Hialeah Heat Read online

  Published by Phaze Books

  This is an explicit and erotic novel

  intended for the enjoyment

  of adult readers. Please keep

  out of the hands of children.

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  Hialeah Heat

  A BDSM romance short by

  CAROL STORM

  Hialeah Heat copyright 2009 by Carol Storm

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Phaze Production

  Phaze Books

  6470A Glenway Avenue, #109

  Cincinnati, OH 45211-5222

  Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC.

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  Cover art © 2009 Deborah Lewis

  Edited by Pat Sager

  ISBN-13: 978-1-59426-695-9

  First Edition – May, 2009

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Lying back in an extra wide hammock with her eyes closed and her hands behind her head, Kathleen Sullivan knew she looked like the perfect picture of life in Coral Gables, Florida. The privileged, secluded Miami suburb was the ideal place for rest and relaxation. The only problem was Kick couldn’t relax. Any minute now, the cell phone on the table next to her was going to ring. A man she didn’t know would issue stern commands, and Kick would rush to obey. The danger excited her almost as much as the decadent, submissive fantasy.

  The waiting was always the hardest part. Sleep killed the time, but lately when she slept her dreams were filled with sexy images of him. A tall, dark man was looming over her on the bed, his broad, tanned chest and tight-knotted abdomen bare, his face in shadows. Kick wanted to rest and forget, but her restless dreams only underlined the unpleasant truth. The Master never did anything she didn’t want. Even when he tied her hands behind her back and smacked her bare bottom until she howled, she only wanted his hard cock even more. Instead of sleeping, Kick found herself fidgeting and even wanting to finger herself as she fantasized about the unknown man she called the Master. The Sisters at St. Ann used to call her Miss Kick, not because she was naughty but because she simply had too much energy. Now she crossed her bare legs at the ankles, fighting to keep still until the call finally came.

  “Hello?” Instead of snatching the cell phone like a lifeline, Kick wished she’d let it ring. The more eager she sounded, the longer she would have to wait for her final release.

  “Half an hour. Trashy clothes. Lots of makeup.” Click.

  Kick swung her long legs over the hammock, landing in the lush, manicured grass. This wasn’t who she really was. It couldn’t be! She was a girl who took charge of things and made decisions. People depended on her. Even as her heart thumped with excitement, her sharp emerald green eyes swept over the rolling back lawn of her father’s quiet Coral Gables estate. Her decision to switch gardening services had been the right one. The soft grass under her bare feet felt as soothing as a deep-piled carpet, yet as she went indoors to prepare, Kick felt her palms grow slick with sweat.

  “Daddy, I’m going over to Mrs. Claypool’s for the afternoon.” Kick’s father was snoring in a deep leather recliner. The game was on, but the TV remote had fallen from his plump, soft fingers. Kick turned off the television and gently kissed the top of his bald head.

  “I miss her, too, you know,” she whispered. Joe Sullivan had really gone to pieces since his wife left him. He was up for re-election soon, and the campaign needed his usual cheerful energy. But Daddy needed Mother. He just didn’t understand that after years of cheating, tearful apologies, and oodles of charm just weren’t enough to win her back. Madeline Fitzpatrick Sullivan wasn’t the type of woman to forgive weakness, in a husband or a daughter. She was a proud woman, a woman who kept her feelings inside. Learning from her, Kick had acquired self-discipline and the ability to camouflage her own weak-willed desires.

  Of course, camouflage had other uses, too. As she prepared to make up her face in the bathroom mirror, Kick reflected that the right shade of lipstick could transform a woman. The Master had no interest in her icy, proper surface. He wanted her to paint a different picture. Thanks to Mother and the nuns, Kick never had the chance to try the more daring shades of eye shadow, like jungle green or midnight blue, or to use lipstick that glowed fire engine red! It was a thrill just to bat long, false eyelashes in the mirror and smile. The Master always demanded she paint herself, and each time she found herself acting the part more and more.

  Kick loved the decadence of making up like something she wasn’t, like a wild, sexual creature. The wicked makeup, and the way the Master responded to it, made her feel beautiful. When she dressed up nicely and made up like a lady, she was only passably pretty.

  Kick had big green eyes, but she was still just a skinny Irish kid with freckles all over her face. But the Master made her play with her plain looks. He made her play with her coarse black hair, as well. Last time she had worn it in schoolgirl pigtails, with a blue plaid skirt and a demure white blouse. But her lips were painted bright red and her eyelids shaded dark green. She was a naughty girl coming home late from school and wearing too much makeup. The Master was so convincing as the stern, strict step-father in the story. Having him take control, like a stern authority figure, really turned Kick into a different woman. She came in jackknife spasms when he spanked her, sometimes even when he scolded her.

  Each new game was always so elaborate, the details so exciting. First there was the fun of sneaking lipstick, face powder, and eyeliner into her purse, and having the Master shake her until she confessed. Then there was the thrill of kneeling in the darkness and being lectured ‘til she burst into tears and began blubbering for forgiveness. This was certainly not a typical scene from her childhood. In her family, it was always Daddy who blubbered and begged for forgiveness. But the Master spanked her ‘til she howled, then carried her to bed. Of course, he was always careful to keep the lights down low. Kick would hardly recognize him if she saw him on the street. But she didn’t really mind. Privacy was a two way street. Besides, having a Master she couldn’t quite see made her feel more submissive and obedient. When she sniffled and sobbed afterwards, in the dark, his soft, shushing kisses always turned to fierce hungry kisses, and then sex. The Master was in control, but he always ended up wanting it bad. Wanting her bad.

  Of course, today’s game was likely to be somewhat different. Kick came back to earth, shaking off lazy memories of the lush, hot sex she always seemed to crave after a spanking. She blinked her long, false eyelashes, carefully studying her new look in the mirror. The Master was making changes. With her ragged cut off jeans, and the cheap, polka-dot blouse tightly knotted under her breasts, she was looking more sorority slut than schoolgirl. She looked like a boy-crazy coed from the nearby University of Miami. Kick knew she could still pass for a college girl, even though she had just turned twenty-five. But she couldn’t leave the house without
talking to the staff. Why hadn’t she talked to them ahead of time, instead of getting herself all tarted up and losing herself in daydreams in front of the mirror?

  “Cecile, there’s plenty of corned beef and cabbage left over from the Hibernian Political Dinner last night. You and Etienne are welcome to have all you want, but make sure that Father eats the low calorie meal his doctor prescribed. You can heat it up in the microwave.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The young Haitian refugee smiled shyly. “You look very pretty today, Miss Kick.”

  “You look hot,” said her boyfriend Etienne.

  As she was driving over to the Claypool house in her vintage yellow Mustang, Kick wondered what her mother would have done just now. If Madeline had gone into the young Haitian cook’s room and found her playing a computer game on the bed with the gardener’s helper, she would have fired them both on the spot. Kick felt a bit sheepish. She should have lectured them, given them a warning at least. Teen sex was such a serious problem. But Etienne and his friends had worked hard on the lawn. Cecile was a fabulous cook. Deep down, Kick almost envied the pair on the bed. Thanks to her mother, she had missed out on silly, innocent things like wasting time playing computer games with boys. Instead, she had been a super-achiever, always giving speeches on campus and joining political clubs.

  Now she was all grown up, and she was still too busy for romance. Fortunately, a professional woman had other options.

  The Claypool house was a pretty Victorian on sedate and shady Miller Drive, not far from the Tropical Park. Claudia Claypool had been one of the leaders of Miami society. A woman beyond reproach, she had left her house as a museum to the glory days of old Miami. But on Sundays, the sleepy yellow house was closed to the public. Kick had a key only because she’d been a tireless local volunteer as a teen. She knew the old place inside out.

  As she unlocked the front door, Kick reflected that the proper and dignified Mrs. Claypool would probably never understand what she was doing. Yet the house had secrets. Down in the basement, there was a tunnel built in Prohibition days that ran down the block to the basement of an abandoned warehouse. Eighty years ago it had been the sight of a notorious speakeasy, where booze was sold and sexy gangsters danced with giggling flappers. Had Mrs. Claypool also needed a refuge from her safe and boring respectable life? Kick shrugged, liking the idea but not wanting to start daydreaming again. The Master was waiting. Her sharp green eyes had caught sight of a beat up old panel truck parked over a block away. The two of them were both very discreet, arranging their meetings with the utmost secrecy.

  “Hold it right there, young lady. Are you aware this property has been condemned?”

  “Huh?” Kick raised her hand, trying to ward off the blinding glare of the flashlight. If this was the police, and they had caught the Master as well, she was in real trouble. Gradually, her vision returned. The tall man stood framed in dim light at the end of the tunnel, his broad shoulders seeming to fill the narrow opening. He was dressed in an utterly perfect replica of the sharp-creased uniform worn by a deputy sheriff in Miami-Dade County. Even his helmet and sunglasses had an authentic gleam, effectively concealing his dark, stern visage.

  “You are now under arrest,” said the clipped, precise male voice. “You will obey me.”

  “Oh, Master! Thank heaven it’s only you!” Kick nearly swooned with relief. The phrase “you will obey me” was one of their passwords, and it meant they were both safe. The Master always kept his cool, and Kick liked that very much. But it was frustrating not being able to see his face. Feeling a bit rebellious, Kick decided to ask him some questions at the end of their afternoon session.

  But first they had work to do. The Master obviously wanted to punish her for her casual attitude (“Thank heaven it’s only you!”). They played a game where she was speeding, late at night, and the sexy deputy stopped her. Kick was fighting giggles at first. The car was just an old sofa, after all. But the Master insisted on making every game as realistic as possible, and when he sprinkled rum in her hair, the musky scent clung to her, making her feel wild and drunk and even a little bit sexy. The giggles were long gone by the time her strict arresting officer placed her spread-eagled against the cement wall of the darkened basement.

  “What are you searching for?” she gasped, as his strong fingers slapped her thighs, patted her hips, then firmly squeezed her skinny butt cheeks under her cut off denim shorts.

  “Drugs.” The deputy snapped a pair of rubber gloves into place. “Rum on your breath, giggles, and a wobbly walk. You’re clearly under the influence. But I think you might be into something harder.”

  “Something harder?” Kick gasped as the pretend cop yanked down her short shorts. The probing fingers made her writhe and squirm, and she swore a time or two under her breath. Yet soon the cursing and wriggling turned to gasping and moaning, as strong fingers muscled deep into her ass crack, searching her. Her stash of drugs was obviously elsewhere.

  “Nothing up the back door,” said the tough, all-business voice of the cop. He kept two fingers deep inside her tight, narrow little behind, pinning her like a butterfly to the wall. “But what about the front door? You’re wet deep down, like you’re hiding something.”

  “Wet,” Kick repeated. She knew she could stop all this by saying the word ridiculous. That was her safety word. It was so undignified, letting the strong fingers probe her. Kick opened her mouth to protest. But just then one clever little finger slipped deep into her sex, while the deputy’s long index finger circled the nub of her greatest sensitivity. Kick was up against the wall, helpless, like a butterfly pinned to a card. She whimpered, wanting to regain control, but instead she slipped ever closer to the edge. The clever cop moved his fingers up and down, in and out, working her wet pussy deeply and thoroughly. He didn’t find any drugs, but he soon found the rhythm she adored. Long stroke, short stroke, deep stroke, shallow stroke. Kick stood mesmerized, her eyes half-closed, no longer seeing the cement wall in front of her. She was ready to lose herself to a soft surrender of pure bliss.

  “That’s enough. You’re clean. Turn around, miss.”

  “What do you mean, I’m clean?” Kick was flushed, her body shaking from head to toe. At the cop’s command, she turned around. Her legs were weak, and her shoulders sagged against the concrete wall.

  “No drugs. You’re clean. But drunk driving is still a very serious offense.”

  “Please, deputy. Couldn’t we handle this off the record? I’ll do anything you say.” Kick loved the idea of bribing the cop with her body. Her nipples were hard from thinking about it. They felt tight and painfully swollen. Her silken black curls were damp, dripping on the floor. In real life Kick made decisions all day long. She was a modern woman who used her head. It was so relaxing to obey the Master, letting the needs of her body make decisions for her.

  “We can work out a deal,” said the cop, his voice gentle yet utterly firm. “But I’d better follow the regulations. First you wear the cuffs.”

  “Do you really need to cuff me, deputy? Couldn’t you just fuck me for being such a bad little girl?” Kick pouted. She didn’t mind fucking with the cuffs on. In fact, she rather liked it. The problem was that the Master always had some ridiculous challenge for her to overcome.

  He snapped the cuffs on her right away. They gleamed like silver in the dim light.

  “All right,” he said. “You know what to do.”

  Kick bit her lower lip, struggling not to look down at her hands. The Master’s eyes were hidden, expressionless. But his stillness made it clear this was a test she could not fail.

  “There! Happy now?” With an explosive sigh, Kick unsnapped the cuffs. They were police issue, but they had been recalled as defective. To amuse himself, the man had taught her to work the catch loose, and now he made her practice every time they came here to play.

  “Good job.” He put his big hands on her slim hips, drawing her close. “Having a slippery little slave who can escape from bondage makes my l
ife much more fun.”

  “It’s crazy,” Kick cooed. With his big hands snug on her hips she slid her slim white arms around his neck, smiling up at the cop in helmet and sunglasses. “You’re my Master. You can do me any time. So why the Houdini act? Are you really a bored ex-cop or something?”

  “No, I’m not. Being nosy means a spanking and a good hard fuck. Now turn around, and bend over that bench.”

  Kenny Marigold loved to spank his naughty little Coral Gables girl. His cock seemed to grow an inch every time his broad, brown hand connected sharply with her skinny white butt. She was so cute when she slipped out of her handcuffs and threw her arms around his neck. But that feeling was dangerous. He didn’t want her to get too close. Ever since they started meeting in secret, Kick had been a little too curious about him.

  “You have been a naughty girl, Miss Kick. The Master is very angry with you!”

  SMACK!

  “What did I do, Master?”

  SMACK!

  “You got caught speeding again. The deputy called. He told me you offered to fuck him again – and it’s the third time this week!” Kenny held his hand high over her trembling body. The sense of power was so enormous, even more addictive because he was totally in disguise.

  “Oh, Master!” Kick gasped, not because her bottom was on fire but because the Master had a way of cracking her up at the worst possible moment. “I’m sorry, Master, but the deputy, he looked just like you. He even said he was you!”

  SMACK!

  “That’s a lie,” the Master said softly. “No-one’s like me. What’s my name, girl?”

  SMACK!

  “I don’t know! You never tell me your name and I – ”

  SMACK!

  “What’s my name?”

  SMACK!

  “Master! Master, Master, Master!”