Table Of ContentObsession: A Novel of Involuntary Bondage by Claire Thompson
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Distributed by Fictionwise.com OBSESSION
An Erotic Thriller
By
CLAIRE THOMPSON
ISBN 978-1-60089-038-3
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2007 Claire Thompson
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.
Sizzler Editions/B&D
www.sizzlereditions.com
A Renaissance E Books publication
(revised and updated-formerly published as The Stalker) Introduction
When I first wrote The Stalker back in 1999, I was a relative newcomer not only
to writing novels, but to the BDSM
D/s scene, both in fiction and in fact. The Stalker was written first as
entertainment, but also as a way to explore my own deep-seated fantasies about
the "lifestyle" from the safety of my laptop. Nearly eight years and twenty four
novels later, I thought it was time to return to one of my earlier works and see if
what the Claire Thompson of that era had to say still resonated with me today.
As I reread I revised, based on my now greater experience both as a writer and
as a submissive in a loving real-life D/s relationship. The basic story remains
intact-a misguided love-struck "stalker" finds a way to kidnap and keep his "true
love"
as his personal sex slave, training her through torture, deprivation, sexual
stimulation and even love, to become his love object in every sense of the word.
As I reread the story, I attempted to interject more realistic reactions on the part
of the Master/lover and his slave/beloved. The prior ending, one I had always
felt was a little too "pat" was revisited with an eye to giving the story a more
realistic possibility for closure.
If you've read The Stalker, I invite you to take a fresh look at this revamped,
revised and I believe improved version of the old tale. If this is your first look at
Obsession, read on, and be prepared to submerge yourself into a dangerous
sensual journey of self-discovery on the parts of both the Master and the slave.
Claire Thompson 2007 CHAPTER One
Emily was naked, her wrists strung high above her head, pulling her body taut.
Her legs were spread wide, held in place by a long bar of gleaming metal, with
an attached metal cuff securing each ankle. The room was empty, suffused with
a white light from ceiling to floor.
Emily's head had dropped forward, her dark shiny hair tussled and damp with
perspiration. The sound of the whip cracked against her soft supple flesh. Mark's
heavy flogger struck her body again and again, coiling around her thigh, her
belly, the perfect globes of her ass. Her cries echoed in the empty room.
belly, the perfect globes of her ass. Her cries echoed in the empty room.
Mark lay on the bed, his hand on his cock as he watched her on the screen. The
flat screen high definition TV didn't do her justice. Emily Hunter was laughing
toward him, her dark blue eyes beckoning to him as he sighed. His recurring
fantasy of whipping his bound slave, just before he let her down to fuck her,
remained in the back of his mind as he watched the movie star on the screen.
Mark shifted a little in anticipation of her next scene. In a few moments the male
character would begin to unbutton Emily's blouse. Mark moaned. He should be
the only one to do that. Soon he would be—soon Emily Hunter, adored by
millions, would belong to Mark and only Mark.
He would be able to touch that lovely face, to kiss those luscious lips. As Mark
watched Emily close her eyes, surrendering herself to her on-screen lover in the
climactic final scene of the adventure-love story that had catapulted the then
relatively-unknown young actress to stardom, he felt longing dragging like a
knife through his gut. Oh, to be kissed by that mouth, to feel those soft lips brush
against his in shy hesitation before he crushed her to him, before he took what
should belong to him—Mark groaned as his hand flew over his cock, pumping
himself in time to the movements of the lovers on the screen. Her lips were like
ripe fruit waiting to be bitten.
As Mark's lust raged, it wrenched an audible sigh from his own unkissed mouth.
Emily had been compared to Lauren Bacall and with good reason. There was
something of that sultry "I dare you"
quality in her expression, but Mark knew she was an innocent. He'd followed her
career for the past seven years with avid attention. Beyond the movies, he read
every interview, bought every magazine on which she was featured and wrote
for several online blogs of devoted Emily Hunter fans. But it was two years ago,
when he'd managed to get tickets to the screening of her latest movie, that he'd
decided to stop living on the sidelines of Emily Hunter's life.
Seeing her in person had been thrilling. She had worn a simple but elegant silky
blue dress that clung alluringly to her perfect curves. With that easy, pelvis first
gait she had, she'd walked confidently along the receiving line, stopping every
few feet to be photographed and to meet her fans. When she'd turned her
dazzling smile on Mark, those haunting eyes staring into his own, he'd felt the
electricity pass between them. Though she turned away a moment later to smile
electricity pass between them. Though she turned away a moment later to smile
at the next fan, somehow Mark knew they'd shared something unique. It was at
that moment he began to devise his plan.
The credits began to roll across Mark's very expensive TV
and he still hadn't come. Closing his eyes, he let his favorite fantasy again roll
through his head ... Emily raised her head, trying to focus those violet-blue eyes
on her lover. Her breasts heaved as she tried to catch her breath. "Thank you,
sir," she managed, her voice sultry. "For what?" Mark demanded. She had to
say it properly. "For whipping me, sir.
I needed it, sir. I need you, sir. Fuck me ... " Mark could almost feel Emily in the
room with him as he furiously pumped his cocked, shooting his seed over his
chest with a cry of passion. Once he owned her, she would lick him clean.
The autumn day was crisp. That morning there had been the slightest hint of
snow in the air. Mark stood across the street from the studio where Emily Hunter
was having her photo shoot for a women's fashion magazine. It should have been
over by now. Impatiently he glanced at his watch. He recognized her driver's car,
the nondescript black sedan, its back windows tinted to keep out prying eyes. It
was parked near the back entrance of the studio on a narrow side street, ready to
whisk away the woman of his dreams.
His heart leapt as the door opened and Emily came out, tossing her dark hair out
of her face as she pulled her leather jacket more tightly around herself. She
strode quickly toward the parked car. The passenger door was opened from
inside and she slipped in, shutting out any would-be autograph seekers or
paparazzi before anyone even realized she was there. Mark knew where she was
going. It being midday in Manhattan, he knew he would get there as fast, if not
faster, on foot, with no snarled traffic to fight. Today she would be meeting with
Lisa Carter, her personal assistant, for lunch at Caliente, the little Mexican place
on 6th Avenue in Greenwich Village. After lunch, she would go for her massage
at Chez Paul, and then off to the studio to rehearse or do whatever she did in
there. So far, he hadn't been able to get into that studio—damn security was too
tight. He didn't care, though.
What did it matter—he knew where she lived.
Mark Stratton knew as much about Emily Hunter as anyone alive. He knew she
had been born in Galveston, Texas, and her parents still lived in Houston. He
