“Don’t” series by Jack L. Pyke. Part of The Society of Master’s universe.
Gray Raoul is a Master Dom to the Masters’ Circle, a master who not only trains other men in the art of domination but also interrogation techniques for MI5. He’s a man comfortable with power and used to exercising it with precision. Expert submissive Jack Harrison also works in the Master’s Circle, helping train rookie doms and reminding them that submissive doesn’t mean weak.
Jack trusts Gray with almost everything, relying on Gray’s discipline to keep his own life from falling into chaos. Gray isn’t the only man Jack’s involved with, though. Jan Richards is the comfort that contrasts with Gray’s control, giving Jack a place outside the hierarchy of master and submissive. When the skeletons come marching out of Jack’s closet, they set off a chain of events and revelations that shake each of these men’s worlds.
Summary:
"Don't... open me."
Three simple words that tease Jack, taking him places from his dark past. For Jack, BDSM is a way to resist his worst impulses. Yet, the stranger calling himself The Unknown seeks to use that to seduce him.
As Jack slips further down into the abyss, two men hold the power to save him. Will it be Gray, the Master who knows Jack's every secret? Or Jan, the first man to give Jack a reason to hope? With deadly ghosts coming out to play, Jack may lose everything, even his life.
Summary:
Video footage of Jack Harrison sleeping with Cutter, a man who has mutilated teenagers, should have stayed dead and buried with the man who had filmed it. Yet when footage to Jack’s past starts appearing on Internet porn sites, Jack’s whole world is again turned on its head. At first the porn links are done to unsettle, to disrupt Jack’s fire and ice world: all the sexed-up adrenaline of being caught between the pleasure to Gray Raoul's BDSM kink, and the gentleness of Jan Richards’ vanilla touch. But when the content of the porn sites force even Gray to turn his back on Jack, leaving Jack isolated and away from the full protection of the Master’s Circle, Jack is left at the mercy of a group of men who are out to alter Jack’s whole perception on his BDSM lifestyle.
As brutally as possible, Jack’s sex life is now live webcam feed for a whole new audience.
Summary:
The evidence is there in his hands: the DVD and notepad convincing Jack that Gray is responsible for his kidnapping and torture, tearing Jack and Jan brutally apart. But with Jack trapped in his own mind, lost to blackouts and self-harming, getting away from Gray must take a back seat to getting away from himself.
While locked away in a secret facility run by the Masters' Circle, a new beast is unearthed from the depths of Jack's
tormented past. Martin only comes out to play when Jack needs to hide, a psychopath as capable of ruining Jack's life as he is of defending him. Martin is the repository for Jack's most horrifying memories, protecting him from the bloody tasks Jack can't handle. Martin's purpose is to drive everyone Jack fears - or loves - away, before they get the chance to hurt Jack again.
Now Jack hurts more than he ever has before, Martin is back, and Jack has to figure out what Martin knows that Jack forgot, before it's too late.
Summary:
In the aftermath of Jack Harrison’s release from the psychiatric unit, Gray Raoul’s natural instinct is to brutally repay the one responsible for financing Jack and Jan’s torturous psychological reconditioning. However, that person is a professional player in their own right, one who knows exactly how to manipulate everyone in Gray’s life. To help negotiate this delicate situation, Gray seeks to contract Trace and his ex-Diadem Dom, Gabriel Hunter. But the more Gray seems to regain control, the clearer it becomes that there’s something not quite right about Jan Richards. As Jan’s world unravels, taking Jack and Gray with it and bringing out one particular deadly player, Gray’s left with one last defence: break Jack down in order to partner up with Martin. But once freed, Martin’s out for retribution of his own, and he wants to get downright personal with Gray.
Complete trust between Master and sub, between Gray and Jack, is about to be tested to the absolute limit.
Don't #1
I grabbed the sheet off the floor and wrapped it hastily around my waist. “You really don’t want to piss me off, mate,” I said coldly, although my own question stung me painfully in the ass; what the fuck could I do? I wasn’t self-conscious over my body, but I couldn’t fight thin air, I couldn’t fight what I couldn’t see.
“Don’t...”
I froze.
“...look in your bottom drawer, Jack.”
I looked to my left and my bedside unit stole all of my attention. It was like having a huge kick-ass spider in the room. Nothing else existed, just you, it, the possibility it was going to move at any point, grab your sofa, and claim your gaff as its own with these big fuck you signs attached to all eight legs.
I wasn’t scared of spiders. I sure as hell wasn’t scared of my bottom drawer. But there, scratching. That feeling of spiders crawling over my skin, of needing to itch.
Don’t...
I pulled open the drawer, giving a deep sigh and brief close of eyes as I felt the weight of my drawer in my hand. It took me a moment to register that a small grey box, roughly about the size of a slim watchcase, glared up at me. A yellow sticky note was tagged to it.
Don’t...
I groaned.
...open me.
Don’t-don’t-don’t-don’t oh.... One hand fisting my sheet, the weight of the drawer felt heavier and heavier in the other. Don’t....
A tug at the case, I pulled it free and threw it on the bed (spiders, real big fucking spiders). Glaring at it for all of two seconds (I knew because I fisted them into my sheet, lengthening each one as long as I could, one second... one and a half, one and three-quarters, two...), then the inevitable: don’t. I flicked the clasp and opened it up.
Inside was the cruellest-looking torture device I’d ever seen, and I’d seen a few. Picking up the slim black case, I saw a penis-shaped cage, just criss-crosses of silver that would leave parts of the cock visible when worn, all attached via discreet hinges to this silver ring that had a small padlock and key, no doubt to lock everything in place and stop the cock falling out.
A fucking cock cage. It looked painful; painful with a huge side order of debasing. The ring looked too small to get over my balls, let alone my cock through and into the cage.
Again—why the fuck did I stand there considering it?
“Don’t...” His soft voice. I swore he was over my shoulder whispering that in my ear, because I shivered, his voice so fucking calm.
“Don’t what?” I snapped.
“...wear it for me, Jack.”
I let out a breath, hating how it itched like hell waiting, then that release of pressure.
“Careful, Jack. You’re getting hard.”
Antidote #2
Something was seriously wrong. Something out of that book had Jack climbing up the walls, enough to tear up over fifteen grand’s worth of art history. Part of me didn’t want to know, another part of me had to know.
Noise came from the living room, the kind of grunts and groans off a TV you’d turn down at night time so no one else would hear you, and I slowed my pace.
Side-on to me, Gray was standing by his laptop with his arms folded, his face giving nothing away. I frowned, but couldn’t quite bring myself to go over. “DVD?” I said quietly, resting against the doorframe, but Gray shook his head.
“Porn site.”
My heart fell. Amongst the recently posted, there was a screen shot of a painfully young-looking Jack. Gray homed in on the title for a moment, enough for me to read it from here. It was the same intro found on most sites, yet somehow very much in a class of its own.
Don’t...
...love the Cub in slap-kink with Bear.
I rested my head against the frame, just hugging my stomach, and watched as Gray clicked on the play button.
A simple master bedroom came on screen. It allowed room for a bed with a brass frame and headboard, made up with crisp white duvet covers and soft pillows. Each side had a bedside unit, and a lamp was on one, but barely added much light to the cream-coloured room.
Three men heated life up in there. Well, two men and a young boy just touching eighteen. One man sat in the corner, watching what was going on in the bed, a smile plastering his face as he stroked his hard-on. He was naked, but then so were the two people writhing on the bed.
Cutter was an easy spot. Mark Shaw had him bang to rights as a thug who loved to cut up young men: a skinhead, three times bigger than Jack, and most of the muscle looking as hard and as up for it as what went on between his thighs. He had a tattooed scalp, some political racist slur that ran down his neck, and Jack, he was the naked teen struggling underneath him.
Jack’s hair was longer, wilder, his body youthfully thinner, still deeply tanned and coated in a thin sheen of sweat. Cutter had just flipped him onto all fours, his arm snaking roughly around Jack’s neck, his free hand pulling at Jack’s hair to twist his head and get access to his mouth. He kissed hard, rutting just as rough, pausing from his kiss only to grin at the youth he held.
“Want it, boy?”
“Not tonight, luv,” said Jack, smiling, “got a headache.” A growl, Cutter shifted, tossing Jack onto his back, and Jack’s dick came into full view. My heart sank, because for all of the fight Jack offered, he wanted it. He wore nothing but this black rope necklace with a black cross sleeping on a bigger silver one. Tiny sterling-silver balls, three one side, three on the other, gave it that youthful look, a little expensive too. I didn’t look below that necklace again. Jack looked young, way too fucking young for me to focus on anything lower than that necklace.
“Smart-mouth fuck.” Cutter slapped at Jack’s cheek, but Jack only grinned a little more. It won him a harder slap. “What you got for me now, boy?”
Jack nipped at Cutter’s jaw, feeding it.
Another slap, this last one was hard enough to snap Jack’s head to the side and leave a stinging redness to his cheek. “Oooh,” groaned Cutter, “like it, don’t you, boy?” His hand crushed between Jack’s thighs, making him groan. “Yeah, like it rough alright, don’t you, Jack?”
Even his name hadn’t been cut from public viewing.
Breakdown #3
“Jack, take a deep breath. Hold it for two counts. Exhale.”
“I know how to fucking breathe.” Considering the aggression behind that, no one jolted or looked away. Most people got the fucking hint to back off well enough; looked like these bastards couldn’t take a hint. As a Master Dom, Gray had taught me breathing relaxation techniques when I was a late teen, then I’d taught it to other Doms and subs through the years. I didn’t need reminders on how to handle stress and panic from a few fucked-up quacks. Fifteen footsteps and I’d make it to the door. I’d counted that, but couldn’t remember when, Deep breath. One damaged fuel pump, two damaged fuel pumps... release.
“Excellent control, Jack,” said Halliday. I looked back at him. “I’m Philip Halliday,” he added. “I specialise in Cult psychology, in particular psychological reconditioning, but my specialist areas also incorporate all personality disorders,” he added, then nodded at Dr. Morgan.
“Jack,” said Morgan, coming over. “I’m just going to repeat these details, and part of the care plan is for Craig to repeat the same information every few days—”
Christ, back to fuckwit territory.
“Your case history supports a history of violent blackouts, also recurrence of Teenage Dissociative Identity Disorder. You’re under analysis for Section 2 or 3 of the Mental Health Act, depending on how your disorders present themselves. You have a trademark of being unaware of ‘walking’, where a secondary personality by the name of Martin makes his presence known. Yes?”
I didn’t reply. It didn’t need one.
“There’s also a recent diagnosis of absences.”
“One observed episode over the past two days,” said Craig, softly, and Halliday nodded.
“Jack, you’re under my primary care,” said Halliday as Morgan moved back. “I’m known as your Approved Mental Health Professional and all decisions relating to sectioning will come from me.” He gave a hard sigh. “Because there has been raised concern over how fragmented your memories are over what’s happened—”
From Gray?
“This information will also be repeated. For two weeks you were held captive by a group of men who used rape, BDSM-style techniques, also ketamine and opiates to try and recondition your mindset regarding your perception of OCD and Conduct Disorder. All carried out in a replica setting of your own home.”
“Work,” I snarled. I really wanted fucking work now. Not talk, not about Jack shit, not when Gray’s shit topped mine. I waited for that sad-ass look off Craig; everyone had been giving me that sad-ass look lately. But Craig kept his expression trained, which was fucking fine by me. “Jack,” he said calmly. “Anything you feel uncomfortable doing, you just let me know, okay? Yes, I’m here to ensure your meds are followed and that you’re not harm to yourself or anyone around you, but I’m also here to let you have the space you need to breathe.”
“Yeah? I get my own special corner and training mat to piss on too?” The pathway to the door looked longer and longer by the minute. Not helped as Halliday came over.
“Ease down. Craig undertook the search whilst you were sedated, but he needed to ask just to judge your reaction. I need to know my staff can touch you without your restraint. Restraint is the last call.”
“You fucking wrestled my ass to the floor, then drugged me up. That was your first call.”
“You hit members of my staff.”
“They were fucking touching Jan. Nobody fucking touches him, not without my permission.”
Halliday nodded. “And when Mr. Richards got close to you, do you remember what happened?”
I fell quiet. The smell of vomit long since washed away; Jan’s grief over being pushed away wasn’t.
“Scent association, Jack. Jan is a trigger at the moment. You were both held together and he knows the ramifications of that. It’s why he’s backed away. Now, Dr. Reis needs to examine you. Nothing will happen that you will not know about beforehand.” He fell quiet for a moment, then—“Jack.”
Breathing hard, I frowned at Halliday.
“Are you aware you were scratching at your hip whilst we were talking about Jan?”
I resisted looking down.
I grabbed the sheet off the floor and wrapped it hastily around my waist. “You really don’t want to piss me off, mate,” I said coldly, although my own question stung me painfully in the ass; what the fuck could I do? I wasn’t self-conscious over my body, but I couldn’t fight thin air, I couldn’t fight what I couldn’t see.
“Don’t...”
I froze.
“...look in your bottom drawer, Jack.”
I looked to my left and my bedside unit stole all of my attention. It was like having a huge kick-ass spider in the room. Nothing else existed, just you, it, the possibility it was going to move at any point, grab your sofa, and claim your gaff as its own with these big fuck you signs attached to all eight legs.
I wasn’t scared of spiders. I sure as hell wasn’t scared of my bottom drawer. But there, scratching. That feeling of spiders crawling over my skin, of needing to itch.
Don’t...
I pulled open the drawer, giving a deep sigh and brief close of eyes as I felt the weight of my drawer in my hand. It took me a moment to register that a small grey box, roughly about the size of a slim watchcase, glared up at me. A yellow sticky note was tagged to it.
Don’t...
I groaned.
...open me.
Don’t-don’t-don’t-don’t oh.... One hand fisting my sheet, the weight of the drawer felt heavier and heavier in the other. Don’t....
A tug at the case, I pulled it free and threw it on the bed (spiders, real big fucking spiders). Glaring at it for all of two seconds (I knew because I fisted them into my sheet, lengthening each one as long as I could, one second... one and a half, one and three-quarters, two...), then the inevitable: don’t. I flicked the clasp and opened it up.
Inside was the cruellest-looking torture device I’d ever seen, and I’d seen a few. Picking up the slim black case, I saw a penis-shaped cage, just criss-crosses of silver that would leave parts of the cock visible when worn, all attached via discreet hinges to this silver ring that had a small padlock and key, no doubt to lock everything in place and stop the cock falling out.
A fucking cock cage. It looked painful; painful with a huge side order of debasing. The ring looked too small to get over my balls, let alone my cock through and into the cage.
Again—why the fuck did I stand there considering it?
“Don’t...” His soft voice. I swore he was over my shoulder whispering that in my ear, because I shivered, his voice so fucking calm.
“Don’t what?” I snapped.
“...wear it for me, Jack.”
I let out a breath, hating how it itched like hell waiting, then that release of pressure.
“Careful, Jack. You’re getting hard.”
Antidote #2
Something was seriously wrong. Something out of that book had Jack climbing up the walls, enough to tear up over fifteen grand’s worth of art history. Part of me didn’t want to know, another part of me had to know.
Noise came from the living room, the kind of grunts and groans off a TV you’d turn down at night time so no one else would hear you, and I slowed my pace.
Side-on to me, Gray was standing by his laptop with his arms folded, his face giving nothing away. I frowned, but couldn’t quite bring myself to go over. “DVD?” I said quietly, resting against the doorframe, but Gray shook his head.
“Porn site.”
My heart fell. Amongst the recently posted, there was a screen shot of a painfully young-looking Jack. Gray homed in on the title for a moment, enough for me to read it from here. It was the same intro found on most sites, yet somehow very much in a class of its own.
Don’t...
...love the Cub in slap-kink with Bear.
I rested my head against the frame, just hugging my stomach, and watched as Gray clicked on the play button.
A simple master bedroom came on screen. It allowed room for a bed with a brass frame and headboard, made up with crisp white duvet covers and soft pillows. Each side had a bedside unit, and a lamp was on one, but barely added much light to the cream-coloured room.
Three men heated life up in there. Well, two men and a young boy just touching eighteen. One man sat in the corner, watching what was going on in the bed, a smile plastering his face as he stroked his hard-on. He was naked, but then so were the two people writhing on the bed.
Cutter was an easy spot. Mark Shaw had him bang to rights as a thug who loved to cut up young men: a skinhead, three times bigger than Jack, and most of the muscle looking as hard and as up for it as what went on between his thighs. He had a tattooed scalp, some political racist slur that ran down his neck, and Jack, he was the naked teen struggling underneath him.
Jack’s hair was longer, wilder, his body youthfully thinner, still deeply tanned and coated in a thin sheen of sweat. Cutter had just flipped him onto all fours, his arm snaking roughly around Jack’s neck, his free hand pulling at Jack’s hair to twist his head and get access to his mouth. He kissed hard, rutting just as rough, pausing from his kiss only to grin at the youth he held.
“Want it, boy?”
“Not tonight, luv,” said Jack, smiling, “got a headache.” A growl, Cutter shifted, tossing Jack onto his back, and Jack’s dick came into full view. My heart sank, because for all of the fight Jack offered, he wanted it. He wore nothing but this black rope necklace with a black cross sleeping on a bigger silver one. Tiny sterling-silver balls, three one side, three on the other, gave it that youthful look, a little expensive too. I didn’t look below that necklace again. Jack looked young, way too fucking young for me to focus on anything lower than that necklace.
“Smart-mouth fuck.” Cutter slapped at Jack’s cheek, but Jack only grinned a little more. It won him a harder slap. “What you got for me now, boy?”
Jack nipped at Cutter’s jaw, feeding it.
Another slap, this last one was hard enough to snap Jack’s head to the side and leave a stinging redness to his cheek. “Oooh,” groaned Cutter, “like it, don’t you, boy?” His hand crushed between Jack’s thighs, making him groan. “Yeah, like it rough alright, don’t you, Jack?”
Even his name hadn’t been cut from public viewing.
Breakdown #3
“Jack, take a deep breath. Hold it for two counts. Exhale.”
“I know how to fucking breathe.” Considering the aggression behind that, no one jolted or looked away. Most people got the fucking hint to back off well enough; looked like these bastards couldn’t take a hint. As a Master Dom, Gray had taught me breathing relaxation techniques when I was a late teen, then I’d taught it to other Doms and subs through the years. I didn’t need reminders on how to handle stress and panic from a few fucked-up quacks. Fifteen footsteps and I’d make it to the door. I’d counted that, but couldn’t remember when, Deep breath. One damaged fuel pump, two damaged fuel pumps... release.
“Excellent control, Jack,” said Halliday. I looked back at him. “I’m Philip Halliday,” he added. “I specialise in Cult psychology, in particular psychological reconditioning, but my specialist areas also incorporate all personality disorders,” he added, then nodded at Dr. Morgan.
“Jack,” said Morgan, coming over. “I’m just going to repeat these details, and part of the care plan is for Craig to repeat the same information every few days—”
Christ, back to fuckwit territory.
“Your case history supports a history of violent blackouts, also recurrence of Teenage Dissociative Identity Disorder. You’re under analysis for Section 2 or 3 of the Mental Health Act, depending on how your disorders present themselves. You have a trademark of being unaware of ‘walking’, where a secondary personality by the name of Martin makes his presence known. Yes?”
I didn’t reply. It didn’t need one.
“There’s also a recent diagnosis of absences.”
“One observed episode over the past two days,” said Craig, softly, and Halliday nodded.
“Jack, you’re under my primary care,” said Halliday as Morgan moved back. “I’m known as your Approved Mental Health Professional and all decisions relating to sectioning will come from me.” He gave a hard sigh. “Because there has been raised concern over how fragmented your memories are over what’s happened—”
From Gray?
“This information will also be repeated. For two weeks you were held captive by a group of men who used rape, BDSM-style techniques, also ketamine and opiates to try and recondition your mindset regarding your perception of OCD and Conduct Disorder. All carried out in a replica setting of your own home.”
“Work,” I snarled. I really wanted fucking work now. Not talk, not about Jack shit, not when Gray’s shit topped mine. I waited for that sad-ass look off Craig; everyone had been giving me that sad-ass look lately. But Craig kept his expression trained, which was fucking fine by me. “Jack,” he said calmly. “Anything you feel uncomfortable doing, you just let me know, okay? Yes, I’m here to ensure your meds are followed and that you’re not harm to yourself or anyone around you, but I’m also here to let you have the space you need to breathe.”
“Yeah? I get my own special corner and training mat to piss on too?” The pathway to the door looked longer and longer by the minute. Not helped as Halliday came over.
“Ease down. Craig undertook the search whilst you were sedated, but he needed to ask just to judge your reaction. I need to know my staff can touch you without your restraint. Restraint is the last call.”
“You fucking wrestled my ass to the floor, then drugged me up. That was your first call.”
“You hit members of my staff.”
“They were fucking touching Jan. Nobody fucking touches him, not without my permission.”
Halliday nodded. “And when Mr. Richards got close to you, do you remember what happened?”
I fell quiet. The smell of vomit long since washed away; Jan’s grief over being pushed away wasn’t.
“Scent association, Jack. Jan is a trigger at the moment. You were both held together and he knows the ramifications of that. It’s why he’s backed away. Now, Dr. Reis needs to examine you. Nothing will happen that you will not know about beforehand.” He fell quiet for a moment, then—“Jack.”
Breathing hard, I frowned at Halliday.
“Are you aware you were scratching at your hip whilst we were talking about Jan?”
I resisted looking down.
Jack blames her dark writing influences on living close to one of England’s finest forests. Having grown up hearing a history of kidnappings, murders, strange sightings, and sexual exploits her neck of the woods is renowned for, Jack takes that into her writing, having also learned that human coping strategies for intense situations can sometimes make the best of people have disastrously bad moments. Redeeming those flaws is Jack’s drive, and if that drive just happens to lead to sexual tension between two or more guys in a D/s relationship, Jack’s the first to let nature take its course.
EMAIL: jackl.pyke@gmail.com
Don't #1
KOBO / iTUNES / ARe / SMASHWORDS
Antidote #2
KOBO / iTUNES / ARe / SMASHWORDS
Breakdown #3
KOBO / iTUNES / ARe / SMASHWORDS
Backlash #4(Coming January 2016)
