Reese Gabriel: Own Me Wholly!

Caroline has a secret. Her submissive heart is owned by a married man. Thomas’ wife and teenage daughters see her only as a devoted employee, but when all eyes are turned away she kneels for him and she obeys. When her beloved Daddy and Master Thomas has a massive heart attack that puts him a coma, however, Caroline goes into a tail spin. She screams with need and grief she dare not show.

Enter Brian, Thomas’ son from a previous marriage. He tells Caroline at the hospital one night that he knows the truth. She warns him off, but something draws her, like a moth to a flame. The son is everything the father is not-rugged, domineering, almost brutal. Caroline cannot resist. Helpless, guilt-stricken she is taken over and the more demanding that Brian becomes, the more she desires.

Her heart hangs in the balance. What are Brian's intentions? Is he only after revenge on the father who abandoned him, will he use up Caroline and throw her away like a broken toy or does he truly love her as no other? Is the one she's sought … a Master for life who won't have to share her with another? To find out they must survive the explosions between them and face a final hurdle … the final vestige of Caroline's pride which Brian intends to break and set her free.

They can't see me cry…

For my sleeping Prince Charming, Master, lover, mentor, friend, George Burns to my Gracie, Daddy to my baby girl. It can't be real-how could that lion's heart be giving way? A ruptured aorta, standing at the kitchen counter, mixing juice one minute, collapsed to the tile the next, his life hanging in the balance, a list of complications so bad, and yet I'd give anything to get that far along, to be talking about tomorrow, about a wheel chair and therapy and cognitive re-orientation.

Those hands … all male, powerful enough to be gentle. Let me show you how that looks , he told me once. Hands with fifty five years of experience, pain and love, hands that have awakened, healed and aroused me, enthralled me … set me free.

He's not mine. I have to tell myself that … he has a wife. I'm an employee, a friend if I don't stretch it too far.

This man is not mine … but I'm his .

Has it been just a day since the heart attack?

Just a year since he came into my life?

I have to have a cigarette. I've been avoiding them-because I know I will break down, but the stress load is too much. Monica is here and I have so many mixed emotions about this. Thomas adores her, he's given everything and she probably can't help it but she's been a terrible burden to him, a cause very possibly of his heart exploding. She's a needy, busy little blonde, the trophy wife he calls her.

She has only one of the three things he must have in a woman. Big tits. The other two, a hairy pussy and a penchant for tobacco are my department.

It's a second marriage for both of them. Monica's first husband died of cancer, when her two girls were little, so I feel extra bad for her. She's not really reacting to things because of the shock but there's a role for her here at least, when she comes around.

Me, I'm just all consumed about the cigarette. Thomas went ga ga for them. It got to be a joke at the tidy little office we kept for two, me his ever-faithful assistant and go-to girl. Bend over girl more like; because all I had to do was light up in front of him and I was going to end up bent over something. If I happened to be distracting him-like that was my fault-I'd get a few healthy swats. Otherwise, I would get his hard, wet cock, fed between my sex lips.

Yes, I said wet cock. Thomas had this thing he did, where he would ooze pre come, more than any man I have ever known. The first time I thought he had already ejaculated.

I can't describe that feeling, a hot, turgid shaft in my hand, almost purple with pulsing blood … and covered in tantalizing, man-lubrication.

It meant one thing to me. That my Daddy owned me completely and naturally, being able all on his own to make the liquid he needed to maneuver himself inside my tight asshole.

Oh … jeezus, I need the cigarette. And a hard fucking. I need Daddy to look me in the eye, center me, make me squirm like the sweet little baby girl slut he loved to see me as.

"I'll get Kasey or Erin,” I say to Monica, sniffling into a handkerchief, golden hair disheveled over her padded shoulders.

I must have said it like an apology because she looks at me with bloodshot eyes. “It's all right, Caroline, stay, I know he was close to you."

"You can only have two visitors in ICU,” I say quickly. “One of the girls should be here."

"Thank you,” she releases me with a smile.

I find Kasey first. Sixteen years old, auburn eyes and chestnut hair. She is Thomas all over; you'd swear there was a biological link. She has some of the same expressions, the twinkle in the eye. She is passionately devoted about everything, she's a gung ho first child, clear proof what having a good and devoted daddy in your corner can mean for a little girl. She was eight years old when Monica and Thomas married. He made it clear to her up front, and to five-year-old Erin, too, that he would not try and replace their father; that he only ever wanted to help them treasure his memory.

To that end he helped them each make up a scrapbook of favorite photos and mementos of Craig, their biological father. Those are some lucky girls, let me tell you, to have a man step in like that.

I would have given my real one up to have that kind of step dad, trust me.

"What's the deal?” Kasey tucks her straight hair behind her ears. She is frustrated as hell that she can't grow larger breasts and she is having a real problem with one of her girl friends who is bisexual and is starting to have feelings for her.

I know this through Thomas. I know all kinds of things through Thomas I'm not supposed to. If only this were France where the mistress could stand proudly beside the widow at the funerals of presidents and dignitaries.

Fuck. I said funeral. Will someone shut me up, please?

Say goodnight, Gracie.

Goodnight Gracie.

I don't know how that started, except he thought I was just like Gracie Allen, the cute as a button little straight woman who ran poor George Burns ragged.

"Your mom needs a little TLC,” I tell her.

Kasey nods. She's all about helping. That's like Thomas, too. “I'm on it."

Erin is different. Erin is a little version of Monica. Since Thomas started living half time down here a year and a half ago to start Montage Property Development, he has gotten a dozen calls a day, half from Monica and half from Erin. Monica's crises concern their business ventures in Atlanta, everything from paint schemes for their corporate office to maintaining the perpetually disorganized books.

Erin calls about nail polish, boyfriends, the latest pop groups and who is in or out of her all important inner retinue. I get such a kick out of hearing this man, so much on his plate down here, deal with equal and total respect for both of them. Sometimes he'll have me hop on the Net to check and see who the Blog Boys are or why Hillary Duff is soooo five minutes ago compared to her little sister.

To fit the part, Erin has the lighter hair and it's curlier, too. Kasey favors her father, who looked a little like Thomas. Presumably Monica has a type of man; though Thomas sometimes jokes the main thing that attracted her to him was the fact that he was dating her sister Julie before he went out with her.

Erin's down in the waiting room, text messaging. I remind her about not using a cell phone in the hospital.

"I'm not calling anyone."

"You're using the phone, though."