Mindfuck - A Bad Boy Romance With A Twist (Mind Games Book 1) Read online

  Mindfuck - A Bad Boy Romance With A Twist

  Mind Games, Book 1

  Gabi Moore

  Contents

  About the Author

  Mindfuck

  Blurb

  1. Prologue

  2. Chapter 1

  3. Chapter 2

  4. Chapter 3

  5. Chapter 4

  6. Chapter 5

  7. Chapter 6

  8. Chapter 7

  9. Chapter 8

  10. Chapter 9

  11. Chapter 10

  12. Chapter 11

  13. Chapter 12

  14. Chapter 13

  15. Chapter 14

  16. Chapter 15

  Never Look Back

  Heart Of Darkness

  Wrecked & Yours

  Manipulator of Elements (Y/A Urban Fantasy)

  Steamy Short Stories

  MIND GAMES TRILOGY

  Book 1 - Mindfuck

  Book 2 - Mind Games

  Book 3 - Mindgasm

  BAD BOYS AFTER DARK - The Complete Boxed Set

  Gabi’s Naughty Newsletter

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2017 by Gabi Moore. All rights reserved.

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved. Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.

  Created with Vellum

  About the Author

  Hey there! I’m Gabi Moore and I’m on a mission to love like I’ve never been hurt, dance like nobody’s watching, and write sex scenes like my mother didn’t raise me right.

  I write about some of the naughty things I’ve done, and some of the naughty things I still wish I could do. Some days, I forget which is which.

  I like coffee and men with accents. And lately, I’ve been trying to give up dirty puns …but it’s hard.

  So hard.

  For naughty surprises and a freebie, join my

  NAUGHTY NEWSLETTER!

  - Gabi Moore

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  Mindfuck

  Blurb

  NORA:

  The love story I’m about to tell you is the purest and most beautiful thing I’ve ever done.

  But it all began in the darkest, ugliest way possible.

  Forget what you know about power and domination. Yes, this is a story of submission, but real submission, where the stakes are real and the cost is high.

  This is a story like all other good stories. It has good guys and bad guys, scary parts and naughty parts. And it has me, someone who thought they knew how the story would end, just like you think you do right now.

  But when Dean Cane entered my life, everything changed…

  I’ve done some kinky shit in my time, believe me, but nothing could have prepared me for that last taboo, that deepest humiliation, the pleasure I had long forbidden myself… love.

  DEAN:

  It was revenge that led me to her at first, I’ll admit it.

  I thought I had her pegged. I thought I knew what I was getting into. But I underestimated her.

  I’m a powerful man. Getting others to bend to my will is second nature to me. But something about her made me want to tear away at all that and see what was hiding underneath.

  But she had no idea who I could be, or how dark the truth really was...

  Cutting myself off from the Cane empire? Incurring the wrath of some of the most powerful men in the country?

  I could abandon her, let her take the fall and walk away from all of this. Or I could run with her now and do my best to protect her…

  Prologue

  You think that people like me can’t actually be real. You laugh nervously at the mention of my existence and quickly change the topic. That stuff’s just for other people, living other lives, right?

  But you’re wrong.

  I learned this lesson the hard way.

  You know all those things you think don’t apply to you? All those weirdos and perverts in the world doing shocking things you could never imagine yourself doing? Well, you’re more like them than you know. Believe me.

  The story I want to tell you is a story like all other good stories. It has good guys and bad guys, scary parts and naughty parts. And it has me, someone who thought they knew how the story would end, just like you think you do right now.

  This is a story about nakedness.

  As you read, I ask you to undress, with me. I’ll go first, if you like, but you must trust me and do as I say.

  Take everything off.

  Take off your clothing and your shoes and your underwear. Strip down to what you are underneath human decency. Underneath all your assumptions and habits. Come down deep with me, don’t be scared.

  Do you feel uncomfortable?

  Good.

  Let’s take off more.

  I want you to peel off all your doubts, all your expectations. Forget about who you think you are and who you tell yourself I am. Let’s be naked together – we can always come back to our costumes later, can’t we?

  Look at yourself now.

  Look at your flesh, and the way it breathes and pulses with the waves of sensation that pass over it. It has memories and desires, this flesh, but try to forget those now. Isn’t it interesting, how it swells and responds to touch? To pleasure? To pain? But let’s not linger here. Your bare flesh is lovely but it’s also a barrier to me, to our connecting, to all the dark and exquisite things I want to show you. Where we’re going, you won’t need your flesh. So take it off, too.

  Our game is played deeper down still, underneath the flesh. Will you go there with me? Your bones and organs are not needed here either. I am interested in what lies underneath even that; I want to flirt a little with the being wrapped all the way at the very core. Do you remember that being?

  I hope you have listened closely.

  Have you taken it all off?

  Look with me now, at what remains.

  Can you see it? Can you feel how delicious it is, to behold this raw, hot seed at the very center of you? How delicate, how strange this little kernel. We can’t stay here for long, but be brave. Hold on with me. Do you see it?

  I see it.

  I didn’t used to, but now I do.

  This is the story of how I learned to peel everything away. To be more naked than I had ever been before. If you’re ready, if you can let go of your fear, then come with me now, and I’ll show you exactly how it all happened…

  Chapter 1

  Myth: It’s all about sex

  Reality: It’s all about control

  Foreplay begins well before the client walks through my door. He only ever sees the end result: the perfect, total picture of everything he had until then only fantasized about.

  It’s overwhelming for many of them at first. They see their darkest, most disturbing fantasies come to life, and the squeaking PVC of her cat suit is more real than anything that’s happened to him in years. Her scent is so intoxicating he can almost taste it at the back of his throat.

  My clients pay a lot… because they get a lot.

  I’m an artist, and the first brush strokes I lay down are some of the most important. I spend at least 30 minutes primping my outfit before anyone steps a foot into my dungeon. I wouldn’t want a wayward eyebrow hair or a rough hangnail to destroy the illusion, would I?

  Around two thirds of all the men
I see are roughly identical: they all have the same haircuts, the same pale indents on their ring fingers, the same nervous hunger in their eyes. They pay me upwards of $700 for a half hour of my precious time, and for the mind-blowing thrill of being told what disappointing little scum they are, and how if it pleases me I might decide to allow them to lick my boot.

  I’m not a prostitute. In fact, whatever the opposite of a prostitute is, that’s what I am. I make my own rules, do as I please and earn obscene amounts of money in the process. I am a “Pro Domme” to use the lingo, but I’m more than that. For me, it’s not much of an illusion at all. I’ve already played at being weak and helpless in this life, and I like my current game much, much more.

  I spend hours getting dressed, grooming, painting my face. When I look on as men spill all those despicable desires that the world out there likes to pretend doesn’t exist, I make sure I’m looking my absolute best.

  For most people, my occupation seems cheap and dirty. A little alarming. But that only tells you about them, not me. And if anyone wanted to take any of it away from me, they’d have to claw it from my cold dead hands. I’m a connoisseur and a “dominatrix.” I’m classy, refined, and demanding. But really, none of those labels matter at all.

  What’s really important is that I’m the one choosing those labels, and at every step, I am in perfect, complete control. Always.

  In the upstairs bathroom, I take my time smoothing down my blunt-cut Cleopatra hair, admiring its blue-black shine and how perfectly cliché it looks against my plasticky red lips and pale skin. Thank God for clichés, though – they’re what let me communicate with a client. And take his money.

  I shift my ribcage a little in my corset and make sure all of me is squeezed, zipped and tied in tightly. With such gorgeous supporting tension all the way up my spine, my bare shoulders can rest easy on top, the shoulder blades pulled back into a practiced pose that tells men who they’re dealing with before I’ve even spoken a word. I seldom wear black. My hair and sinister expression are dark enough. Wearing white PVC and leather makes me seem all the more frightening, and is somewhat cooler in the more unbearable California summer months.

  I crack my knuckles; flash one last cold smile to the mirror and head into the bedroom to put on my heels – always the hardest part. Curling over crunches up the layers of leather and the steel corset boning and makes getting those stilettos on a real pain in the ass. But I remind myself to take my time. He can wait for me. In fact, I decide to let him get a really good look at the dungeon while he waits.

  He’s a new-ish client, but I know him inside out already. Early thirties, a finance sort with a bad gaming habit and more money than sense. He was tired of working. Tired of being a dog in a dog eat dog world, and most especially tired of all the quivering girlies who wanted an alpha male to make them feel like Cinderella.

  He didn’t want any of that. No, he had come to me for some discipline. For training. For a brief glimpse of what it might feel like to crumple to someone else’s will for a change.

  I told him if he behaved I’d take him on as a student, and if I felt like it, I’d give him a certificate to hand to any of his future mistresses who might like a boy who’s already broken in. Oh, he liked that. I know his type, of course. Spoilt. Scared. I’d enjoy being the first woman to truly tell him no.

  I made my way downstairs, heels snapping on the cool marble of my arcing staircase. My house was big. Maybe too big. But I liked having space between me and my little sex pigs. Even if it meant occasionally wobbling down three floors in six-inch heels.

  I reached the basement, took one last breath of the air on this side of the dungeon door and took a step inside. I exhaled. Bolted the door. I made sure that no matter what, it always creaked and moaned on its hinges, and banged shut loudly, just so.

  Like I said, I’m an artist.

  The dungeon was large – twice the size of a regular bedroom and deliberately kept a few degrees colder than the outside world. If my clients wanted to descend into forbidden realms with me, I wanted it to feel completely real. A bare lightbulb hung from a wire on the ceiling and dimly illuminated the concrete floor, the instruments of torture, the chains, the ropes, and the steel frames over which I had strung countless writhing, grateful bodies.

  My plaything had obeyed my instructions and was already sitting patiently on a stool, waiting for me, hooded, shirt removed, hands on his knees like a naughty schoolboy waiting to be caned. In a few moments, the whole sordid saga would begin.

  Every client is vetted rigorously before we get to this point. I had already given him a thorough interview about each and every dirty little element that was about to unfold in this room now. But it’s good practice to give them one last check-in anyway, before the masks are lowered and the game is officially on.

  “Mr. Lewis. Shall we begin?” I said coolly. He didn’t have to see me to know that I was standing before him; legs spread wide, arms on my hips.

  “Yes, Mistress,” he whispered.

  Good. I kicked aside a coiled chain on the floor and watched as he jumped at the sound.

  “Turn around, boy! I want to tie your hands.”

  When he swiveled on his chair and offered me his shaking hands, I could make out a thick, pulsing vein in his neck. I was going to be his first Domme. How sweet. I roughly tied his wrists, knotted the rope tight and tossed it to the side, before spinning him around again and yanking off the hood.

  “You’re not as muscular as my other toys,” I said nonchalantly, and eyed him up and down. His eyes fixed on my patent leather heels and I could tell he was wrestling internally on whether to risk glancing up at me. Now, before we continue, I should tell you: this whole business has nothing to do with sex.

  I paced a slow circle around him, rocking leisurely back and forward on my impossibly high heels. I glanced over at him again.

  “Well? Are you just going to sit there and waste my time, boy?”

  His eyes shot up to my face.

  “I’m a busy woman. And I’m a greedy woman. I won’t bother to train a fuck toy like yourself if I’m not convinced you’re worth the time, you see? I’ll--”

  “Mistress, I’m ready to do anything for you and--”

  In an instant I pulled back my arm and brought it down hard against his cheek, the slap against his face echoing in the dungeon. His eyes went wide. I cleared my throat and spoke carefully.

  “Boy, you seem to misunderstand something. You are not to speak unless spoken to. You are here to please and amuse me, nothing more. If I have to remind you of this twice, the second time will be a lot more painful for you.”

  He swallowed so hard I swear I could almost hear it. Then he nodded vigorously, the skin on his cheek turning a mottled pink. My own hand stung from the slap. I started to pace again but he was frowning and shaking his head.

  “Ok, pineapple” he said nervously. “Pineapple.”

  I raised my eyebrow at him. The safe word. Already?

  “What is it?” I said. I crouched onto my haunches and looked him square in the eye, the Mistress Morgan mask lifted for a moment.

  “I just …are you sure about this? That seemed so hard and I really don’t want you to hurt yourself. Is your hand OK? I just feel like…we’ve spent so much time making me comfortable here but what about you? Isn’t this weird for you?”

  I sighed.

  “Mr. Lewis, I’m a professional. I have been doing this for years. You’re in safe hands. And you don’t have to worry about me, ever. I promise.”

  He didn’t look convinced. It happened, sometimes. Social programming can run deep, I knew how it went. There was a savage deviant somewhere in Mr. Lewis, and I understood that he was squeamish about letting it out.

  “I keep thinking, though, do you really want to be doing this? Not just with me but in general. Is this kind of thing …I don’t know, doesn’t it bother you after a while?”

  I smiled at him slowly. He probably had daughters close to my age, poor
bastard.

  “What about your emotions, you know? I was reading this article about how women get this surge of oxytocin after every sexual encounter, and it’s this hormone that makes them feel emotionally bonded to that person…” here he looked imploringly at me.

  I chuckled under my breath and gave him a wry smile.

  “Mr. Lewis, I can assure you, my hormones will not be interrupting our session today.”

  He squirmed in his seat.

  I was losing him.

  Newbies were fun but needed a delicate touch. Some needed to be pushed, some teased, and I had to make that decision now, and hope for the best. I stood tall and cracked my neck, first one side then the other, then gave him a hard look.

  “Can I tell you a secret, Mr. Lewis? I think what we’re about to do here is much, much more of a risk to you.” I pulled up a stool, sat down and dramatically crossed my legs, peering at him from behind my heavy black hair.

  I had his attention.

  “Let me tell you a story. Back in my old life, I remember being at a conference lunch with some businessmen, and we were all sitting at this big table, deep in conversation. I was the first to notice her – a beautiful young girl walking through the restaurant. Blonde. Gorgeous. Wearing next to nothing, you know the story. She waltzed through the place like she was on a catwalk. Anyway, I looked and then promptly forgot about her and carried on with my conversation. Except that everyone else at the table – all men – had turned to watch this woman walk by. Like synchronized swimmers, their heads turned, all at once. Now, I won’t say the word was ‘looked’ because it was more than that. They gawked. They were hypnotized. All conversation stopped during those thirty seconds and everyone forgot what they were doing, or why. It was like nothing else mattered for them in that moment, except that pretty girl.”