Signed, Sealed & Delivered Read online

  A Total-e-bound Publication

  www.total-e-bound.com

  Signed, Sealed and Delivered

  ISBN # 978-1-906590-10-9

  ©Copyright Sierra Cartwright 2008

  Cover Art by Anne Cain ©Copyright February 2008

  Edited by Claire Siemaszkiewicz

  Total-e-bound books

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-e-bound eBooks.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-e-bound eBooks. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork

  Published in 2007 by Total-e-bound eBooks 1 The Corner, Faldingworth Road, Spridlington, Market Rasen, Lincolnshire, LN8 2DE, UK.

  Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated Total-e-melting.

  SIGNED, SEALED AND DELIVERED

  Sierra Cartwright

  Dedication

  BAB! I could never do this without you! I’m bad, but you’re ‘badder.’

  Chapter One

  Now what?

  Alana reminded herself she wanted this, needed this. This insanity, the trip, the vacation… The entire thing had been all her idea, a grand adventure to sate the hunger burning deep inside her. Hunger? No, that wasn’t the right word. This wasn’t as simple as hunger; it was more like an obsession. Since she’d discovered Sir Ethan Kendall, she’d been unable to stop thinking about him; she’d been unable to stop wanting him. Learning about BDSM from any other man simply wouldn’t do. She had to have Ethan.

  So, now, here she stood, an American on English soil, waiting, uncertain, frightened, and if she were honest, consumed by an unholy excitement that made her heart thump and her palms slick with cold sweat.

  Her fellow passengers had claimed their bags from the carousel and exited the area nearly half an hour ago. She was the only one standing here, orphaned.

  At this time of night, Heathrow was cold and lonely. A nasty wind battered the windows and a miserable drizzle spat on the panes. Yesterday in Florida, the sun had blazed across the afternoon sky, palm trees had swayed gently, the humidity had been blessedly low, and she had been running around in cut-off shorts and a tank top.

  Now, she shivered. Instinctively she knew the sudden chill wasn’t from the dreary weather. It was from the mixture of anticipation and low-level fear.

  Surely it wouldn’t be much longer until Ethan came to collect her.

  Or perhaps it would be.

  He could, would keep her waiting as long as he wanted. She was, by her own choice, totally, completely one hundred percent at his mercy for the next fortnight.

  A man, tall, broad, and wearing a blue cap and yellow rain slicker pushed through the revolving door.

  “Ms. Simmons?”

  Her mouth suddenly dry, she nodded, instead of responding. Ethan? It could be, she supposed, since she had no idea what he looked like. Not that anyone did, really. He didn’t frequent her side of the pond and he had never been a player on the scene. Despite that, his reputation for working with submissives was legendary. It had taken her months to find him and make contact, which in its own way was remarkable. Among her numerous naughty sins, she was an excellent computer hacker. It would have taken slightly less time to contact the President of the United States on his private cell phone.

  The man stopped near her. Water dripped from his slicker onto floor. Good God, let this be Ethan. Up close, this man was a hunk and a half. His eyes were blue, but not just an ordinary blue. They were an electrifying, stunning blue. She could imagine him capturing her gaze while he commanded her onto her knees.

  His hands were large and just the thought of him touching her naked skin made her want to obey.

  “I’ll be having the personal effects that Master requested you bring.”

  Master?

  Which meant this man wasn’t Ethan.

  She exhaled. So who was he?

  “Ms. Simmons?”

  This was it.

  Ethan’s e-mailed instructions had been very specific. She was to travel lightly. She should wear a skirt with stockings and a garter belt—no knickers, he’d said, and she’d had to learn that that translated into American panties—and the highest heels she could tolerate. Her blouse should button up the front. Surprising her, he’d added an instruction that she should wear a bra. As for suitcases, she’d need none. He would be supplying everything she needed.

  She was allowed to travel with her prized handbag containing identification, credit cards, cash, passport, and, of course, the letter.

  The unnamed man stood there, his hand extended. “Your personal effects, if you please,” he repeated.

  There was something about being in a submissive state of mind that made Alana’s brain turn to mush. She was competent—more than competent—at her marketing job. She led her team in strategic ideas. But put her with a man who held sexual power over her, and she struggled to think straight.

  “Ms Simmons? Do you need me to repeat the request?”

  “No.” Her hands were shaky as she shrugged her purse from her shoulder and unzipped the bag’s main compartment.

  She made a neat little pile on his extended palm.

  “Keep the book,” he said. “Master didn’t request anything else.”

  Oh-kay.

  Master? It was the second time he’d used the word. Was this man a slave, much like she wanted to be? Surely not. As big, strong, and yummy as he was, he was probably just being respectful of Ethan’s British title.

  Tucking her papers safely inside his slicker, he said, “Now dispose of the rest.”

  “I beg your pardon? Throw away…?”

  With infinite patience, and without a scowl forming between his brows, the man repeated the order.

  “Are you mad? Do you have any idea how much I paid for this bag?” Ever since she’d been old enough to lust over fashion magazines, she’d wanted a purse that department stores kept safely locked in a glass case. Or, even better, one from a fashionable little store that discretely tucked price tags inside the bag. Alana had spent days bidding on this particular purse on an internet auction site. She’d wondered if her credit card would melt from the frenzy. “You’re kidding me, right? Tell me this is a bad joke.”

  He said nothing.

  Men.

  Another drop of water dripped from his slicker onto the floor.

  Then she realised this was the first test. Being bound and flogged was one thing. Throwing away a purse that cost a month’s salary was another, entirely.

  With a sigh, she walked over to the nearest rubbish bin and tossed in her handbag. As if that wasn’t bad enough, it still contained her journal, the book she was quite enjoying, and worse, her toiletries, including her favourite tube of mascara.

  Good God. Was she really ready for this? Ready to be stripped to her barest, basest level? For that’s what Ethan would demand from her.

  The man, who still had not introduced himself, headed for the exit. She shrugged and then followed him.

  In seconds, the inhospitable English weather had
taken its toll. The rain drenched her, the wind whipped wet strands of hair onto her cheeks. Now she was cold, wet, tired, jet lagged, and minus one fine handbag. She could have booked a flight anywhere in the world. Bali, Tahiti, Puerto Vallarta, Maui. She could be baking in the sun, smiling her thanks to the subservient boys who brought her frozen, tropical drinks with colourful umbrellas stuck in them. But, no. She’d searched out a recluse and gleefully handed over her credit card number for an aeroplane ticket to England in January.

  Mad. She was the one who was totally, completely, one hundred percent certifiably insane.

  The man held open the back of a limo for her.

  Well, this was a treat.

  The inside was enormous. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all. She could warm up, relax, take a snooze, and maybe, just maybe, have a drink to steady her nerves before meeting Ethan.

  She slid her drenched self onto the back seat of the dark limo, and the driver closed the door. She tipped back her head and sighed.

  “On your knees.”

  Her insides became a puddle of desire.

  In the dark, she couldn’t make out much more than the silhouette of a broad man facing her. But his voice was rich, like brandy poured over velvet. It had the added, seductive elements of being precise and authoritative.

  Ethan?

  He’d personally come to collect her?

  Exhaustion clobbered by a burst of adrenaline, Alana slid from the seat.

  Being on her knees sounded like an easy order to follow, until she was on the uncomfortable floorboard, the short carpet chafing her knees.

  She waited. And waited.

  Was she expected to speak or just remain silent? Nerves made her babble. “Ethan? Thank you for accepting me. I mean, I know you don’t work with many slaves anymore and…” She trailed off.

  The vehicle began to move, and yet her companion hadn’t said another word, hadn’t responded to anything she said.

  If his intention was to keep her on tenterhooks, he’d succeeded.

  Alana had to shift slightly as the car accelerated and merged onto the roadways.

  She was hyperaware of the man in front of her, of the scent of raw, untamed North Sea.

  As her heartbeat slowed and blood stopped pounding in her ears, she tuned into the secondary sounds, those of the rain splattering on the windows, the vehicle’s tyres splashing through the water on the motorway, the other cars zooming past, and most importantly, the breathing pattern of the man barely an arm’s reach away.

  As they passed beneath the occasional streetlight, she caught shadowed glimpses of him. Dark hair. Intense eyes. Chiselled features.

  He was resting on something. A cane?

  She was consumed with curiosity, wanting to talk to him, ask him questions, anchor herself in some way to the man she’d given herself to.

  “Remove your coat.”

  Alana’s hands shook. She’d never felt more disoriented. She couldn’t see much, and she knew little of the man she was kneeling before. She’d played bondage games in the past; even some where she was blindfolded, not exactly tops of her list of favourite things.

  But, even in those, she entered the club willingly with a partner of her choice. She’d seen the room, recognised all the torture devices hanging from the walls.

  She folded her coat and placed it on the floorboard next to her. Unable to resist the vanity, she ran her hands through her rain-dampened hair before tucking strands behind her ears.

  Anticipation making a knot of her stomach as she waited for his next instruction.

  It was strange how she craved the sound of his voice, as if the rich, aristocratic cadence were a lifeline.

  But the order didn’t come.

  For all she knew, he’d totally forgotten about her.

  She breathed deep, smelling the sharp scent of leather. The car’s interior, she wondered, or something else, like a whip or flogger? Or, better yet, the belt he wore?

  And she once again inhaled his scent as well. She would come to know it well, she realised. It was the scent of her trainer, her master.

  As time passed and city lights disappeared behind them, her knees became even more fatigued, and she had to fight the urge to rest on her haunches. So much for a comfy ride and a glass of wine. This, the silence, the uncertainty, was much more intense than she’d anticipated. He was wearing down her resistance, taking her completely out of her comfort zone, she knew. But that didn’t make it any easier.

  If he’d have made her get naked and inspected her, she would have known how to act. Every article she’d read covered that. Everyone she talked to told her to expect that. But this? Uncertainty provided a much greater mind fuck than a detailed set of instructions would have.

  “I trust you’re comfortable?”

  “Err…” She hesitated. Was he expecting a “Yes, Sir?” Or the truth?

  “Answer the question.” His tone was a whiplash and it jerked her fully upright again.

  “No. No, Sir. I’m not comfortable.”

  “I always want honesty from you, Alana. Lying will get you sent back to America immediately.”

  She nodded, not that he would notice in the dark.

  “If I have done my job correctly,” he said, his voice rich, measured, and paced, “the next time we take a ride in my car and you’re on your knees, tired and wet and hungry, you’ll be able to say you are comfortable.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “Sir?”

  “Submission,” he said. “The reason you’re here is to learn about submission.”

  He was nobility, comfortable with giving commands and fully expecting to be obeyed. “Yes.”

  “Submission,” he told her, “is about more than whips and chains, although you’ll certainly feel the bite of my leather.”

  Alana had gotten an elicit thrill from their e-mail exchanges, but it was nothing compared to the reality of being here, close enough to smell him, to have his voice send shivers up her spine. Her arousal made her moist between the legs.

  “Submission is more mental than physical. It’s about pleasure. It’s about—” He broke off. Using the cane for balance, he leaned towards her. “You tell me, Alana. Tell me about submission.”

  “I told you in my first e-mail.”

  “That was scripted.”

  She swallowed. He was right. It had taken her several days to write that first e-mail. She’d had her friends in the scene read it; she’d used a dictionary and a thesaurus. Even though she wasn’t an English major, the letter had been good.

  “Insulting, even. You’re lucky I didn’t delete it.”

  Oh.

  “Tell me about your journey to submission.”

  “You’re right, it is mental. I think about it, fantasise about it. I have dreams about it.”

  “Keep going.”

  She would have to dig deep to give him want he demanded. “I used to have these fantasies of being spanked.” Good grief. She couldn’t believe she was actually telling him this. Her tongue suddenly felt too big for her mouth.

  “Go on.”

  Her knees were definitely hurting now. About five minutes ago, she’d passed fatigue and crossed into a dull ache. Her muscles strained as she struggled to keep her balance. Did he notice? Or care? “One night, I think I was about nineteen, I went to a birthday party at my friend’s house. There were a bunch of us, and after we sang Happy Birthday to her, her boyfriend told her she was going to get birthday spanks, one for every year.” She licked her lower lip.

  The silence in the car became a palpable thing. Alana was hyperaware of the chauffeur also listening to every word.

  “Instead of just spanking her while she stood there, he waited until all the adults were gone, and then he turned her over his knee. She fussed and had all these little cries, but with the way she was squirming and then moaning, you knew she was enjoying it. At home that night, I hardly slept at all.” She finally took a breath.

  “You wanted to be her.”

>   “Yes. I would be the one to get a spanking. It would be an over-the-knee thing, like hers.”

  “Bare-bottomed?”

  “Back then, I didn’t think that far. Maybe over my clothes. But I never got the images out of my head. The fantasy changed, though. I added details. I wanted a bare-bottomed spanking.” She wished she could see him. She wanted to read his expression, wanted to know if her answers, her honesty pleased him. “But maybe I’d be wearing stockings and a garter belt. I’d be chastised for misbehaving.”

  “And your punisher… Would he finger your clit or fuck you when he was done?”

  Ethan’s blunt talk cut straight to the matter. With this man, there were no pleasantries. He hadn’t asked about her flight, or if she was hungry, or if she needed a drink. Instead, he went straight to the point…went about the business of establishing who was master. “No,” she responded. She took a deep breath. “He wouldn’t touch me at all. He’d leave me to think of my naughty ways.”

  “He?”

  She hungered for his man’s reaction. “In my fantasies, my punisher has always been a man, yes.”

  “Perhaps it would be interesting to watch a woman give you a spanking.”

  She shuddered. That wasn’t something she’d ever thought about.

  “Alana?”

  Honesty. He demanded honesty. “I’m strictly heterosexual, Sir.”

  “I said perhaps it would be interesting to watch a woman give you a spanking. I did not ask if you wanted to be spanked by a woman. And…” He trailed off and leaned even closer towards her. “The correct answer is ‘if it pleases you, Sir’.”

  She gulped.

  She was completely out of her element.

  Ethan wasn’t a player at the scene, someone who put on leather and assumed a role at night and then went back to his regularly scheduled life. This man was a master. In the past ten minutes, even though he hadn’t so much as touched her, she’d seen that. He’d been demanding and exacting, subtly outlining the rules, probing at her memories, testing her commitment. Dominance was woven into the fabric of his soul. He couldn’t be any other way.