Title: Restraint
Author: Erica Chilson
Series: Mistress & Master of Restraint #1
Genre: Erotica, BDSM
Release Date: February 14, 2015
Summary:I am Katya Waters.
A survivor of violence.
I fought death and won.
So why do I feel so dead inside?
Katya Waters is a small-town girl, mentally unprepared to deal with her deep, dark past. While walking in her sanctuary, her innocence was torn from her in the most brutal fashion- run to the ground as if she were an animal by a pack of vicious Hunters. After they wounded her spirit, they left her for dead.
How does one overcome a debilitating, tragic event? By strength, perseverance, and an unrelenting will to survive.
Out of desire, Katya no longer wanted to be the hunted. She hungered to be the hunter.
Finally taking her life into her own hands, Katya reached for what she’d earned, for the respect every human being so rightfully deserves.
By moving to a new city for the job of her dreams, Katya unwittingly brought her past nightmares to life, slowly drawing the repressed, dark memories into the light. With a deep desire to explore her true nature, Katya entered the BDSM Club, Restraint; never realizing there would be no escape from her secrets within the club’s walls. Katya’s entire existence turned into a living, breathing, never-ending therapy session from Hell.
The Boss pulled Katya into a thrilling game of Kat & Mouse as a way to force Katya to accept the truth of her past. Follow Katya’s heartbreaking journey as she connected the mystery of her past with her thrilling present.
… As long as I have a tomorrow, I can endure today.
My feet pound the ground with such force it reverberates up my legs and trails up my spine. The sharp snap of twigs breaking under the impact echoes in my ears, along with the deafening tattoo of my panicked heart. My terror-filled breath saws out my lips, exhale clouding the air across my face as I run–
Run for my life.
A looming pine tree is a taunting, solid barrier, directly in my path of escape. Precious life-saving seconds are lost as I veer around the tree, or else risk smacking headlong into it. Upheaved from the ground, gnarled roots catch my toes and upend my balance. I catch my fall with outstretched palms upon the pine-needle-laden ground, bruising and tearing my flesh. With a forceful lunge, I propel myself forward to gain momentum.
Droplets of blood nourish the soil from deep cuts welling on my hands. Branches slash my cheeks and thorny vines snag my skin and clothing, almost as if they are offering aid to my hunters. My mind is clear of all thought, except for the inborn flight reflex of someone desperate to survive.
Self-preservation forces my muscles to maintain their wild run, even as my body protests the movement with bloody and bruised, burning limbs. My hands instinctively rise and fall, protecting me from the brutal violence of nature.
Four hunters stalk me as if I were a wounded animal– their prey. They gain on me steadily, even if their visages are blurry to my tear-stung eyes. With rapid movements too quick for me to register, they converge, charging me from different directions– herding me, running me to ground as a pack.
Territorial rage explodes through the simmering fear in my blood. As their target, not only am I being assaulted, my sanctuary is being violated right alongside me. I’ve hiked this wooded lakeside trail since I was a child. When I was small, I’d venture out farther, creating a larger boundary of my own backyard. As an adult, the lake and the wooded trail surrounding it, are my home. We’re being invaded, and I’m powerless to stop it.
I know every dip, curve, and incline of the landscape. Up until just moments ago, this was where I went to clear my mind and seek solitude. Childlike dreams of the future were forged here, right alongside the adult decision of what my college major would be. My bubble of safety, the trust I have in my land to protect me, and the courage I have to protect it in return, bursts on the whims of ruthless men.
Now, I run for my life, hoping my lifelong knowledge of the landscape will pull me through to the other side– safety.
In tune, somehow connected as pack animals, they hunt in perfect synchronization: breathing in harmony, legs moving with the same graceful fluidity, intuitively knowing where to head me off to push me towards their partners and propel me to their destination.
If it weren’t me versus them, I may have found their symmetry breathtakingly beautiful.
I speed up on the descent down a steep ravine, drawing me closer to the lake and its imminent comfort. My sneakers skid on soft dirt, pebbles rolling me, making it nearly impossible to stay upright. I catch my fall several times by sightlessly grabbing for roots and branches. Thorns jab into my flesh with my hold, only to tear my skin as I pull away. I acknowledge no pain from my wounded palms as they rapidly beat with the pounding of my heart. Falling backwards, head hitting a rock with a great, jarring force, I fear I’ll be rendered unconscious, unable to protect myself. Inertia has other plans for me, causing me to slide down the embankment on my rear while I regain my senses. By the time I reach the bottom, my shorts are shredded by the earth and damp from the blood seeping from the resulting wounds.
Rolling to a stop, I crawl to all fours. In shock, I barely wince as the jagged edges of river rock and the grit of ballast from the long-ago railroad bed embed into my knees and palms. I try to right myself on stable ground, but my energy is waning. Agile footfalls catch my notice, driving fear and adrenaline to flood my system, fortifying my survival instincts. With a deep, pain-filled keen, I propel myself to my feet, and take off towards safety.
They allow me no rest as they close in from all sides, like the shadow of darkness creeping across the land every sunset– sure and swift, and unavoidable. They try to pull me off course by rerouting me with their movements. Driving me like an animal, they prove their adept hunting skills by forcing me off the hiking trail. Separating me from any other hikers we may encounter, from the safety of the known, I’m now parallel to the path, going away from it at an abrupt angle. The one in charge is wordlessly maneuvering me to his destination, and I am powerless to stop it.
The primal, animalistic side of my brain already recognizes its capture. I can see it playing out in my mind’s eye: the four hunters felling my body, tearing into me like lions on a fresh kill, stripping my dignity away along with the last vestiges of my cherished innocence. My system floods with adrenaline. A vicious quaking rocks my entire body, slowing my pace. I shiver in the cold of impending doom, even as my body erupts with a feverish sweat.
My logical brain, the part of me that holds self-preservation above all else, overpowers my fears. From my depths, I scream, “I will not give up! Never surrender!” I will fight to my very death just so I can wear my pride as a badge of honor in the afterlife. Furiously, my mind spins escape routes and defense plans as I am led, pushed, and driven by the unit.
My only salvation is the lake. If I can get to the water, I can swim to safety. Like the trail, I know everything about the lake: the inlets, the currents, and the boat-tied docks. As a balm to my soul, I can feel the caress of its chilled water welcoming me into its promise of safety and comfort. The tree canopy overhead casts rays of light for my path. The crystalline waters glisten invitingly, beckoning me towards its secure embrace.
Half in the now, half inside my fantasy of escape, I’m taken aback when the leader comes into sharp focus just off to my right. I stumble when I see the fierce expression on his face, the look of triumph as he gains on his prize.
“It won’t be long, boys,” his smug voice projects, filling the woods with his victory. The shrill cadence of his voice sounds like broken glass to my sensitive ears.
In a futile dance of survival, I go left, and then right. Left, and then right, panting wildly as I look for a hole in their defenses. My injured foot slips on a patch of moss, situating the leader within easy reach of my bleeding arms. In a pitiful, last ditch effort, I veer to the left, away from his grasp, only to miscalculate the trajectory of the other hunters.
Arms enclose me from the side. Startled, yet not surprised by the inevitable, I close my eyes in defeat. “I’m so sorry,” a young, somber voice whispers softly against my hair.
Erica Chilson does not write in the 3rd person, wanting her readers to be her characters. Therefore, writing a bio about herself, is uncomfortable in the extreme.
Born, raised, and here to stay, the Wicked Writer is a stump-jumper, a ridge-runner. Hailing from North Central Pennsylvania, directly on the New York State border; she loves the changes in seasons, the humid air, all the mountainous forest, and the gloomy atmosphere.
Introverted, but not socially awkward, Erica prides herself on thinking first and filtering her speech. There are days she doesn’t speak at all. If it wasn’t for the fact that she lives with her parents, giving her a sense of reality, she would be a hermit, where the delivery man finds her months after expiration.
Reading was an escape, a way to leave a not-so pleasant reality behind. Reading lent Erica the courage she gathered from the characters between the pages to long for a different life. Writing was an instrument of change, evolving Erica into the woman she is today- a better, more mature, more at peace thinker.
Erica has a wicked mind, one she pours out into her creations. Her filter doesn’t allow all of it to erupt, much to her relief. Sarcastic, with a very dark, perverse sense of humor, Erica puts a bit of herself into every character she writes.
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