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Prelude To Heartbreak (Ted Edwards)

Prelude To Heartbreak by Ted Edwards

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This is a sequel of sorts to the Debt Slaves books. Time has passed; some of the characters are the same, some are no longer with us and at least one was previously known only by name. There are new girls, motives, challenges and means of persuasion, though their fate is as predictable as ever...

Product type: EBook    Published by: Fiction4All    Published: 12 / 2008

No. words: 40000

Style: Male Dom - M/F

Available Formats: Palm  MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  Sony Reader (LRF)  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


This is the third book in the series started by ‘Debt Slaves’ and continued in ‘Shared Torment (Debt Slaves Part 2)’. Indeed, the name ‘Heartbreak Oy’ may be familiar to readers of that latter work. What follows is a brief summary of the events which have brought us to the present volume:

John Griffin, a successful, ruthless but still ambitious businessman was being tormented by revelations about his nefarious past dealings by a young newspaper reporter, Jill Bentley. The information she was writing was extremely and unsettlingly accurate, indicating that she was obtaining inside information from someone in Griffin’s employ. If the stories were allowed to continue, he faced the possibility of even more embarrassing information coming to light, something which could lead to financial ruin and possibly criminal prosecution. Jill Bentley had to be stopped.
Griffin’s salvation came in his fortuitous choice of friends and in a piece of newly enacted legislation: the Debt Recovery and Rehabilitation Act, whose effect was to place debtors in the service of their creditors until such time as the debt was repaid.
‘Debt slavery!’ howled the liberals
‘Not at all,’ replied the government blandly. ‘There are good and sufficient safeguards against abuse of the system.’
So there were, in the form of supervision by the police and frequent inspections by a nominated medical officer of all indentured persons. It just happened that two of Griffin’s friends happened to be George Chambers and Colin Atkinson, Chief Superintendent of Police and Chief Area Medical Officer respectively. Add to that the fact that a third, Peter Robinson, was a bank manager and financial wizard and it wasn’t long before Jill Bentley was straddling Griffin’s own variation on the theme of torture horse, which turned out to be a remarkably efficacious instrument of persuasion. Not only did Jill provide the name he needed, she became, as time and torture told, an unwilling though enthusiastic sex slave for him and his friends. In due course she was joined in that unhappy state by her informant, Carol Wilson. Then the four men had two young women to play with, two objects to share the agonies and the vile and degrading sexual demands made of them.
It was at about the time of Carol’s contrived conviction for theft that Paula Parsons also came on the scene. Paula, a strikingly attractive (then) forty-year-old, is KP Mitchell’s personal assistant and, by coincidence, an experienced slave-mistress. Not un-naturally, since she shared her master’s tastes: KP Mitchell was a slave-owner and trainer, with an appetite for sex that belied his seventy years. It was he, in fact, who had been the driving force behind the Debt Recovery and Rehabilitation Act, with an aim to doing precisely what, in an act of coincidence, Griffin and his friends had.
Griffin’s accommodation for Jill and Carol had always been somewhat improvised; in fact, a secret dungeon in his headquarters, which meant that the group was restricted to evenings and week-ends for their sessions. Having sampled the delights of sadism and the sexual gratification that came with it, Griffin had planned to create his own slave training establishment, an eminently satisfactory idea, but one fraught with potential problems. Paula’s arrival changed all that. A word from her to KP and the idea of an executive rest home on Heartbreak Oy was born. Griffin and Paula would be joint owners, with the three others as share-holders and paid consultants. KP Mitchell would become non-executive chairman of the board and full-time permanent senior resident. It solved what could have been a massive problem, but there remained a huge amount of work.

Which brings us to the present, or very nearly. Unfortunately, four of the cast have disappeared into a literary heaven (or the other place; suit yourself): Jill and Carol served with increasing docility for almost nine months before the group, which now included Paula and occasionally KP, tired of them. They were sold at a slave auction in Amsterdam, eventually falling to bids from an American dealer who needed stock for a brothel in Texas. The profits went on the purchase of a Greek and a Turk whose initial hatred of each other almost matched that they felt for their new owners. That mutual animosity didn’t last, of course, but it provided our principals with a good deal of amusement in the early days. Now, after six months’ service they, too have gone. As yet, they haven’t been replaced.
The other absentees are Peter Robinson and Colin Atkinson. On their way to London to enjoy the hospitality of Underhill, a slave-training establishment in South London, they ran into a patch of fog and several dozen other cars and lorries on the M1. Both died. So now our group is three which, with the imminent appearance of KP Mitchell, will soon become four once more.
As the story opens, the new establishment is within six weeks or so of completion and our group is hard at work making plans for its administration, operation and security. The doesn’t mean, though, that there isn’t time to indulge in their favourite pastime…

Chapter 1

Chambers leaned forward and flicked at a speck of mud on the trouser leg that was crossed over his knee. Satisfied that he’d got it, he leaned back in the deep leather armchair and sipped at his drink, his eyes going to Griffin, who sat on the other side other the fireplace in an identical chair.
“I can’t see them finishing the place,” he said. “It’s like a large hole surrounded by mud.”
Griffin smiled, the expression of one both confident and experienced. “It’s always like that at this stage; you’ll be surprised how soon it comes together.” A slight frown crossed his brow, “The only problem I’ve got is convincing the site manager that all those special little rooms are necessary for wine and food storage. I have the distinct feeling that he thinks I’m barmy.”
Chambers’ face echoed his friend’s mild concern in a somewhat amplified form. “He’s not going to make waves, is he?”
“Not if he wants that bonus he’s been promised. And somehow I think that that will overcome any problems.” He glanced at his watch. “She should be here soon.”
Chambers said nothing. He simply went still, his eyes on those of Griffin. The silence drew out. “No hint on the phone?”
Griffin shook his head. “You know what she’s like about phones, especially mobiles.”
“I don’t blame her. Still, we’ll know soon enough. When’s she due?”
“Two minutes ago. Oh, she says that she has a surprise for us.”
Griffin’s eyebrows arched. “You holding out on me?”
“Yes. I wanted Paula to be here so I don’t have to go through it twice.”
“I’m surrounded by conspirators,” said Griffin, smiling. “I just hope it’s worth the suspense.”
Chambers looked smug. “Wait and see.” He peered into his empty glass. “Bugger having no slaves! I suppose I have to refill this myself?”
“It’s the main reason God gave you legs, my boy.”
Chambers levered himself up, but stopped half-way, still crouched. His head tilted to the side. “She’s here,” he said, continuing the movement.
Griffin looked round. “You sure? I didn’t hear anything.”
“Policeman’s ears, old lad. I heard the tyres on the gravel.”
Griffin stood. “Then we’d better go and greet her.”


Chambers had been right. There was a gleaming black Bentley Continental on the gravel drive in front of the door, its windows dark to obscure any view of the interior. As they moved down the stone steps to it, the back door swung open and she looked out.
“Hello, perverts.”
“Hello yourself, trollop,” replied Griffin, smiling.
She looked anything but a trollop, more a thirty-something lady who looked after her figure with care. A professional and rather forbidding thirty-something lady, with her dark blonde hair pulled back severely, her rather broad but attractive face strong. In fact she was close to forty-two now and that severe expression could either melt into the ecstasy of passion or become something one could sharpen razor blades on if she had a cane in her hand and a slave kneeling in front of her. That hair could stay as it was or cascade into an abandoned fan, depending on her mood.
Chambers made to go to the boot. “Any bags?” he asked.
Paula climbed out unheeding of the expanse of thigh she was showing. She had showed and shared much more than that with both men. “No, don’t,” she said. She rapped on the driver’s window. “Get out of there and get the baggage,” she snapped in tones that both men had heard often enough. It left them in no doubt about the status of the driver.
The door opened quickly enough, but the black-clad figure within seemed to take an age to get out. Much to the surprise of the two men, Paula didn’t follow up her initial order with further impatient commands to hurry things up, as she normally would. Instead, with an amused glance at the two men she stepped up to join them, folded her arms and watched.
With agonising slowness, the figure extracted itself from the driver’s seat and stood by the side of the car. It was a woman, as both Griffin and Chambers had expected, though neither had anticipated anything quite like this. She was tall: very tall, for despite the fact that they were standing on the steps looking down at her, it was clear that she was very nearly six feet in height, just a couple of inches shorter than they and a good four taller than Paula. She was slim to the point of gauntness, the tight black chauffeur’s jacket and long, equally tight skirt that was slit to the knee to allow sufficient movement for driving accentuating that. Although she wore polished boots, the heels were flat, so none of that height could be attributed to them.
Her hair was a dark reddish-brown, curled and cut high to reveal a fine, delicate neck that set her rather small head well away from her shoulders. Her face was exquisite, all its features finely drawn to the point of inherent haughtiness, though at present contorted with what they knew without asking was pain. A lot of it, borne for a considerable period, their now-experienced eyes told them. The eyes were huge, but now showed little but suffering; there were dark patches beneath them and lines were etched from either side of the nodes to the sides of her mouth. Her tall, wide brow was furrowed, while her teeth chewed at her lower lip.
“Get the bags,” repeated Paula peremptorily.
Those huge eyes went to her, pleading. “Oh, God! Please…”
“Don’t beg, bitch! Get on with it!”
Despair clouded that beautiful face; the eyes dropped and she turned to the back of the car. Even a movement that small was made stiffly and gingerly and was accompanied buy a whimper. The steps that followed were tiny, mincing, as if the boots were full of broken glass. Griffin looked at Paula, wondering if that’s what it was, but if she recognised the question in his eyes and that of Chambers, she simply smiled knowingly.
More whimpers and barely-stifled cries accompanied her painful progress to the rear of the car. She looked to be in her early twenties, Griffin judged, though that strained expression could have aged her by a year or two. At last the boot lid rose, revealing two huge suitcases and a small over-night bag.
“Hand me that bag,” ordered Paula. She took it and slung it over her shoulder, her eyes dancing with amusement as she flashed a look at the two men. “Never let it be said that I don’t help out,” she said. Then she turned back to the chauffeuse. “What are you waiting for, you idle bitch?”
“Oh, I… Oh, please!”
The blonde dominatrix took a step towards her. “Listen, you dozy, idle cow: you were five minutes late getting here. Remember what I promised you? If you don’t get those bags out of there and inside within five minutes, it’ll be double!”
Terror crossed the face. The mouth opened in an ‘O’ of horror. “Oh, no! I hurt so much! You can’t!”
“I can and will, as you well know! Now get on with it!”
The suitcases were obviously extremely heavy and the girl just wasn’t built for that sort of job. But sheer desperation gave her the strength to do it. Within a minute both were out of the boot. Scant seconds later she was hauling one of them up the steps to the front door using both hands on the handle as she panted with the effort, every expelled breath an indication of supreme effort and the pain it was costing her.
“She’s a model,” said Paula, sitting in the arm-chair that was flanked by those of the two men. The chauffeuse stood before them, looking even taller and thinner now. Her head was held up because Paula had ordered it, but no orders had been given for the rapidly-blinking eyes, teeth gnawing at the lower lip or the fingernails that seemed intent on driving themselves through her palms. All three knew the signs: the woman had been driven very close to the edge. Now it was a question of watching and enjoying as Paula pushed her just those few inches more, until she teetered and perhaps fell. “Or she was until a few weeks ago. Weren’t you, bitch?”
The chin trembled; visible moisture formed at the corner of those huge eyes. “Y… yes, Mistress.”
“And she’s something else. What are you, cow?”
“A… a thief, Mistress.” She squirmed, her voice hinting at desperation. “Pleeeeese, I huuuurt! I have… have to pee.”
“Oh, God! Please!”
“I said ‘wait’. What did you steal, you treacherous whore?”
“Your designs, Mistress.”
Paula glanced sideways, first to Griffin, then Chambers. “No, I haven’t suddenly developed artistic talents. I just happen to own the fashion house that this dirty little sneak-thief worked for. She was caught with most of the designs for the new season on her. Off to Paris with them weren’t you, worm?”
A tear fell. “Y… yes, Mistress. I’m so sorry, Mistress.”
“You have been. You will be,” she added darkly.
“Personally,” said Chambers bluntly. “I’ve always thought that the only thing worse that a woman obsessed with fashion is a man obsessed with fashion.”
Paula grinned. “Oh, I’ve no time for the vacuous females – or males – who twitter and flutter around the game, but don’t let the nature of the business fool you: there’s some very hard people in it, believe me. Because there’s money in it: real money.”
“Ah!” said Chambers. If Paula talked about real money, then it was not to be sneezed at.
“And this… stick insect,” went on Paula, putting venom into the words, “was going to steal it. My money!” She stared at the unfortunate woman who was now sobbing openly her knees bent as she pressed her thighs together, hands clenching. “You want to pee, bitch?”
“Yes!” It was a plea of sheer desperation. “Oh yes, please. Mistress!”
“Then you can do it here, in front of these gentlemen. If they’re interested in seeing that worthless body of yours, that is?” She glanced at the two men again, acknowledging their smiles and nods of both agreement and appreciation.
There was utter humiliation on that face now. “Oh, no! Oh, please!”
“You want to pee or not?”
“Oh, God!” It was a cry of utter despair. “Yes, Mistress!”
“Got a bucket handy, John?”
“I should think so,” he said. He levered himself to his feet, glancing at the desperation on their victim’s face before looking down at Paula with a wink. “It may take some time to find, though.”
“Take your time. There’s no great hurry,” she responded.
“Oooooooh, pleeeeeease!”
Griffin took the time to select a few bottles of wine for dinner before making a rather languid way back to the room where the girl was now practically writhing in an upright position. Her pallid face went, if possible, even paler when she saw the bucket. He put it down in front of her before resuming his seat.
“Well, there’s the bucket,” said Paula. “So…. Oh, but there’s just one little thing first, isn’t there?” she mocked.
The face twisted even more. “Yes, Mistress. Oh, Mistress, please!”
Paula laughed, a sound full of her love of sadism and the enjoyment she was taking from all of this. “All right, then get that skirt off.”
“But… Oh, no. Please, I…”
“You’ll be doing a lot more than just showing yourself off soon enough, you stupid bitch. But,” she leaned back with a satisfied smile and then uttered the words that she must have used a thousand times before in similar circumstances. “It’s up to you.”
The moments of agonised indecision were brief; it was clear that there was more than just the need to urinate that had been driving her. And when her hands went to the fastener at the waist and the material dropped to the floor, the men saw just what it was.
She was naked from the tops of the boots to the hem of the jacket, cut short to navel height. The legs were enormously long, terminating in a rather bony pelvis surmounted by a very narrow waist. Circling that was a tight metal belt, its inner surface padded for protection. From it, also padded on the inner surface ran a broad rubber band under tension. At its lower end was what looked like a triangular metal bar that disappeared between the thighs, parting the labia and clearly pressing with unrelenting cruelty into that tender flesh.
“Turn round, you stupid bitch! Let the gentlemen see!”
Sobbing, the slave turned, every slight motion making that thing dig into her. That bar was curved so that it conformed to her body’s shape; where it ended, a short leather belt joined it to the waist-band, a buckle providing the means by which it could be tightened.
“I got the idea from that lovely bar of yours,” said Paula, referring to Griffin’s torture horse variation.
The two men looked at each other. That thing had been in place as the woman had driven all the way from London. No wonder she was in agony; it must have been sheer murder every time she hit the brake or accelerator. If the gears had been manual… well, it just wouldn’t have been possible.
“Turn round,” snapped Paula.
Again that painful shuffle.
“Did you shave her?” asked Chambers.
“No, that’s her own idea,” replied Paula, looking up at the tortured face. “I think she likes feeling her girl-friend’s tongue. I’ve let her carry on with it. Not that you’ve felt much tongue on there for the last few weeks. Have you, cow?”
“N… no, Mistress.”
“Been too busy getting hers up me. And very good at it she is.”
Griffin was examining the skin of the backside and thighs. They were covered with welts and weals, some of them fresh. He’d seen marks like them before; seen them applied, too: Paula favoured a plaited crop. Those welts were her trade-mark.
“How many have you given her?” he asked, hearing the sob that the remark provoked but ignoring it.
“Tell him, bitch.”
“A h… hundred and e… eighty, sir.”
“Master!” cracked Paula.
“M…Master. I’m s… sorry, Master, Mistress.”
“You’d better be,” growled Paula. “How many have you been promised?”
“A… a… a thousand, Mistress.” She swallowed, hard. “Unless… unless I… I behave.”
“A thousand?” asked Griffin, looking at Paula.
She was leaning back on the chair, having unbuttoned the jacket she wore. Those magnificent breasts of hers, unfettered, pressed against the sheer material of her blouse, the semi-erect nipples betraying a degree of arousal. When she looked at him, he saw that her eyes had begun to smoulder, too. It was a look he knew well and one which helped to suppress his lurking impatience about the news she was carrying but which she’d given no sign of divulging. Perhaps she was indulging in a little game, but it was also possible that she’d become engrossed in the game she was playing and had forgotten. For the moment, he was quite happy to let this go on.
“What I said,” she said, “was a thousand in three months, as long as she behaves. Less if she’s very good. Do you want to take that little contraption off, slut?”
“Oh, yes, Mistress! Please!”
A thin smile crossed Paula’s lips. “Only four hours or so! No staying power, these young people. All right, take it off.”
The thin hands went behind with almost indecent haste, long, elegant fingers tearing at the leather strap. Her fingernails had been cut sort, of course: leaving a slave with ten weapons just wasn’t smart.
“Ooooooooh! Aaaaaaaaah!” she cried, easing the wicked thing from between her legs.”
Paula laughed as the wicked, curved bar was allowed to dangle in front while both the slave’s hand went, unashamed, between her legs to sooth the tortured parts. “Never mind all that,” she snapped. Hold that thing out of the way while you pee.”
The eyes were wide, pleading again. “Mistress, please! It’s…. awful!”
“Put it back.”
“You’ve got thirty seconds, bitch! Start peeing or start buckling!”
It was, of course, no contest. After a few seconds hesitation, those long legs straddled the bucket and, with eyes tightly closed, face blushing red, she urinated noisily and at length into the bucket, holding the metal bar up out of the way as she did it. At long last the flow ceased, though she held the position for a long time, shaking her hips from side to side as if to shake off the drops. The two men found out why when Paula held out a tissue.
“Open those eyes at once! Did I give you permission to close them?”
The eyes flew open. “N… no, Mistress!”
“That’s a few more on the list. It’s growing! Now, take this. You know what to do.”
Hand shaking, she took the tissue. Her legs were still spread wide over the bucket as she put the scrap to her vagina and wiped. A long hesitation and then it was carried up to her mouth, inserted. She retched, paused, chewed, retched again, closed her eyes, opened them when she realised what she’d done, retched and swallowed.
“Filthy animal,” smirked Paula.
The face twisted. The was an inarticulate moan of despair, generating a laugh from all three onlookers.

Author Information

Author of over 25 hard BDSM style stories featuring slave training, slave trading, strict bondage, male domination and sadsim.


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