To Serve Is Divine by R. E. Hargrave Page A

was it. There was just the steady whisper of the brush while he pulled it through Catherine’s hair in rhythmic strokes that both soothed and relaxed her. His voice was hypnotic and coaxing when it came at the same time that he parted her hair down the middle into two sections.
    “You have my permission to speak. I’m going to ask some questions, and I want you to answer without thinking too much on your responses. Just give me your natural reaction. Okay?”
    “Aye, Sir.”
    “What is your full name?”
    “Catherine Eilene O’Chancey.”
    “How old are you?”
    “Twenty-three.”
    “Where did you grow up?”
    “California.”
    “Any siblings?”
    “No, Sir. Just this girl and her father.”
    This gave Sir pause. “Mother?”
    “She died giving birth to this girl.” He gathered the first section of her hair and started a tight braid, and the minute tug against her scalp kept her panic at bay.
    “How long were you with Spencer?”
    She blinked, and Sir tightened his hold on her hair, waiting to release it when her eyes opened again.
    “Two years,” she choked out.
    “Were you collared?”
    She nodded, unable to form words as the panic began to bubble.
    “Did he allow safe words?”
    She swallowed then answered with a weak, “At first.”
    Sir’s fingers finished the first braid, and he fixed the end with an elastic band. Giving her time to settle, he traced patterns over her shoulders and upper back before picking the brush up and starting the process on the other section of her hair.
    “How did the contract end?” he hedged.
    She hoped he wasn't going to ask too many more questions because she didn't know how many more she could handle answering.
    “This girl told you, Sir. He’s dead.” Her tone was sharper than she’d intended, and she flinched out of habit while whimpering, “Sorry.”
    “Over my lap, Catherine.”
    Showing Sir that she remembered his preferences, Catherine took her place over his lap like she’d been taught at the club. The skirt was flipped up onto her back seconds before his palm connected with her ass.
    “Get mad at him and let it out,” he stated, and his hand connected again.
    She resisted. If she told it would bring him back somehow – Spencer would get power over her again.
    “Catherine, release it.”
    The sting was sharper, and the smack louder. He’d moved to using the brush. Her nipples drew up taut in the soft bra, electricity zinging through her while her body came to life under Sir’s tool.
    All at once she could feel everything, and nothing – she was weightless. Without her permission, her cheeks flooded with the tears she’d kept pent up for so long. The purifying sobs broke free from her chest while her humiliation washed down her face. Her fear flooded her thighs; the emotional release combining with his striking hand to trigger her orgasm.
    She’d been half out of it while Sir had finished their session. Lifting her in his arms, he’d carried her to the bed, and then satiated himself with her body, flopping her around like a rag doll with his every thrust. It was in a daze that she’d followed him from the playroom to what would be her room, the decor making her think of a beach cottage with its light blues and soft creams. He’d tucked her into bed, wishing her a good night’s rest with the final instructions that he expected his breakfast in the dining room at eight-thirty in the morning, which was now two minutes away.

    She scrambled to put the finishing touches on breakfast, her bottom still resonating with a mild heat from her brush paddling, and took it to the dining room. She laid his place setting out, and poured his coffee and orange juice. She had just removed the apron she’d worn while preparing breakfast and folded it over an extra chair when Sir entered the room. Not having time to kneel, she dropped her gaze and tucked her hands behind her back, her bare chest pushing forward.
    “This looks delicious. Thank you. Kneel, and