Annie Windsor - Throwback.pdf - ELLORA'S CAVE (Maykelll) - bugnme5

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Throwback

ISBN # 1-4199-0429-9

Edited by Heather Osborn.

Cover art by Willo.

Electronic book Publication: November 2005

This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written

permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH

44310-3502.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or

locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used

fictitiously.

Warning:

The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. Throwback has been

rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E

(E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

S- ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

E- rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall

word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find

objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth.

E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words

such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

X- treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles,

stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

Throwback

Annie Windsor

Author’s Note

Dungeon Heat: Throwback has a contemporary setting, but the story is just that—a story, a tale, an

erotic fantasy.

Relationships in this book have a strong BDSM flavor and show Master/slave relationships. However,

none of the books in the Dungeon Heat series are intended to portray true BDSM or Dom/sub

relationships as they actually occur.

In the spirit of erotic fantasy, the Dungeon Heat books are also total fantasy when it comes to

responsible sex. In that complicated real world we all so love to escape with books like these, keep it

safe, sane, and con sensual , and always practice safe sex.

Yours in delicious naughtiness,

Annie Windsor

Dedication

For Cheyenne McCray, without whom this book never would have been finished. Many thanks to Sire

Don (www.sdleather-lace.com), endless thanks to Violet Wanda (www.violetwands.net), and endless

hugs to Devilish Dot (www.devilishdots.com),and other hot, helpful souls who have been so giving in

helping me learn what I needed to know. Also, thanks to the House of Shadowfind and its e-mail list, and

especially to the Kenmeister. Kenny, buddy, you make me laugh—and you make me wonder about

dungeons. Chaining you up in one, I mean, for the safety of the universe, random stray dogs, and the

wonderful world of kink. I hope one day, you finally get your naked pictures.

Prologue

By the age of thirty-two, Gillian Markham had been teaching for seven years. She had applied for

tenure, garnered the required recommendations, published appropriate scholarly papers—and seen two

things she would never forget. The first was too horrible to ponder, and she did whatever she could to

keep her mind from straying in that direction. The second was too incredible to forget.

The night of the dungeon.

But she shouldn’t think about that now. It wasn’t conducive to working. Gillian shifted in her chair,

grateful that it was larger and more accommodating than the one she was forced to use at the college.

She was a large woman, wide around the hips, proportioned like a Renaissance painting, according to

Reginald Blackmoor, the man who had raised her after her parents died.

Reggie had always gentled the truth, put a delicate cover over life’s harder circumstances. Gillian’s

weight was one of those circumstances. She’d tried everything to become less Renaissance and more

Modern Art, but she’d given up a few years back. Now, she worked on being active and healthy, and

doing the best she could with the body heredity saw fit to give her.

She pushed a few strands of her flyaway hair behind her ear and sighed. Maybe she should finally cut

her blonde mop short. No matter what style she tried, her hair refused to be tamed and orderly like the

rest of her life.

Well, like her life had been until Reggie Blackmoor died.

Echoes of her earlier conversation with the executor came forward immediately.

“…biggest damn legal mess I’ve ever seen. Never heard of this, even between siblings, much less two

people who don’t know each other… Don’t know what R.B., Sr. and his demented attorney were

thinking—maybe both of them lost a few marbles before the bag spilled…”

Another sigh rattled out of Gillian. She didn’t want to think about the disaster created by Reggie’s will.

Not yet, at least. For one more blissful night, the only true English castle in the state of Tennessee was

hers and hers alone—if she didn’t count the greyhounds and the two live-in servants. Osmond Burns and

Jamie Hart were more like family, anyway. If she lost Blackmoor Downs, they would likely leave with

her.

The Survey of History papers Gillian was grading just couldn’t hold her attention, nor could the essays

from the local high school students she tutored. She was too worried about losing her home and too

aware of the looming specter of her upcoming tenure committee meeting. It was the first of three, but the

last step in the long process of securing job stability.

“The beginning of the end,” she murmured. “Or the end of the beginning. Or maybe just…the end.”

She glanced around at her giant oak desk, and then at her spacious bedchamber, the gray carved stone

walls and splendid cloth hangings—tapestries, sconces holding flickering gas candles, and the finest silken

draperies. Even her bed had drapes, a feature Reggie insisted on installing when she moved in fourteen

years ago.

Wouldn’t be proper without it, my dear. If I do a thing, I do it all the way.

Gillian rubbed her eyes. She hoped Jamie came back soon from walking the dogs. Since Reggie died,

her luxurious accommodations sometimes seemed like a big stone chamber of silence.

With rugs on the wall and drapes on the bed, of course.

“There weren’t any rugs on Reggie’s dungeon wall,” she muttered, shifting to her most intrusive

obsession—remembering the night she had ventured into the one part of Blackmoor Downs Reggie had

asked her never to go.

Downstairs, to the lowest level, directly under his private apartments.

Normally, Gillian was respectful of Reggie’s requests. He never asked anything unreasonable of her, and

he always saw to her material and educational needs. He was her friend, her guide, her mentor—and, as

she discovered, a man with some unusual secrets.

That night, during one of Reggie’s stunning soirees for the faculty of John’s River College, Reggie had

disappeared early, leaving Gillian and his small staff of two to tend the guests. This was typical. After all,

Reggie had just turned seventy, and he tired easily. But the Dean of Students had needed to speak to him

about an urgent matter, so Gillian offered to relay the message.

When she reached Reggie’s rooms, he was nowhere to be found. His private elevator was switched on,

however, with the indicator lights showing that it had stopped in the basement.

Castles don’t have basements, dear girl. Even replicas like this! Castles have…

“Dungeons,” Gillian whispered, lost between present and past. She had deliberated for a few moments,

but the Dean was an intimidating, persistent sort. She didn’t want to face him again without speaking to

Reggie.

Quietly, Gillian had pressed the elevator call button and slipped into the carrier when it arrived. Inside,

she had found a key inserted and turned, allowing access to the dungeons she had never seen. On the

way down, a flare of anxiety almost made her turn back, but she had spoken sharply to herself.

“He’s no mad scientist with toxic experiments. Get a grip, Gillian.”

The elevator slowed to a stop, and the door hissed open, revealing a long, dark hallway with a bright

archway of light about twenty paces in front of her.

Suddenly trembling, Gillian stepped into the cool passage. What was Reggie doing down here anyway?

What could be so secret?

Soft, rhythmic music rippled toward her, surrounding her like a heartbeat made of notes and insistent

chanting.

Reggie’s not doing anything wrong , she told herself. He was likely squirreled away in some private

library full of heretical historical documents.

Then she heard a woman scream.

Only, it wasn’t a scream. It was more like a long, low moan of pain—or ecstasy. Gillian couldn’t tell.

Heart crashing against her ribs, Gillian edged down the corridor until she could see inside the arched

doorway.

What she saw changed her life forever, for the second time.

Reggie lounged near the door on what looked like a huge medieval bed, complete with a ruby-red satin

spread and straps on all four black metal posts. He was dressed in his favorite black robe and slippers,

holding his trademark Scotch and water.

The cavernous room was full of medieval furniture. Chairs, benches, tables—many with leather straps or

seats. She saw stocks with a strap-laden bench attached, a swing of sorts, also with straps. And

something that looked like a metal spider web, and several cages of different sizes. One small black cage

was even attached to a pulley and chain, hanging from a big brass ring fixed in a ceiling beam.

Various whips rested in a wall rack, along with canes, rods, feathered instruments and what looked like

lavender wands. Instrumental riffs swirled and pounded, at first soft and teasing, then hard and insistent.

Blinking rapidly, Gillian realized that on a table below the whips rested an impressive collection of dildos,

all sizes and colors. Some had long handles. Beside the table were three impressive specimens mounted

on poles of various lengths, attached to sturdy-looking metal platforms with shoe-like holders on either

side. The sight of them made her entire body clench. She couldn’t fight off an image of herself, stretched

out on one of the benches or tables, a dildo inserted in every possible opening, stretching and pushing her

wide and wider until she couldn’t tolerate another centimeter.

What if she were facedown?

Annie Windsor - Throwback.pdf

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