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  Milan swore to herself that if she got her slave back, she’d stop being lazy. No more Ms. Nice Guy. Her insults, public humiliation, and insistence that he service her with his tongue were far too tame, not nearly severe enough punishment for such a despicably deceitful slave.

  As much as she dreaded the inconvenience, there was no other way around the task. She’d have to work up enough stamina and develop creative scenarios while dispensing cruel and harsh physical discipline. Oh, God. Her life had been so carefree…cursing at him, belittling him, and demanding that her shoes and pussy get licked was the extent of the effort she’d put into being a mistress. Now she had to work for Maxwell’s devotion. It was so not fair. Damn that horrible Veronique. The woman had ruined her cushy lifestyle.

  Anxiety ridden, she lowered the window and craned her neck, peering inside the building. She could see Hilton. She shook her head in apprehension. Usually, looking at Hilton made Milan’s stomach tighten with yearning, but not now. That he was still yakking on the phone and hadn’t yet made it up to the loft was making her tummy flip with fear.

  What the hell was the problem? From her vantage point, Hilton appeared to be scowling in frustration and gesturing frantically, like he was having a hard time getting Veronique or her sidekick to be reasonable. Shit. Shit. Shit. The operation was not going well at all. Unable to bear witnessing Hilton return to the car in defeat, she rolled up the window, closed her eyes, and imagined the kind of torture she’d put Maxwell through if she was fortunate enough to get him back in her clutches.

  That damn Maxwell was going to pay dearly for causing her such a high degree of agitation. Red hot anger engulfed her. At that moment, she was furious enough to do Maxwell the kind of harm that could put him in the hospital…or kill him. Hmm. Getting hit with a murder charge was not a pleasant thought. She took a deep, refreshing breath and decided she wouldn’t lay a hand on Maxwell until her some of her rage dissipated.

  Antsy, Milan checked her watch and peeked at her cell phone. It was a simple mission. Capture and seize! Why was Hilton taking so long? Biting her bottom lip, she imagined Hilton barging in the loft and Veronique and her muscular cohort, BodySlam, overpowering him, killing Hilton, or enslaving him for life. People committed lesser crimes for less money. With billions at stake, who knew the lengths Veronique would go to.

  Unable to concentrate, she put down the training manual and then took a deep breath, trying to relax in the well-cushioned back seat of the Rolls. She couldn’t. On pins and needles, she leaned forward, eyes riveted to the brightly lit lobby. With her fingers and toes crossed, she waited anxiously for Hilton to deliver her benefactor. Hopefully, Maxwell would return with his financial status intact.

  Five minutes later, a grim-faced Hilton returned to the car. “I spoke over the intercom to a man and asked to speak to Veronique. He told me that she wasn’t available. Then I asked to speak to Maxwell Torrance and he put a woman on the phone.” Hilton took a deep breath.

  “And?”

  “I demanded that she let me speak to Mr. Torrance. The woman burst into laughter and said that Mr. Torrance was tied up.” Obviously distressed, Hilton rubbed his chin. “Think we should call the police and report that Mr. Torrance has been kidnapped?”

  “No. I’ll handle this,” Milan insisted, sounding bolder than she actually felt. Opening the back door herself, she stepped out of the Rolls. Hilton opened the driver’s side door, but Milan motioned for him to stay inside the car.

  Despite a feeling of panic and foreboding, she swept inside the building like she owned the place. She approached the lobby phone and picked it up. Ignoring the anxiety that coursed through her, she took a deep breath and then pushed in Veronique’s apartment number.

  “Hello!” Veronique chortled.

  Milan winced. There was triumphant laughter in the bitch’s despicable gravelly voice.

  “You have something that belongs to me,” Milan stated calmly. “And I want it back.”

  The threatening tone in her voice was unmistakable and very real. She suddenly realized that if Veronique didn’t release Maxwell, she’d have to get ghetto on that ass and take her property back. Apparently Veronique didn’t know who she was messing with. Milan could fight and she didn’t need any manmade paraphernalia; she’d whip that bitch’s so-called dominant ass the good old-fashioned way. She’d forget about keeping up appearances and resort to her housing project days. Yes, Milan was ready to handle her business. If she got close to Veronique, Milan was prepared to kick off her stilettos, snatch off her earrings, slather some Vaseline on her face, and commence to whipping some Goth ass.

  Better yet, she’d keep her heels on and stick a size ten stiletto up that flat ass. She could imagine herself scratching up Veronique’s pasty face with her long acrylic nails, and then she’d bite the mound of the hag’s dowager’s hump with her full set of healthy teeth. Yeah, she’d get real ghetto up in Veronique’s loft if she didn’t quickly turn over Milan’s personal possession.

  “He’s my property now, he offered himself to me,” Veronique said contemptuously.

  “You’re misinformed. Maxwell Torrance serves only me. Look at the collar he’s wearing. It clearly states that he is my property!”

  The crude woman coughed into the phone—a horrible, hacking cough. Finally, she cleared her throat. “He gave himself to me,” Veronique said. Her voice was so grating, it made Milan wince.

  “That man you’re holding hostage belongs to me! There’s a collar around his neck that bears my name.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Milan gasped in shock. “What do you mean? No one can remove his collar. It’s locked. I have the key.”

  “Like I said, he’s not wearing any collar. My man BodySlam’s pretty handy. All it took was a pair of wire cutters to free Torrance from your flimsy bondage.”

  Milan bristled, hating having to hear Veronique’s nasally voice refer to her wealthy human property by name.

  “He’s been whipped, fucked in the ass, and at the moment he’s resting…strapped down. Bound and gagged.” Veronique gave a wheezy sigh. “He looks happily miserable as he attempts to develop a tolerance for pain and my special brand of punishment,” she taunted. “So take your fake-dominatrix ass back to your vanilla world of fantasy dungeons and delightfully playful torture toys. People like you make a mockery of a very serious lifestyle.”

  “You’re right,” Milan conceded. “And if you’re the superior dominatrix you claim to be, then you won’t mind allowing Maxwell to tell me to my face that he prefers you over me?”

  Veronique wheezed into the phone for a few unpleasant moments and then abruptly hung up. A buzzer sounded, granting Milan entry to the other side of the locked glass door. Her mind racing as she crafted numerous seizure scenarios, Milan stepped inside the elevator and rode to the twelfth floor.

  BodySlam opened the door. Big, bald, and virile, he was even more imposing in person than when she’d viewed him on the monitor. Watching him spank Mrs. Tamburro from the safe confines of her cushy office was…um, sexy. Standing face-to-face with the sadistic brute was terrifying.

  Milan gulped. “I’m here to see Veronique.” Surprisingly, her voice came out strong and steady.

  He gave a snort, loud and threatening, challenging her to run as fast as she could to the safety of her waiting car. But the thought of bungling her mission and leaving empty-handed encouraged Milan to stand tall, boldly matching BodySlam’s scathing gaze.

  BodySlam’s suspicious eyes gave her a quick once over, rapidly scanning Milan from head to toe. After a final grunt of displeasure, he stepped aside and allowed her admittance inside the loft.

  Milan interpreted BodySlam’s throaty utterance as defeat. Aha! She’d made the cut. She’d impressed him with her sneer, her hot-pink and black plastic dress, and her ultra-sexy boots. She wanted to give herself a big fat kiss for pulling off the look and demeanor of an authentic dominatrix. Strutting with a newfound sense of power, she followed BodySlam into
the main room, which had the customary furnishings of a typical home: sofa, chairs, tables, lamps, tasteful art adorning the walls. No whipping posts, blood spatters, or any signs of torture and brutality.

  Veronique, milk white and ugly, sat in a black leather chair watching a game show on TV. Her long, skinny legs were outstretched, her body language crude and masculine. Severely vexed at having her show interrupted, the hag glowered at Milan.

  Milan’s eyes wandered back and forth, inquisitively. Which of the two had introduced Maxwell to anal sex, BodySlam or Veronique? Veronique looked mannish enough to strap on a dick. But even with all his muscles and seeming virility, it was quite possible that BodySlam was a down-low brother. It was a hard call. Milan shrugged. Maybe they were a tag team, taking turns butt-fucking the traitorous billionaire. For his treachery against her, Maxwell deserved far worse than a bloody asshole.

  Veronique took note of Milan’s outfit. Standing tall and proud, Milan stared her down, forcing the woman to blink.

  “He’s in the back room,” Veronique told her; then she rose.

  She and BodySlam escorted a confident and boldly strutting Milan down a corridor. Unflinching, Milan strode into the torture room, rolled her eyes at the many dungeon-devices. The chink in the armor had been detected when she made Veronique blink.

  Naked and bruised, Maxwell lay shackled to a padded table with a gag ball inside his mouth. At the sight of Milan, his eyes widened in surprise.

  Milan smiled at her slave. Her curving lips, beautifully wicked, promised to deliver a thrashing that he wouldn’t soon forget.

  Enthralled by the unspoken pledge, Maxwell trembled with delight, informing Milan that he was eager to endure harsh and relenting punishment for his rebellious behavior.

  Veronique cleared her throat and shifted her feet uncomfortably. The haggard dominatrix wasn’t looking quite as smug, Milan noted with amusement.

  Milan smoothed Maxwell’s tousled hair and chuckled, “You’ve been a very naughty boy.” She frowned up at Veronique. “I believe there’s been a misunderstanding. My slave has been playing a prank on you and me.” She leaned down to her naked and helpless slave. “Your discipline will be severe and unrelenting.”

  Veronique parted her lips in protest.

  “Don’t worry,” Milan cut in before the woman could utter a word. “You’ll be compensated for your time.”

  “Let’s get something straight—” Veronique’s voice shook. She looked upward anxiously as if she were witnessing billions of dollars sprouting wings and swirling out of her reach.

  Rubbing her victory in Veronique’s face, Milan beamed down at Maxwell. “For the record…to whom do you belong?”

  Maxwell’s eyes fixed on Milan’s face. Unable to speak, he groaned deeply, conveying his devotion. Milan plucked the ball gag from his mouth. “Tell her.” She nodded toward Veronique.

  Veronique’s upper lip curled in disgust as she and BodySlam stared down at Maxwell curiously.

  “I belong to you, Mistress Milan. I’ll do anything to get back in your good graces,” he said, his voice raspy with regret.

  “You piece of crap. You dirty scumbag!” Veronique spoke through clenched teeth. She raised her hand menacingly. Maxwell flinched, but BodySlam grabbed Veronique’s arm before she could strike the billionaire.

  “My, my. You’re such a sore loser and it’s quite unattractive.”

  “Fuck you!” Veronique bellowed.

  Milan pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “You really ought to work on developing some dignity and grace in the face of defeat.” Smirking, she glanced at her watch and then glared at Veronique. “Look, I don’t have all day. Unbind my slave!” She sucked her teeth and began tapping her foot impatiently.

  Veronique hovered over Maxwell. She brought her angry face close to his. “You ingrate. You wasted my time. I worked all day whipping you into shape—”

  “Let him go, Veronique. We’ll get another…” BodySlam stopped, leaving out the words rich man.

  BodySlam wedged himself in front of Veronique and undid the leather straps that bound Maxwell’s upper and lower limbs. The billionaire sat up and rubbed his tender wrists.

  Furious and unable to witness her great loss, Veronique stomped out of the room, leaving BodySlam behind.

  Milan pressed her lips close to BodySlam’s ear. The heavily muscled bald man folded his massive arms and then nodded a reply.

  CHAPTER 14

  “Good evening, Hilton,” Maxwell said sheepishly as he followed Milan into the backseat of the car.

  Milan shot Maxwell an admonishing look. “Did I give you permission to speak?”

  Contrite, he lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Mistress.”

  “Save your apology. You can’t begin to imagine how sorry you’re going to be for your impudence. Your utter gall,” she added, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “I know I don’t deserve you, Mistress. I beg you to please accept my humble apology. Please! I promise to be your obedient and faithful servant for the rest of my life.”

  Hilton turned the key in the ignition. “Should I drive Mr. Torrance home?”

  Milan could tell by his voice that her chauffeur was uncomfortable. It embarrassed him to hear his former boss beg and grovel. Putting on a show for Hilton, she thrust her hand between Maxwell’s legs and squeezed his balls. Maxwell grunted in genuine pain.

  “That’s just the beginning,” she warned.

  “I understand, Mistress,” he whimpered, rubbing his aching balls.

  “Actually, you don’t understand. But I’m sure we’ll see eye-to-eye after you’ve been properly trained.” She gave his scrotum another squeeze and a sharp twist.

  “Ahh!” he gasped in shock and then uttered incoherent, pain-filled sounds.

  Hilton grimaced, unsure of what Milan was doing to Mr. Torrance, but his instincts, as well as the volume of his ex-boss’s screams, gave him a fairly good indication.

  Looking at the driver in the rearview mirror, Milan gave him a wink. “Don’t pay Maxwell any attention. He’s full of theatrics.”

  Maxwell’s breathing came in short gasps, but he finally stopped whimpering. Milan kept her eyes on Hilton’s face. She noticed that a hint of amusement, a trace of a smile, had appeared on Hilton’s lips after Maxwell quieted down.

  And there was something else. She continued to peer at her driver in the rearview mirror. He gazed at her, raw desire in his eyes. She felt her breath catch, and her mouth watered. She wanted to do Hilton right there in the car. White passion oozed between her legs.

  She was on fire and would have gladly opened her legs and welcomed him inside her hot hole, but business before pleasure, she reminded herself. Exercising control, she closed her legs tightly. Only a thrill seeker or a hopelessly addicted gambler would put a fabulously wealthy lifestyle on the line for another night of lust.

  For the sake of her financial future, she focused her undivided attention on her slave. There were marks on his face, his neck, and his arms. Scars left by Veronique, and reminders of his flagrant disobedience.

  Infuriated, Milan whispered tauntingly, “I heard you’re a sissy.” Milan placed her lips near Maxwell’s ears. “How come you never mentioned that you liked taking it up the ass?”

  “I don’t. Those people are animals. They violated me.”

  “Is your little butt-hole burning?” She giggled.

  Humiliated, Maxwell dropped his head, covering his face with his hands and murmured, “Yes, Mistress, I’m in a great deal of pain.”

  “So you were sodomized and kidnapped, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Exactly.”

  She patted his hand. “Don’t worry. They’re not going to get away with what they did to you.” She tapped Hilton on the shoulder. “Take us to the closest police station.”

  “Yes, Ms. Walden. Right away,” Hilton responded. He slowed down and made a right turn.

  “Why…why did you tell him to do that?” Maxwell asked, hi
s eyes suddenly filled with terror.

  “Are you questioning my judgment?”

  “No.” He wiped droplets of sweat from his forehead.

  “We’re going to press charges, Maxwell. Those criminals should be held accountable for what they did to you. I don’t take kindly to having my property kidnapped and defiled.” Scrunching up her lips, she scrutinized him and winced. “Look at all the marks they left on you. I’m personally offended. I want justice. Don’t you?”

  “No!” Maxwell begged. “I can’t allow that type of information to leak to the press. It’ll ruin me.” He began shaking his head adamantly.

  “Let me get this straight.” Milan gripped his chin, and turned his face toward hers, forcing him to look her in the eye. “You were held captive and you were brutally assaulted by sadists who had no justification for putting their hands on you and you’re saying that you don’t want to see your tormentors punished?”

  “No, I don’t. I’m sorry, Mistress, but I can’t afford that kind of publicity.” His blue eyes welled. “My image would be tarnished. I’d be a laughingstock. I’d have to move to some remote corner of the world.”

  “I see,” she said bitterly and then shoved his head against the back of the leather seat. “Forget the police station, Hilton. Drive me and this sissy to my home.”

  “Okay.” Once again, Hilton changed the direction of the car.

  Milan set rage-filled eyes on Maxwell. “You can crush corporations but you can’t shut down a home-based dungeon? You’re pathetic,” she spat.

  “I’ll shut them down. I promise you.”

  “Your promises aren’t worth shit.”

  “I made a mistake, Mistress. I should have never personally delivered the news that the dungeon had to be shut down.”

  “You were supposed to have your people handle Veronique. I didn’t tell you to make a personal visit.”

  “I wanted to inform her that she had two days to tie up her affairs.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Since when do you give a heads up to a company you intend to squash?”