Jaxon Dixie demands excellence from employees, perfection in jewelry, and total submission from beautiful women. Monica Collins is strong minded, intelligent, and a perfect ten. She works for Jaxon. From the captivating first line, “If I didn’t know better...” to the tantalizing conclusion, this unique novel blends steamy sexuality with an exciting tale of exploration, greed, betrayal and revenge. Please Jaxon Dixie is a captivating and erotic read.
The price is now down to $2.99, and I've improved the opening paragraphs. This trashy novel of sex and adventure now begins thus...
If I didn’t know better I would describe her scream as a throaty wail of pure agony. Listening carefully, however, the auditory experience turns upside down, like the poles of a magnet reversing. Pleasure sits next to pain, and the audible and awesome magnitude of her ecstasy fires my lust.
Stone walls absorb the last echo of the young woman’s bifurcated howl, and an eerie silence swells and blankets the arena. Finely dressed and with a head of white hair shimmering under the glow of torchlight, a man in a leather chair sits directly in front of his newly purchased property and leans forward, gulping wine from crystal.
She had managed, admirably, to maintain her intensely focused gaze directly into the man’s eyes for a full second, maybe two. Then jagged neurological shrapnel cut her valiant effort short, and now her head hangs limply from thin shoulders, leather wrist straps bearing the weight of her upper body.
Sevren Leets and I have the spectator section to ourselves, so our location is ideal with a few feet of elevation over the circular floor. The ceremony’s supervisor, two attendants, and the brandsman bring the room’s occupancy to eight.
“Do you see now why we call this The Coliseum?”
Thin smoke wafts upward from the point of contact as the brandsman pulls back the iron to reveal a mark high on her left hip. She will wear it for the remainder of her life. Naked and bent over a wooden crossbar, her legs are secured by ankle chains to rings four feet apart, her heels lift from the ground as her wrists are bound with leather straps and stretched forward to posts, and her long black hair sweeps forward over her right shoulder. Beautiful in a classic sense, she has a symmetric face, full breasts that presently hang and sway most enticingly, a slim waist, and plump ass. Her tan lines suggest a modest personality.
“I suppose it does have a certain barbaric charm,” I answer.
“This is a rare occurrence,” he explains. “Most buyers are sadists to some extent, but it’s not every day that one asks for his slave to be branded with a hot iron.”
I chuckle. “Just the buyers?”
Sevren shrugs. “I bet they’re not inside his suite ten seconds before he’s inside her.”
The slave moans, and then she whimpers.
“Of course, another reason to inflict such pain is to instill an understanding of their new status, but it’s an extreme measure.”
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