," he said.
"But I keep having this feeling that you're just telling me what you think I want to hear."
"Why on earth," said Sarceda slowly, "would I think that a notorious lady-killer such as
yourself would enjoy being the recipient of another man's admiration?"
"Admiration is admiration," said Blake easily, leaning back in his chair. "Is there any
dessert?"
"I've heard a rumor," said Sarceda, leaning forward. "About your kind. I would dearly
love for you to tell me if it's true."
"There are certain questions I might prefer not to answer."
Blake felt the cold, hard tip of a machine gun press against his back.
"All the same," said Sarceda. "I hope you will make an exception, in my case."
Blake's jaw clenched. "We'll see about that."
Sarceda put the tips of his fingers together. "I've heard...that for every woman a secret
agent seduces...he's seduced two men. Is there any truth in that, Mr. Blake?"
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The tension in Blake's shoulders relaxed, and he felt the gun withdraw. "Of course not,
that's ridiculous." He took a sip of his wine. "It's more along the lines of...one man for every
five women."
Sarceda's face lit up with a fierce grin. "I hope you're not just telling me what I want to
hear, Mr. Blake."
"It's simply a fact of the job. If you go out for that sort of mission, you'll be expected to
do it whenever the opportunity presents itself. It hardly matters who the other person is.
That's what they tell you, and after a while you realize they're right."
Blake was, of course, lying. Honey traps were relatively rare as it was, and the number
of men who preferred another man to ensnare them in one was rarer still. Blake himself hadn't
been called upon for such an assignment in a long time, and certainly never for a male target.
With every passing moment, Sarceda was becoming easier and easier to read. He was
still leaning forward in his chair, intent on the conversation, his pupils blown out so wide that
his eyes looked jet-black. Blake found himself wondering what was going on under the table,
beneath the fine linen of Sarceda's perfectly-tailored trousers.
Right away, Blake knew he had to play this for all it was worth. The more blood in
Sarceda's dick, the less in his brain, the better for Blake.
"What about you?" Sarceda murmured, leaning even closer, slightly breathless.
Blake smiled. "That would be telling, wouldn't it?"
Sarceda was quiet for a very long time, just staring. Then, suddenly, he laughed.
"That's all right," he said, jumping to his feet suddenly and clapping Blake on the shoulder. He
winced. "We should save some questions for later." He gestured to some of his goons, and two
of them took hold of Blake by either arm and lifted him to his feet. "Time to retire to your