Submissives journey mast.., p.1
Submissive's Journey (Masters of Blackstone Book 1), page 1
ROXY HARTE
Submissive’s Journey
MASTERS OF BLACKSTONE
BOOK ONE
SUBMISSIVE’S JOURNEY
Masters of Blackstone Series by Roxy Harte
Julia and Everett’s Story is so big, I broke it into two books:
SUBMISSIVE’S JOURNEY
SUBMISSIVE’S ROAD TO RECOVERY
A Victim of Human Trafficking…
Julia Moran’s childhood ended abruptly. She survived by being beautiful, obedient, and silent for the respected Los Angeles lawyer who targeted her. No one suspected the pampered and adored woman was kept prisoner in his multimillion dollar house. The day her Master died, she was free. With a bold, new life teaching Jr. High mathematics, she plans to be the most boring, vanilla woman ever born. The only thing upsetting Julia’s plan is a smoking hot dominant who wants to change her mind about kink in a very bad way and she’d be lying if she wasn’t more than a little curious.
…his Obsessions cost him Her Love.
Everett Hawthorne’s lineage doomed him at birth to be victim of the witch’s curse hurled at his plantation owning ancestor at the moment of her death. A curse guaranteeing each male descendant become obsessed by the one woman would cause his death, unless true love settled in both their hearts enabling them to save each other before it was too late. While he could admit he was obsessed with a woman, he knew the curse was no more than urban myth and happenstance. His ancestors were all idiots who made really ridiculous choices after all, and he was much too intelligent to fall in love. Now, convincing a woman the sexual traumas inflicted on her don’t define her seems a moral duty…but he’d be lying if he said he could keep his hands off her
The Secrets she keeps even from herself might get them Both Killed.
Julia soon realizes no one in the vanilla world will ever understand her mixed emotions, or her needs and in a final attempt for normal undergoes a desperate and experimental therapy that includes hypnosis and guided meditations to rewrite her history and have a chance for the white picket fence, faithful boring, vanilla husband, and yard full of children. The truths she’s hidden from herself are dangerous of all. In denying her soul-deep masochistic needs, she denies herself the joy and serenity she desires. By altering her memories she forgets that she knows entirely too much about the underground human trafficking network of LA businessmen and professionals to be allowed to live.
Is it too late for Julia to discover that only naked and on her knees in complete submission will she be able face the demons in her heart and mind to survive the danger coming for her and truly heal?
A MASTERS OF BLACKSTONE NOVEL by ROXY HARTE Book One 115K
Roxy Harte
♥
www.roxyharte.com
Submissive’s Journey
Copyright © 2018 by Roxy Harte
All rights reserved.
First Electronic book publication: © November 2018 Roxy Harte
First Print book publication: © November 2018 Roxy Harte
Cover Artist: Roxy Harte
Printed in the United States of America
Warning: No part of this book, with the exception of brief quotations for book reviews or critical articles, may be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in whole or in part in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author. Roxy Harte roxyharte@gmail.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Intended for adults only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase, and contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language, which may be offensive to some readers. For sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Roxy Harte will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of her titles.
Copyright ©2018 Roxy Harte
Dedication
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My editors past, present, and future for their patience, understanding, and willingness to put up with a not always easy to work with author. I’ve learned so much from you.
Prologue
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Meet Julia
Cincinnati, Ohio
Eleven months ago
Julia Moran sat in the common area of a low security psych ward. Panic clenched her gut as she sat, watching the shiny ball drop in Times Square. She felt utterly alone even though she shared the room the six other suicide failures whose holiday misadventures landed them together. Earlier in the evening she’d been triggered and a doorway to memories she’d hidden from herself burst open. Now, a million thoughts and images buzzed inside her head; disjointed but connected to the how, when, and why she’d married Jasper Madani.
Men had hurt her. Beat her. Fucked her.
Her husband had let them. No, not let. Ordered them to. Husband. Master.
She cried silent tears, terrified of being restrained again. She had to be good. Quiet. Make herself as small as she could, so no one would notice her. Her first job was surviving being in this place. In the morning she’d be free and could start putting her life back together. She just had to get to the other side of night without getting strapped down again. Avoid being jabbed with any more needles.
That had been the worst of it. Being restrained and remembering all the other times she’d been restrained, remembering the pain, so much pain. How did I ever forget the pain?
For a moment, the room was silent, the raucous New Yorkers whooping it up on television muted.
“Eighty!” Becky, the perky blond activities director, wore a blinking light necklace and a glossy paper hat with bouncing numbers. Her level of cheerful took annoying to an all-time high every time she excitedly called out the ten minute intervals until the New Year. “Everyone circle up! It’s time for an activity.”
Becky came closer and Julia met her gaze. “You too honey. Everyone participates. I’ll help you walk.”
Becky lifted under Julia’s arms and pointed her toward one of the plastic chairs arranged in a circle. Julia blinked. She didn’t know what had been in the syringe shoved in her arm, but she’d been weak since. Numb body. Not numb thoughts.
She held onto the emotions coursing through her. It was all she had left.
One by one the patients were expected to stand and announce what they’d learned about themselves when they’d failed to kill themselves. One of the women kept repeating, “If I die, who will take care of my baby? I need to live for my baby.”
“Thank you for sharing, Anya.” Becky helped her sit then directed her attention to one of the men. “It’s your turn, Mr. Jones.”
A bear of a man stood and shouted, “I tried to take the easy way out, but there are no easy paths. Death is coming! Tonight, death is coming for us all! Repent!” He pointed at Julia and then the man next to her. “Repent now, or be devoured by the flames of hell.”
Seven foot tall and as wide as a small automobile, he was terrifying. Julia slid as far into her plastic chair as she could, tucked into the small molded space with her arms, holding her bent legs tight against her chest, as two male nurses took control of the large black man. A silver needle flashed in slow motion as time seemed to stand still. When they injected the struggling man, Julia felt a phantom pinch and burn. She rubbed her upper arm.
Alone, she was naked and crouched on a cold cement floor. The basement was dark, damp, and smelled like disinfectant. Hearing a door open, she jerked. The lights came on and five pairs of boots stomped down the stairs. She didn’t dare look up, didn’t dare meet their gaze. She whispered, “Don’t hurt me! Please! I’ll be good.”
One of the men threatened, “Your time to beg is past.”
“Master!” She screamed. “I’m sorry. Please!”
“He isn’t coming. You ran, now you pay the consequences.”
“Master! Please don’t do this!”
“No!” She lifted her hands in front of herself to prove she was no threat as she tried to retreat. “Please. Don’t!
“Julia! Julia!”
Pain. So much pain.
Julia remembered everything those five men had done to her. She remembered their faces and crude words. She shook like a wet dog, shaking off water, and Becky with the sleek wheat-colored ponytail was suddenly inches away from her face. She blinked, no longer mentally trapped in a past event. As the psych ward’s common area became more real, the men she’d been surrounded by faded. She tried to hold onto what had happened to her. Fear still hummed in her veins, but she wasn’t being hurt. She was safe.
She tried to focus on what had happened. Five men. Enforcers. Their only purpose to subjugate her, humiliate her, and punish her with unimaginable pain. They’d taken turns raping her, then beat her until she was broken, body and spirit.
“Julia?” Becky repeated and the fragmented images in her mind shifted away.
“I’m okay. I’
I’m safe. I’m okay.
Breathing slowly and deeply, she reigned back her emotions; and even though a fine tremble coursed through her body, she knew she was safe. Glancing around the group, a couple others were wide-eyed, and it appeared Becky was going to have a panic attack of her very own, but she bent over and made eye contact with Julia. “You are safe. Mr. Jones won’t hurt you. We won’t let anyone hurt you.”
She barely remembered what she’d said on the roof, she’d been hysterical, talking out of her head about the men who had hurt her. An emergency room examination had proven she hadn’t been attacked recently, but the female doctor from gynecology asked questions and made notes after she’d discovered significant past damage. A male doctor from psychiatry suggested her dangerous stroll out onto the edge of the roof was triggered by past trauma, and while she clearly was no longer a threat to herself or others, the city required a forty-eight hour psych hold for observation and further evaluation after causing a public spectacle.
From deeper in the wing, Gentle Jones’ bellows could still be heard, though the words were muffled, “Fire and brimstone will fall from the sky. You will be consumed.”
Julia watched, whispering, “I’m safe here.”
“That’s right.” Becky straightened and addressed the rest of the circle, “Well, my, my,” Her voice came out a nasally pitch too high. “Apparently, Mr. Jones didn’t have anything positive to share.”
Note to self: Don’t name a child Gentle.
Julia took a deep breath and exhaled. Moment by moment it was getting easier to breathe. She saw having her sarcasm return as a good sign she was going to be okay. She believed her snarky inner dialogue was mostly responsible for helping her survive all she had. So, why was I on a roof, positioned to take a nose dive?
She’d been having so much fun with friends and didn’t even remember going up to an unknown businessman’s room with him. She remembered going to the bathroom after they’d gone into his room and ended up in the shower. She’d scrubbed and scrubbed, not because she’d had sex with him. Well, his vanilla version of sex, which they probably could have gotten by with in the center of the dance floor as lackluster and unimaginative as it’d been.
Okay, so that part isn’t clear.
The man had whispered, “You’ve been a very bad girl. Should I punish you now?”
That she remembered.
Maybe they hadn’t even had sex, maybe it really was just a sloppy kiss against a wall, and she’d excused herself to take a piss.
Yes, that resonated as more true.
Tears leaked over her cheeks as she remembered the businessman pounding on the bathroom door, demanding she get out of the shower, but she couldn’t, not until she was clean. She was so ashamed. She’d remembered man after man fucking her and believed she would never be clean again. She didn’t know how long she’d scrubbed. Didn’t remember getting out of the shower. But remembered sitting on the toilet naked because her legs wouldn’t support her as a dozen memories avalanched through her mind. God, why couldn’t it have been a drunken nightmare? It was memories.
“I know it was a memory.”
Her recollection of picking up the business man’s clippers and shaving her head was vague. She rubbed her hand over her stubble-covered scalp. That memory was definitely true then. I cut off my hair. She closed her eyes, remembering how long it had been. She’d been able to sit on it. Long, silky, glossy. The color a raven’s wing. But then she’d been covered in cum, her hair dripping with it, the men laughing at her—
“I couldn’t get it out of my hair. I can still smell it.”
She spoke to a cop on the roof. “Nothing is this bad, let's get you warm, something to drink. Whatever happened can be fixed.”
“No! This can’t be fixed. Everything I’ve believed to be true was a lie. It was all a lie!” She took a step to walk right off the roof, but the next thing she knew, the cop had a death grip on her arm she wasn’t likely to escape. She’d been wrapped in warm blankets—
She hadn’t seen her reflection yet, but knew it was going to be bad when she did.
“Now, let’s continue sharing our New Year’s intentions with each other.” Becky’s singsong voice and ear to ear smile were too much. “Remember, we’re focusing on positive affirmations and healthy changes.”
Voice after voice became a monotone hum in Julia’s ears as she slowly relaxed again. Lucky her—they were speaking in order of incarceration…no, that’s not right…admission…yes, that’s right. It meant she got to go last. She had no idea what to say. Nodding, her eyes fought to stay open, until the man next to her stood and they jerked wide. “Hi, uh, my name is Greg.”
Julia’s turn was next. She nervously twisted her fingers into the dove gray woven blanket covering her legs. What would she say? Where would she start? Maybe she could just promise to eat more vegetables…
Five voices replied, “Hi Greg, you are safe here.”
She felt everyone looking at her, pressuring her to take part. She hunched deeper, collapsing her chest inward to be even smaller. “Hi Greg, you are safe here.”
The attention turned back to Greg, thank god. She stared at the bandages, wrapping the middle-aged man’s forearms from elbow to wrist. From what she’d learned, he’d really done a number on himself and won the longest vacation from reality of any of them, thirty days. She envied him—his scars, not the time, thank god she’d only faced two days—Greg’s scars were going to be epic. He shuffled from left foot to right and kept his gaze glued to the linoleum. She wished she had scars to attest to her pain.
Greg mumbled, “I’m going to stop making excuses for my failures and start creating micro-habits to help me conquer my life instead of being a slave to it.”
Slave to his life? Yes, she felt that way too sometimes, but her life was better now. Normal. Becky encouraged Greg, “Very nice, Mr. Phelps. Can you share an example of a micro-habit you can start tonight and how it will help?”
Clearly not expecting her question, he stammered, “I c-can create a to-do list every n-night for the next day, so I have a reason to wake up in the m-morning.”
What was her reason for living? Please don’t ask me that, Becky.
Her mind flashed back to Jasper’s funeral. She remembered how cold the metal of the casket had felt under her cheek and hands. She’d clung to his coffin like it was a life raft. She’d never been so afraid. What would happen to her if she let go? He was her identity. He was all that mattered. How had she ever believed her life would be better when it was her own again? If anyone had asked in the hour before he’d died, she couldn’t wait until her slave collar was removed—she was counting down the minutes to freedom—yet the second after his last breath, she was throwing herself on top of him and bawling her eyes out, begging him to come back to her.
No one had had to tell her how badly it was going to hurt to lose Master when she’d learned he was dying. She’d been there and done that. Losing her mother to cancer at thirteen had taught her more than she’d ever wanted to know about how long it could take for someone to waste away, or how desperate for relief a person could become watching their pain, or how messy death actually was. She’d already learned more about cancer, pain management and dying than she’d ever wanted to know. She’d survived her mother’s illness. Barely. It’d seemed unfair to be asked to go through it again but she’d bravely faced her Master and promised to help him live each moment to the fullest. Even after his illness was too unbearable to watch, she’d remained by his side, devoted and submissive, every second of every minute of every hour he wasted away…
“I promise to go on without you, Master.” She’d started crying. “I’m scared. I want to go with you.”
“You can’t go where I’m going, slave. You will stay with Maxwell.”
