Dark Tales Diaries: Volume One

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2012 London Saint James

  ISBN: 978-1-77130-216-6

  Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

  Editor: Melissa Hosack

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  The inspiration for this BDSM series sparked from a casual conversation. Two words, “Dark Tales,” poked at me. From there, I sat down and typed non-stop. Dark Tales Diaries: Volume One and the life of Tristan Blackthorn spilled out upon the “pages” of my laptop.

  I invite you, the readers, to take a journey with Tristan as he uses Blackthorn Publishing to manage his obsession of finding his lost love somewhere within the erotic tales of others.

  And last but never least, to the love of my life, thank you for always being my muse and suggesting I write something called, Dark Tales!

  XoXo

  London

  DARK TALES DIARIES: VOLUME ONE

  Romance on the Go

  London Saint James

  Copyright © 2012

  Prologue

  “Tristan, why do you put yourself through this? Do you even know anymore?”

  “You know why.”

  “You’ve lost yourself somewhere in all this,” my sister said as she picked up a stack of mail and threw it to the floor. I watched the envelopes scatter, knowing somewhere within the words of so many, I’d find her. “Are you even listening to me? Your idea has turned into an obsession with the tales of others. And that’s all they are, Tristan. Tales. You will not find Keira in the world of strangers and their sexual make believe.”

  I stared into the concerned face of my sister. While Adelle meant well, she would never truly understand the driving force behind my need to discover the one love I lost.

  “I will find her, Adelle.”

  “You and Keira made that silly pact to each other when you were young. And here you sit, amongst the littered fantasies of other people in an attempt to find some hidden message from someone whom you haven’t seen or heard from in twelve years. When will enough be enough? Or do you intend to let the whole of your life slip from you before you realize Keira doesn’t wish to be found, Tristan?”

  “I may not find her in this,” I said, flinging my latest letter to the pile in disarray at my feet. “And I may not find any trace of her in this either.” I tossed the list of sir names I was researching aside. “But I will find her, Adelle.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I know what I’m looking for.”

  “You are searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack, brother. Look at the years wasted, and the money spent on trying to locate her. You haven’t been able to even prove her existence. I say the Kiera Pendleton you thought you knew never existed. That girl, whoever she was, played you for a fool.”

  “She will write of her journey, and I will find her.”

  “And you are willing to bet everything we have upon it?”

  “Yes.”

  Part One

  Dear Dark Tales,

  I’m good at what I do. That’s not braggadocio. That’s fact. But being the best took 5 years of training as an understudy with the legendary, Mistress Payn. What I learned from her was more valuable than my years in academia, obtaining my highbrow Harvard education. And when I was ready, I emerged from her tutelage, stronger. No longer the weakling. I’d rid myself of that groveling, pathetic creature who was stepped on, overlooked, mistreated, and more times than not, dismissed. The woman who writes to you now would never crawl, wallow, or be any man’s doormat. She’s in control, with a new found je-ne-sais-quois and savoir-faire that is completely her own, and I like it that way.

  You may wonder just what it is that qualifies me for your dark tales. And I intend to tell all. You see, I found my niche in the world of taboo. Fetish. Those darker desires one seeks out in the pursuit of pleasure. Those things people rarely talk about or wish to admit. You may call me Mistress Guinevere. I am a dominatrix; however, I wield no whip. I don no leather. I do not require a paddle, handcuffs, or ropes. Something straightforward has become my calling card, as well the one and only tool of my trade. Blood-red stilettos. Too minimal you may say. Nothing horribly intriguing about red stilettos, right? Wrong. Those stilettos gain me six figures a year in income. More than I made as a lawyer. And those same stilettos have given me something priceless. Freedom. Independence. Power.

  I work from home, four nights a week with a select, hand-picked set of eighteen clientele. I engage in no sexual intercourse with my clients, but that’s not to say there’s no sexual activity or gratification taking place. They are very well satisfied, so much so, that my Manhattan penthouse is paid in full by one of my gentleman callers. For his privacy, and due to his contradictory character, I will call him Mr. Enigma.

  Mr. Enigma has a standing appointment every Tuesday night, promptly at six to wash and fondle my feet. Why promptly? Because we have come to an understanding. If he is but one second late, he will not have the pleasure of my company that night. And I assure you, he requires my company so he is never late.

  Mr.… I’ll call him Mr. CatchHim. Why? Well, he’s very well to do; part of the Fortune Five Hundred, in fact. He’s handsome, hung like a horse, and women fawn all over him in an attempt to snag themselves a wealthy husband. He likes to slowly remove a woman’s shoe, suck on her toes, and see red painted toenails adorned on the perfect feet that stroke his hard cock. If those women only knew the secret to actually catching Mr. CatchHim, they might consider his request, but sadly, his desire is something he hasn’t found any woman willing to do, except me.

  It was Mr. CatchHim who purchased my latest car. A sleek, red Jaguar that even sports a vanity plate with bright red lettering that simply says, “STILETTOS.”

  Mr. BangYourHead comes by anytime he’s in town, and I always accommodate his usually last minute call, due to the fact he was very generous in providing me an all-expense paid holiday to Rome this summer. Mr. BangYourHead is a lead singer for a well-known band, and he, along with his band, has graced the covers of Rolling Stone more than once.

  Mr. BangYourHead has a particular liking to being walked upon. Literally, walked upon. Of course, I’m more than happy to provide that precise service. Each well-placed dig of my spiked heel upon his muscular, bare back brings him to the edge of climax, but he only completes his release when I give the command.

  Mr. Meticulous is my newest client and one in dire need of my services. He loves to suck the pointed tip of my shoe while masturbating. He’s a work in progress and ejaculates too quickly. I will be teaching him the art of control. For his wham bam mentality, he will be punished. He will clean each and every pair of red stilettos I have until they sparkle. And when I say each and every pair, I mean each of the one hundred and ten pair I own.

  This is a business, and I treat it as such. However it is a business of pleasure, and of need. Both psychological and physical. I never forget while it is a business, it is the business of people. I’m not dealing in products or goods, churning out trinkets on an assembly line. I’m providing a service. In a twisted way it’s like being a counselor or therapist, presenting an outlet to your client.

  There is a trust between
myself and my clients, and I provide a safe place for them to explore their innermost secrets, but I do keep that separation between Mistress/client, outlining clear and detailed roles in our relationship. If they do not follow the rules, they will no longer be a client, and if at any time they wish to renegotiate, I consider their request, but never will the terms of their negotiations go against my first rule. Never give anyone the upper hand or relinquish my control.

  Quite simply, in order to be the best, I’ve come to understand that each man seeks a different need to be met, even if he doesn’t know what that need is, so I weed out the bullshit, hone in on that need, and fulfill it as long as I maintain the balance of power in my favor.

  I must confess. Your sexy periodicals hooked me. They, being one of my own secret pleasures in which I indulge, are magnificent works of erotic art. When I read you were looking for tales of the forbidden to add to your new Dark Tales line through Blackthorn Printing, I knew I must be included.

  Most Sincerely,

  Mistress Guinevere

  Red Stilettos

  It didn’t get much better than this. Pure ecstasy. My head rested against the back of the tub, and I closed my eyes, enjoying my long overdue soak in a hot bubble bath. Being in heels most of the night earned me the relaxation, and my feet and calves wouldn’t argue the point, either. Beneath the water, I rubbed my feet together, using the toes on my left foot to work out the kink in my right arch. Without question my red stilettos contribute greatly to my line of work, and all of my particular clientele find them irresistible, but stilettos, no matter how beautiful or expensive, are not the most comfortable creation in footwear.

  I lifted my arm from the water to grab my glass of burgundy wine from the edge of the tub, hearing the droplets fall from my elbow and pelt the bubbles below. My wet fingers curled around the stem of the glass, slipping a bit until I gained a firm grip. I brought the fine crystal to my nose and sniffed the sweet bouquet of the drink before taking a sip, allowing the flavor to rest upon my tongue. I savored then swallowed, placing the glass back in place.

  When my doorbell rang, I cursed under my breath, mumbling obscenities at the intrusion. I’d seen three clients tonight, my last Mr. Meticulous, and I didn’t want to see anyone else. Ignore it. That was easier said than done, since whoever was at my door had become insistent, pressing and repressing the bell, causing it to ring almost non-stop.

  Ding… Ding… Ding…

  I stepped out of the tub, grabbed my fluffy robe, tied the belt almost too tight around my waist, and sulked to the front door, leaving wet footprints on the marble tiles in a trail behind me. When I reached the door, I swiped wet hair from my cheeks, took a breath, and peeked out the peephole.

  “Well, fuck me,” I said under my breath, but loud enough to audibly hear it.

  Ding… Ding… Ding…

  “Hang on!” I punched the code into the pad to disarm the alarm, unlatched the door, and opened it.

  “It’s been a long time,” he said in a voice that still sent shivers up my spine. “I was in town, and decided, why not?”

  I crossed my arms and eyed him suspiciously. “Humm…”

  “That’s it? All you have to say is, ‘Humm?’”

  “Humm is better than what I was really thinking, Marcus.”

  His mouth twitched at the corners, and I hated the fact I noticed how damn sexy his lips were.

  “Guinn,” he said.

  “Guinevere,” I corrected. I set my expression to that of unyielding stone and ignored those sparkling straight white teeth as he smiled. His wicked ways no longer affected me. I’d broken his spell two years ago, and I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. I was Mistress Guinevere. I was in control, he wasn’t, and I would never relinquish the balance of power out of my favor again.

  He tilted his head in that roguish way and eyed me. Heat radiated from my core. “So, am I to stand here in the hall or are you going to let me come in, Guinevere?”

  “I hate you, Marcus, so why should I let you in?”

  “Hate is a strong word for someone who claimed no feelings for me whatsoever as she stormed out of my apartment a couple of years ago.”

  “What do you want? I don’t have times for your games,” I said rather tersely.

  “Let me in. Then I’ll tell you.”

  “You’re going to have to do better than that, Marcus. What’s wrong? Have you lost your touch? If you think that will entice me, you are so wrong.”

  Marcus Warner, Master Dom, pulled out a gorgeous pair of thigh-high, red leather, spike-heeled boots from behind his back, holding them out in front of him so I could see every lovely inch of the unmistakable Italian craftsmanship on the handmade beauties.

  “You won’t let me in even if I’m baring gifts?”

  I eyed the boots before returning my gaze to him.

  “What’s the old saying?” I asked. His perfectly shaped eyebrow lifted. “Isn’t it, beware of those baring gifts?”

  He dangled the boots. Swinging them from side to side. Tempting me.

  Bastard.

  I’ll give Marcus his dues. Since the first day I met him, he had my number, and during the year I spent with him, I gave him too much of myself, falling back into what I believed to be the weakness I worked so hard with Mistress Payne to rid myself of.

  Marcus sniffed the leather of the boots in his hand, giving me that smile again. He knew me well, maybe too well, and he knew those boots would be like kryptonite, cracking my will.

  “All right. You can come in, but only for a little while.”

  “That’s my little, Guinn,” he said.

  “I’m not your little anything, and don’t call me Guinn!” I stepped aside so he could enter, shutting the door behind him.

  He strolled into my apartment as though he belonged, sat the boots down on my glass coffee table, and took a seat, rather casually, on my leather couch. He patted the space next to him.

  “Well, come on. I’m not going to bite, unless you want me to,” he said, releasing his sexy sideway smirk.

  I took a seat in the chair across from the couch. This was my house, and I’d sit where I wanted to.

  He chuckled, shook his head, leaned back, and kicked his feet out, positioning them under my coffee table.

  “Marcus, are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

  “To see you.”

  “I’m not buying that.”

  He shrugged.

  “Aren’t you going to try on the boots?”

  “No,” I said.

  “You know you want to,” he baited.

  “Listen. I’m not sure what you are up to, and frankly I really don’t care—”

  “I’m up to the business of you,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe I let you go too soon. Maybe I regret it. Maybe I’ve decided it’s been long enough, and I want you back.”

  I snorted. “I left you, remember? You didn’t let me do anything.”

  There was that grin of his. The one that makes any woman consider her panties, his mouth, his tongue… Stop it, Guinevere. Don’t forget this is Marcus, the man you loath.

  “Really?” His onyx-colored eyes met me, and held me there with him. Stare for stare, we were locked in a secret power play for dominance.

  “We never worked well together,” I said. “You’re a dom, and I’m a dom, and neither is willing to give.”

  “Baby, you’re a switch. You like to dominate, but you also like to be dominated.”

  “No. I’m not,” I protested.

  “You always liked it when I took the control,” he said, assuredly. “With one word, you were wet for me.”

  “I like being in control. And I have no intention or interest in being submissive. Not for you, not for anybody.”

  “How long are you going to keep telling yourself that lie?”

  I stood up, pissed off and ready to rage. “Marcus, I don’t have to explain anything, justify my life and my choices, or
put up with your shit. I think your time is up. I’d like to say it was good seeing you again, but that would be a lie.”

  “You’ve always lied to yourself when it comes to me and how I make you feel.”

  “You don’t make me feel anything, Marcus. Get over yourself.”

  I marched to the front door. Marcus followed behind me. I reached for the knob, and was stopped by his large hand as it covered mine. He placed his mouth to my ear. His warm breath tickled across my cheek.

  “Guinevere,” he said in a low, deep growl. Immediately, my sex trembled. And fuckadie, fuck, fuck, he was right. One word. And that one word was my name falling from his lips. “I know you’re naked beneath this robe.” His fingers found the gap and explored, cupping a bare budding breast. “I want you to remove it, put on the boots, lay back on that lounger you’ve got in the corner, and spread wide for me.”

  My voice quivered. “No.”

  “It’s not up for debate.” He squeezed my nipple, putting the demand in the touch before tracing his fingertips up my throat. “Do it, now.” His free hand came around my waist and tugged at the belt. He loosened it, causing the robe to open. The fingers at my throat made their way to my shoulder, where he worked the fluffy material off, exposing my skin. Without hesitation he pulled the robe down my arms.

  I stood, naked, facing the door with a choice to make. I turned and sauntered to the coffee table, picked up his bribe, bent over, and slipped on the right boot, zipping it up to my thigh.

  “You have always been stunning, Guinn,” Marcus said.