Master's Pet

By: Jan Bowles

Masters of Submission 6


It was barely five in the morning, and as he drove along the deserted streets of Boston, Quinn Sutherland didn’t know why he ignored the polite, yet insistent requests of the satnav by taking a right, instead of a left turn.

A couple of minutes later, when a large brass sign bearing the words Club Submission filled the passenger side window, he figured the subconscious mind was a force to be reckoned with. He pulled into the parking lot opposite the building and stilled the engine of the SUV.

Four years. It had been four fucking years since he’d last seen this shithole.

Quinn realized that time and tide waited for no man, because although Club Submission was instantly recognizable, it had changed, too. The short flight of stone steps leading to the entrance was still evident, but on his last visit here, he’d entered the club through a metal-shuttered door. Now, double oak doors made a statement, letting him know that Club Submission was through hiding in the shadows. To further emphasize this newfound confidence, two huge bronze ravens guarded the entrance. He’d have remembered those, because they stood about four feet tall. Quinn shook his head. Fucking hell, Club Submission had moved on.

He wondered if the club was under new management or still owned by the Strong brothers. Matthew and Ethan were two guys who sure as hell didn’t take any shit from anyone. Make an enemy of them, and you could up end up with more broken bones than were healthy for you. Perhaps they still had the reins, but four years was a sizeable chunk out of anyone’s life, so maybe they were long gone.

With tiredness creeping up on him, Quinn dragged a hand over his jaw, feeling two days’ worth of stubble rasp beneath his fingertips. Needing a break, he reclined the driver’s seat and let his thoughts drift. Traffic was still sparse, but a couple of hours from now the city would be crawling with life, much of it barely human. The sun was already starting to make an appearance, and the first shafts of light caught the adjacent buildings.

Holding a hand to the back of his neck, Quinn slowly rotated his head with circular movements, trying to alleviate the tension he found there.

His thoughts drifted inexorably to submissive women. What was it about them that made his cock harden in his pants even though he hadn’t slept or eaten properly for more than thirty-six hours? He figured it was their vulnerability that appealed to the way his brain had been wired up. Oh yeah, and talking of subs. He occasionally wondered what had happened to Jessica, his old sub. Was she still about, or had she moved on, too? His guess was that she’d married and had a couple of kids by now.

When he’d landed a lucrative contract laying gas pipeline through virgin forest in remotest Papua New Guinea, he’d had to finish with her. He remembered how inconsolable Jessica had been when he’d given her the news. She’d immediately dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around his legs, clinging to him as though her life depended on it. He still had trouble understanding why she’d become so hysterical. In his opinion, women were fucked up emotionally at the best of times. Moving to Guinea was a business transaction pure and simple, and he wasn’t about to alter his plans just to please his old fuck buddy, no matter how much the crazy bitch begged him.

His plan was to make money and lots of it, so he’d left Boston without a backward glance.

He’d never been afraid of hard physical labor, but working deep within the inhospitable jungle, while constantly fighting against the debilitating effects of dysentery and malaria, had been one hell of an eye-opener.

Dragging his thoughts away from the endless mangrove swamps and incredible humidity of Papua New Guinea, he focused on Club Submission once again. He’d enjoyed his time as Jessica’s dominant, but he hadn’t come back for her. She wasn’t important. No woman was. It was a shaky-voiced telephone call from his elderly uncle, letting him know that his father had died, that had brought him back to Boston. As an only child he supposed it was his fucking responsibility to make the funeral arrangements. Shit.

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