Snickers and Floggers . . .

Oh hell, if I’m going to share excerpts from my Works in Progress… I might as well go for hardcore BDSM pr0n. The Billionaire, the poor Cinderella, the flogger. You read this story a thousand times … Maybe not. For your eyes only, the God forsaken manuscript!

The Billionaire's Beautiful Waitress

Courteous dating followed by underwhelming sex, a stiff upper(cleft)lip: with billionaire Hadrian Ellingham, women live the dream. Too bad his exes don’t seem to agree and made a sloth meme of him to make a statement about his performances under the sheets.
Perhaps it’s time to try a different approach. Namely, to stop looking for a healthy relationship and just pick random waitresses and flog the hell out of them. Because that’s the spirit of BDSM.

Daim Blake has the name of a chocolate bar, dreams of one day putting both her sister and herself through college instead humoring rich douches to earn a tip, a past she can’t seem to get away from . . . and no intention to submit to anyone.

But when Ellingham offers her a million dollars in exchange for the pride she holds onto so fiercely, there’s too much on the line for Daim to refuse. There’s pain, sketchy domination attempts, duct tape . . . but there’s also an odd intimacy building between the two of them, perhaps even a friendship, and happiness might just be a lash away.

Taking a breath, he lifted the flogger, and with a long swing, applied it to her backside.

The smacking sound ricocheted through the air, instantly followed by her cry. Hadrian let out a sharp breath, fighting the sudden pressure in his chest. He recognized fear. Fear and excitement.


Daim wiggled forward on the mattress, trying to escape the flogger as a series of pink welts appeared on her bottom. “We’re done here! It hurts like f. . .”

Her resistance made his temper flare immediately. “It’s meant to.”

“Yeah, well, no!” She yelled. “I bet I’m bleeding. Am I bleeding? I swear if I get scars—”

“You’re not bleeding. It’s just a bit red.” He sighed, soothing the angry red marks with his palm—and enjoying the expanse of velvety skin as he did so.

She squirmed away from his touch. “You’re groping me, you sadist!”

“I’m merely checking for blood!”

Daim managed to roll over until she was facing him with blazing eyes, hands locked behind her back. “So now you’re admitting that you hit me too hard?”

“No, I . . . Fine, I’ll go easier with the next one,” he conceded, struggling with an amount of guilt he suspected no self-respecting Dom should ever experience.

Her jaw dropped. “The next one? Oh no no no no no . . . There won’t be a next one! I didn’t sign for aggravated battery!”

“Now you’re being dramatic. It’s like a big slap, nothing more—”

“Said O.J. Simpson to his wife!”

Hilarious,” he grounded out.

She sat up—demonstrating fairly good abs, Hadrian thought—and her lips curled into a challenging smirk. “You think it’s nothing? Why don’t we flog you?”

“Because I’m the dom, here, I don’t get flogged.”

“Chicken, chicken—”

“You are forbidden to call me a chicken! That will be twenty attitude points.”

Things were getting out of hand. The little vixen was now hopping up and down, giggling in-between poor imitations of a chicken’s cackle. “Bwaaaak bwak bwak bwak bwaaaak—”

In a misguided decision process only rivaled by his idea, a few years back, to manage supplies for all coffee machines in EM’s headquarters with an ERP software—he had learned to live with unsweetened coffee, since—Hadrian came to the conclusion that the sole way to address Daim’s challenge was to remove his shirt and teach the girl who was the boss, here.

And so he did. Fingers nearly shaking with anger, he undid each white nacre button, until the light cotton was pooling at his feet, and Daim was staring at him questioningly. He noticed the faint movement of her eyes, brown pupils shifting up and down in a blatant scrutiny. In an uncharacteristic moment of vanity, Hadrian wondered if she liked what she saw, if his body affected her like hers did him.

“What is it?” he asked, unable to stop a self-satisfied smile.

“Nothing. I just thought all billionaires had a six-pack.”

Air left his lungs as if he had just been punched. “This is ridiculous! Who told you that?”

She shrugged. “No one. Books, magazines . . . I saw your brother in People. He has a sick-pack. It looks cool.”

He looked down at his belly, winded. “Are you saying Max has more abs than I do?”

She nodded.

A drawn-out sigh deflated Hadrian’s chest: Would he need to add this specific concern to the ever-growing list of grievances women held about him? “I do have abs!” He countered, poking the incriminated area with his forefinger.

“Yeah, but they’re not super muscular; they’re normal. It’s more like a few-packs . . . or a two-packs.”

A two-packs.

Unaffected by the glare he was now directing at her, Daim allowed herself to fall on her side, her still-handcuffed hands resting on the mattress. “You just count on genetics and a little jogging; you don’t really watch your diet, right?”

His eyebrows shot up. “How dare you? I run almost every morning, and I happen to have a personal chef who ensures I commit to a healthy diet.”

“Stop lying! I saw a Snickers bar in your sports bag!”

“It’s just in case I get hungry while I dominate you!”

“Finally showing you true face! Emotional snacker!

Her strike had been vicious, unexpected and . . . somewhat accurate. Hadrian took a step back. “There’s nothing emotional about our deal, and I am not an emotional eater!”

“Okay . Can I get the Snickers, then?”

“No. You’re the sub, you can’t have the Snickers.”


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