His Indecent Revelations (Bound and Shackled to the Billionaire BDSM Erotic Romance) by Aphrodite Hunt Page B
Authors: Aphrodite Hunt
Tags: BDSM, submission, bondage, domination, Erotic Romance, Billionaire, kidnap, billionaire erotica
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orbs are anguished.
“What happened to the child?” he whispers.
“The mountains were harsh and cold, and the way the Order lived was spartan. I gave birth to the child.”
It is clinical and detached, the way she talks about the child, Susan notes with dread.
“The child was a male, which accounted for why my father spared me. But he was born sickly. He had a large head and stunted limbs. So the sisters of the Order took him away to be put down with the other abominations who must not be allowed to live.”
She calls her own child an abomination. Susan feels viscerally sick.
“So he’s dead,” Channing says flatly. The light has completely died in his eyes.
“Yes. As you soon shall be. Forgive me for what I am about to do to you. For you see, the love we shared has fled a long time ago when you left me in there.”
She turns from the doorway and disappears from view. Three burly guards enter the dungeon cell. One of them strides to Susan and seizes her arm.
“No, please,” she shrieks.
“Relax,” says the guard, “we’re not going to do anything to you. She has forbidden it. She says you’re his victim as much as she was.”
He pulls her, struggling, out of the cell. The other two guards remain and turn ominously to Channing. Susan cannot see what they carry in their large hands.
“No, please don’t kill him! I’ll do anything!”
Her cries go unbidden as the guard drags her away, her feet trailing on the hard stone slabs.
3
Susan spends the rest of her day (or is it night?) being hysterical. She has no idea of what they are doing to Channing. She pictures him beaten and tortured in all sorts of horrible, unspeakable ways . . . and worse, murdered in cold blood. Channing’s body lies cold in her mind’s eye – bleeding, pale, sprawled upon the merciless stone slabs.
That’s when she wakes up screaming uncontrollably, only to find herself in a straightjacket. Grim olive-skinned faces hover above her. She feels a prick on her arm, and she blacks out.
Only to sink into more nightmares of Channing’s demise.
No, no, no, no.
She wouldn’t be able to bear it if he died. She doesn’t care what he did in the past. He had reasons! He was justified in killing the warlord! It was a time of war!
He had to leave Alia behind. His arms were twisted behind his back.
But he didn’t leave me behind.
He came for me. He tried to rescue me.
No matter what happened in the past – what he did, what he did not do, what he was supposed to do according to the gospels of many people – he has changed for the better now.
I love him.
If he dies, I will die too. Emotionally. Psychologically. Physically. I won’t eat. I won’t sleep. I will starve myself like a hunger artist. I will just pine and waste away.
There’s a void in her chest so hollow and deep that she thinks she has died and her heart has been cored out by the demons in Purgatory.
It is a long time before she finally regains her senses. And this time when she wakes up, she is sober and empty. Whatever drugs they have given her have leached away her spirit. She is but a husk of her former self – vacant-eyed and hollow.
She is also no longer on the island.
She is lying upon a resplendent bed. A white silken canopy tents above her, shielding the ceiling from her gaze. The room she is in is filled with magnificent carpets done in Persian weave. Gilded furniture decorates the walls, and the dome-shaped windows display a rose-colored vista of desertscape.
Desert.
She rises to her feet, which are shaky from the lack of use. She has visibly lost weight. Someone has dressed her in a silk robe, although she is naked underneath. Such opulence compared to what she had been used to for the past several days. She wonders if they feel sorry for her now that Channing is dead.
Channing.
She’s trying not to think of him . . . to think of his death. At the thought of him dead, her soul shrivels again and withdraws into its
“What happened to the child?” he whispers.
“The mountains were harsh and cold, and the way the Order lived was spartan. I gave birth to the child.”
It is clinical and detached, the way she talks about the child, Susan notes with dread.
“The child was a male, which accounted for why my father spared me. But he was born sickly. He had a large head and stunted limbs. So the sisters of the Order took him away to be put down with the other abominations who must not be allowed to live.”
She calls her own child an abomination. Susan feels viscerally sick.
“So he’s dead,” Channing says flatly. The light has completely died in his eyes.
“Yes. As you soon shall be. Forgive me for what I am about to do to you. For you see, the love we shared has fled a long time ago when you left me in there.”
She turns from the doorway and disappears from view. Three burly guards enter the dungeon cell. One of them strides to Susan and seizes her arm.
“No, please,” she shrieks.
“Relax,” says the guard, “we’re not going to do anything to you. She has forbidden it. She says you’re his victim as much as she was.”
He pulls her, struggling, out of the cell. The other two guards remain and turn ominously to Channing. Susan cannot see what they carry in their large hands.
“No, please don’t kill him! I’ll do anything!”
Her cries go unbidden as the guard drags her away, her feet trailing on the hard stone slabs.
3
Susan spends the rest of her day (or is it night?) being hysterical. She has no idea of what they are doing to Channing. She pictures him beaten and tortured in all sorts of horrible, unspeakable ways . . . and worse, murdered in cold blood. Channing’s body lies cold in her mind’s eye – bleeding, pale, sprawled upon the merciless stone slabs.
That’s when she wakes up screaming uncontrollably, only to find herself in a straightjacket. Grim olive-skinned faces hover above her. She feels a prick on her arm, and she blacks out.
Only to sink into more nightmares of Channing’s demise.
No, no, no, no.
She wouldn’t be able to bear it if he died. She doesn’t care what he did in the past. He had reasons! He was justified in killing the warlord! It was a time of war!
He had to leave Alia behind. His arms were twisted behind his back.
But he didn’t leave me behind.
He came for me. He tried to rescue me.
No matter what happened in the past – what he did, what he did not do, what he was supposed to do according to the gospels of many people – he has changed for the better now.
I love him.
If he dies, I will die too. Emotionally. Psychologically. Physically. I won’t eat. I won’t sleep. I will starve myself like a hunger artist. I will just pine and waste away.
There’s a void in her chest so hollow and deep that she thinks she has died and her heart has been cored out by the demons in Purgatory.
It is a long time before she finally regains her senses. And this time when she wakes up, she is sober and empty. Whatever drugs they have given her have leached away her spirit. She is but a husk of her former self – vacant-eyed and hollow.
She is also no longer on the island.
She is lying upon a resplendent bed. A white silken canopy tents above her, shielding the ceiling from her gaze. The room she is in is filled with magnificent carpets done in Persian weave. Gilded furniture decorates the walls, and the dome-shaped windows display a rose-colored vista of desertscape.
Desert.
She rises to her feet, which are shaky from the lack of use. She has visibly lost weight. Someone has dressed her in a silk robe, although she is naked underneath. Such opulence compared to what she had been used to for the past several days. She wonders if they feel sorry for her now that Channing is dead.
Channing.
She’s trying not to think of him . . . to think of his death. At the thought of him dead, her soul shrivels again and withdraws into its
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