New Adult Erotic BDSM Thriller
Date Published: 3/27/13
A New Adult erotic BDSM thriller. Set in Cleveland, Ohio and the Ukraine, DOMINO is the story of a young, shy college girl's sexual awakening through art and bondage. An American version of THE STORY OF O, with elements of classic international thrillers, DOMINO can appeal to the classic erotica reader as well as New Adult fans.
21-year-old college student and aspiring journalist Nancy Delaney’s nose for news smells a hot story idea when it comes to international playboy and artist Peter Rostovich. But as she works to get her story, she soon becomes intimately entangled with the mysterious Rostovich, who finds her irresistible. He becomes Nancy’s ticket to sexual awakening, and she soon discovers she has an appetite for bondage, too.
And there’s far more to Rostovich than just his art — he’s involved in a strange, violent criminal underworld that kidnaps Nancy and spirits her halfway around the world, where she’s held prisoner and made to serve as private Dominant-for-hire somewhere in the former Soviet Union. Will the sexual powers Rostovich helped awaken in her be Nancy’s only hope for escape?
I paused at the door before entering the gallery. The storefront had a large window hung with white curtains and posters that proclaimed “OPENING TODAY: Peter Rostovich.” The posters had old-fashioned black block letters on a white background, and gave nothing away about the art that might be inside. Typical gallery protocol, of course. The point was to get you to go inside, and preferably to spend money on the art. Between the couple of press gigs I’d already done and hearing about the openings Hannah had covered over the years I knew the ropes, at least when it came to how they handled publicity. Actually understanding the art was a different story . . . .
But this exhibit’s sensual art---if you could call it that---held my attention. As the exhibit progressed, so did the bondage levels. By the middle of the exhibit---the gallery was one long series of adjoining rooms arranged in a straight line---the thread, neckties and yarn had progressed to things like leather straps, ropes, and plastic cable ties---along with a few full-on money shots of models’ genitalia. Nothing in-your-face or super-crazy, like what you’d see on the pages of Penthouse, but plenty of exposed cocks and well-trimmed lady parts. Still, it wasn’t the money shots that troubled me as much as the plastic cable ties.
Plastic cable ties? What did something like that really have to do with sex, anyway? It seemed like an odd choice. They evoked images of Home Depot, not the bedroom. The photos featuring them were especially strange given the sharp contrast, and it seemed the artist had made a special point to use them on the darker-skinned nudes to make them all the more prominent. There was even a pile of them set out against a black velvet cloth on a whitewashed pedestal, alongside a hand-lettered sign that said “PLEASE TAKE ONE.”
I did, fingering it absently between my fingertips while I studied a black-and-white silver nitrate print of a model’s well-manicured hands superimposed on what I supposed was her naked thighs, her wrists tightly bound together with a set of thin white cable ties. The plastic straps left deep indentations in her skin, made all the more prominent by the photographer’s use of harsh lighting and stark composition. From a distance the photograph was more abstract, and reminded me almost of a Georgia O’Keefe print, but up close the sheer sensuality was unmistakable.
“Put it on,” said a raspy male voice just behind me. “Tie it tight. I can help you if you like.” Underneath the scratchy, breathy overtone the voice was a startlingly deep, with the slightest hint of an accent, but I couldn’t quite place what kind.
I spun around. Standing just to my left was a tall, slender man with an angular jaw and broad shoulders. He had a slight stubble of beard, along with reddish-brown hair and arresting gray eyes that reminded me of dry ice. He wore dark blue slacks and a lighter blue oxford shirt with the collar open, no tie. The clothes were simple, but I could tell from their cut and the quality of the fabric that they were very expensive. His shoes were sleek, black, and Europeanlooking with square toes, and he wore a silver Movado watch with multiple dials and matching silver cufflinks. Even his scent seemed luxurious---a hint of bay rum with undertones of sandalwood and jasmine.
“Here, let me,” he said, taking the cable tie from my hand. And then, even before I knew what was happening, with a few swift movements the cable tie was fastened tight around both my wrists, its slick, cold surface digging hard into my skin.
My press kit and purse crashed to the floor. The room began to spin, and dark clouds crept into my field of vision. Everything went blank.
JILL ELAINE HUGHES is a journalist and playwright as well as a New Adult fiction novelist. As a reporter, she has contributed to the Chicago Tribune, Chicago Reader, Washington Post, New Art Examiner, Cat Fancy magazine, and numerous other media outlets. Her plays have widely published and produced in New York City, Chicago, Los Angeles, Seattle, Atlanta, and many other U.S. cities, as well as in the UK and Australia. Before self-publishing New Adult fiction, she published many erotic romance novels under the pen names “Jamaica Layne” and “Jay E. Hughes” for publishers like Ellora’s Cave, Virgin Books, Decadent
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