The Dom Games

By Rachel Robinson

Ten submissive women. One billionaire dominant. Three months competing for his “affections.”
One winner takes all.
Dominic Reed, heir to an oil fortune, has spent his entire adult life perfecting his dark hobby. With little control in every other area of his manicured life, he finds his release as a dominant. With more money than he knows what to do with, he creates a TV show: The Dom Games.
This year is different than the past seasons, this year Dominic will be the star. He wants a forever submissive.
Before last month Kayla Parchet thought the word submissive only referred to dogs. Fresh out of college with a business degree that is scrap paper, she needs to get an Ivy League masters degree to pursue her dreams. When Kayla is accepted to be one of the ten, her world takes a dark turn as she competes against women who live the submissive lifestyle for enjoyment. Can she hold on to her dreams long enough to win the competition and ten million dollars? Or will she get sucked into Dominic’s twisted world?
Only a few whips and canes stand between Kayla and the future she’s always desired.
Lights, camera, sex...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rachel Robinson
• Release date: May 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310217708

Rachel Robinson

Author of International Bestseller, CRAZY GOOD, SET IN STONE, and TIME AND SPACE.

Book preview

Chapter One

Student

Kayla

Lick it, Jason moans, glancing down at me on my knees in front of him. I roll my eyes with his dick still in my mouth. That counts as a coveted form of sarcasm—a brand I’m proud of, thank you very much. Eye-roll with a cock sheathed in my mouth. Daddy would be proud.

I lean away from him, keeping my hands on his bare, white ass. A Dom would never say that, I exclaim. Standing up, I wipe a string of saliva from my chin. A Dom would command me to suck his cock and expect that I know how he likes it. You can’t say ‘lick it.’ Did you read any of the websites I told you to? Jason is my ex-boyfriend from undergrad. We had a good go of it, but we ultimately wanted different things. We broke up six months ago. He’s a seventh year senior, and I have my eyes on Harvard. It’s easy to see our dilemma.

Folding my arms across my chest, standing completely naked, I’m sure I look like a force to be reckoned with. Or not. Depending on whom you ask. I’m comfortable saying I’m pretty on a good day, but a wild, hot mess the next. I run my fingers through my long, tangled hair and dare him to speak with a mere look. I remember being stymied in high school when I realized how well a woman’s God-given wiles worked. Against a man like Jason? Mine should be deemed kryptonite.

Jason chuckles. Well, I’m trying to help you, but I’m just a normal dude, remember? Pardon me for forgetting, in the moment, I might add, that this is just practice for you and your messed up agenda. He wraps a hand around his medium-sized shaft and starts pumping up and down. Groaning, I point to the bed. He throws his other fist in the air to celebrate and flops down on my clean, white duvet.

Yes, ma’am, he whispers bashfully, poking fun at this whole fucked up situation.

Sighing, I say, I won’t be needing this today. I unfasten the smooth leather collar from my neck and toss it onto my dresser. It makes a hard clank against the fake wood. I crawl in between his legs and begin a licking descent. Just how he likes it. Because he is just a normal dude. I’m never going to be ready for The Dom Games. I sent in a video entry, never imagining I’d get through to the next round. I did. Now I’m going to be starring on the most popular reality TV show on air, to vie for the position of a submissive to a hot as hell Dominant man who will pay for everything in my life. Including my master’s degree—which I desperately need. What’s a few whips and canes between me and my potential future career, really? I need to get out of the diner. I need a career—and money. The only problem with this whole TV show plan is that I have no fucking clue how to be a submissive. Not even in the least. The other problem is that I’m supposed to.

I called Jason to see if he wanted to help me in this endeavor, but he obviously doesn’t have a Dominant bone in his scrawny, beer filled body. Especially the bone I need to be dominant. My eyes water as I take his cock into the back of my throat. I can tell he’s about to come because he’s making whining noises like a horse and jutting his skinny hips up and down. He tugs at my hair a little and that’s my cue. I lift my head, and he blows his load all over his stomach. I’ll do a lot of things, but I’m not getting paid to swallow my ex-boyfriend’s load.

He pants a few ragged breaths and has the same goofy grin on his face as he used to after we fucked in his tiny, stinky dorm room. When are you leaving for the next round? he asks, watching me sit up on my knees and twist my long brown hair into a ponytail.

I work my way to the end of the bed and stand up. I leave in two days. I gave notice at work. You’re going to stay here, right? Jason offered to live in my place while he looks for one of his own off campus. I think he’s finally graduating. Or giving up. I’m not sure which, and it really doesn’t matter to me.

He nods. I’ll pay your rent. Yes, he replies, quirking one bushy brow. He’s eyeing my body like he’s getting more than what I just gave. We both know that’s all you care about anyways. Oh, now he’s going to pout.

I shake my finger at him. This isn’t for you anymore. I might have let you play just the tip with me if you played along as my Dom, but you failed miserably. You’re no good at this. Then it hits me. How the fuck am I going to learn without any hands-on experience? Everyone has a morality line in life. For some the line is guided by their faith or their family, and for others the line is a little muddier. I fall into the second category, even though my parents and brother would literally die if they knew the truth.

Jason clears his throat. You really want someone to hit you, Kayla? I’ve seen that show. Those girls get hammered in every way, shape, or form, and to what end? Most of them end up black and blue on a Greyhound back to whatever bumfuck Midwestern town they came from. One wins. You realize the odds of you winning aren’t good, right? Not only you don’t have the ability to be a submissive, but the other women know what they’re doing.

I throw my arms out to the sides. I’m trying to learn! You’re supposed to be helping me, not pointing out my flaws. It can’t possibly be that hard. I made it into two Ivy Leagues. My entry scores are practically higher than Einstein’s, I say, swallowing hard and tossing on my tattered, furry robe. I know what I’m getting myself into. I’ve seen the show, too. I have to try. That’s what it comes down to. I have to. Even if I can come in second place, that will cover my schooling. Remember I gave them a fake name? They promised to use a different last name in the advertisements. I’ve done the math. All I want is three hundred thousand dollars for my graduate business degree. If I win? That’s bonus. I’ll be set for the rest of time, as will my family, and I’ll still have my coveted, precious career. I won’t be anyone’s sub. I’m taking the money and running the hell away. That’s the plan, and I’m sticking to it. Love. That’s a romanticized fiction created by Hallmark to make people buy shit on February fourteenth. Nothing more. Nothing less. Looking at Jason, I know I can truly say I never loved him. Not in the way that facilitates marriage and babies, and a forever-in-the-stars connection. My time with him wasn’t wasted, though. I found myself with him. Probably not because of him, but let’s give him some credit.

You saw the promos. The Dom this year wants a girl he can keep forever. Like a wife, except he beats her and makes her wear chains to bed. He rubs his flat chest. Oh, baby, fuck me in my chains. Beat me so hard that I come squirting in your face. I love it when you shackle me tightly and slip vibrating balls in my pussy. His voice is high-pitched as he tries to mimic a woman.

I scoff. "That’s not how it is. If you read anything about a Dom and sub relationship, you’d know that it stems from love and affection. Well, maybe not true love, but they care about the well-being of the subs. The Doms protect them. Plus, I doubt the new guy really wants a forever sub. That’s just the marketing ploy this year to set it apart from the others." Like Jason said, if the dude really wanted a forever sub, he’d find a wife. The network has already started promoting the season. Huge billboards can be seen in Times Square, and the online presence is huge. I can’t scroll down my social media feed without seeing an ad, or someone talking about it.

Jason leans up carefully so he doesn’t drip any slimy come on my bed and rushes to the bathroom. What if it is love? he yells over the running water of my bathroom sink.

I laugh. Like a serious, deep down belly laugh. He’s lost his damn mind. Love? I will never fall in love with a man like that. I don’t care what he looks like or what he can do with his gold-plated, candy dick. He’s everything I stand against. I want the money. I don’t care about anything else. Surely people have done worse things for money. I make a mental reminder to Google search that later.

He saunters back in wearing jeans and his T-shirt carelessly draped over one shoulder. Why not be a hooker? No one will know what you’re doing. This is broadcasted nationally. I think I saw that even some international channels are buying it. It’s true. The masses love sex. This show is the closest to porn as you can get without actual penetration. No intercourse is allowed on air. Everything else is. The women rarely have clothing on and the men have beautiful dicks that don’t even look gross on camera. I’m not sure how that’s possible. I wrinkle my nose when I think about the dick I just had in my mouth. Not a camera-ready dick and balls, that’s for sure.

That’s illegal, I say, tightening my robe sash. Clearing my throat, I cross my arms over my chest.

He leans against the doorframe in between my bathroom and bedroom. Seriously? Just because they don’t show fucking on camera, you know it happens. You’re essentially having sex for money. That’s prostitution. He’s pinpointing one of the few reasons I’m leery about this whole charade—he’s playing on my insecurities. Kayla, what good is all of that money going to do you when you either A, can’t get through an Ivy education because of it or B, you graduate and no one will hire you because you’re the whore of Babylon? Have you really thought this through?

Of course I have. Can you name one girl who was on Season one of The Dom Games? I ask. The seasons blur together after a while. The sub competitors all seem the same. It’s the men, the Doms, who have wildly different personalities from season to season. It goes to show exactly what this is all about. Blending in. No one will know me from Eve. I’ll be one of those girls. Even if I am recognized down the road, I’ll hopefully have an esteemed career. Employers stalk Facebook accounts, not cast lists. I have plans to keep my nose as clean as I can.

He rolls his eyes to the ceiling in thought. I guess not. Just the blond girl who won. He can’t even remember her name. I tell him that he’s proving my point, but he still wants to argue. Most of the winners drop off the map completely. Ten million dollars helps with a lot of things, but it also facilitates in vanishing. He doesn’t truly care about me going on the show. He’s my ex. It’s a jealousy thing, and for that reason alone, I send him packing.

Thanks for coming by. Maybe next time you’ll be of more help, I say.

Free blow jobs? Call me anytime. I promise to try harder next time. Real hard.

I roll my eyes—all the way around. For dramatic effect, of course. Right, Jason. Practice with the whip, I call out after him as he exits my apartment door. I bite my lip and look both left and right in my hallway. Luckily, my neighbors seem to be inside.

He calls back to me, Yeah, yeah, before heading down the dirty elevator to his car. I read online that the whip takes real practice. Time is a luxury I don’t have. From the acceptance to filming it was less than a month.

After he leaves, I sit down on the worn-out, denim sofa in my living room. Time for research, I say, flicking the remote to turn on my DVR. I have at least twenty episodes of The Dom Games saved to watch for research. I panicked when I got the email informing me that I was chosen. Why me? What did I do to catch his attention? I get out my pen and notepad and start taking notes. The way the submissives move is similar. Even their voices and mannerisms are carbon copies of one another. Is there some fucking rule book they study? No, Kayla, they practice this. It’s their fucking life.

It would be good if I could befriend a submissive in real life—get the insider scoop, but I know the quickest way to learn. I need to get dominated. Whipped. Caned. Beaten and orgasmed until I have a heart attack. I cringe, wincing when I see Syrus, the Dominant on this particular season, twisting a leather riding crop around his hand. Handling his specific brand of roughness would seem a bit tough. Literally and figuratively. Some of these men have deep-seated issues, and I’m pretty sure some just do it for fun because the norm doesn’t turn them on anymore. I pray to whoever is listening above, and will still accept me after I do this, that I get the latter.

Run, bitch. You’re about to get it big time, I tell the TV. She doesn’t, though. It’s like a horror movie with sexual casualties. The woman takes it with welcoming arms and legs, and welted skin. He’s rougher than any of the other men, and it makes me wonder again who my Dom will be. They don’t tell you, and the information the producers gave me was extremely vague.

Signing a non-disclosure agreement will be the first thing I do when I arrive at the studio offices on Friday. Meeting the Dom happens when filming begins. It’s the very first episode. Goosebumps prickle my skin when I think about the mass meeting with all the other women and him. His face will be masked by a shadow, while we will be undressed but for undergarments and a collar—blindfolded. I only know this because of my current binge-watching research. I haven’t quite had the stomach to put myself in that situation yet.

Will he be able to smell my fear and inexperience right away, or can I fake it enough to fight my way to the top? I pick a piece of the couch foam in between my fingers. It’s literally disintegrating underneath me. This money would mean everything to me. I can do this, even if Jason thinks I can’t—even if the entire world watches me give head and get spanked. Syrus sets a pair of nipple clamps on a skinny blonde who looks no older than nineteen. She lolls her head back like it’s intensely pleasurable. Lightly, I pinch my own nipples through my robe. Ouch! Fuck! That does not feel good. These women are crazy. With a capital C.

And I’m about to be one, mixed into this madness. Moving my robe to the side, I pinch my other nipple. Notta. Nothing, except pain.

These nipple clamps must be wired to their G-spot, I mutter as I watch the woman on my television screen writhe with pleasure, her head tossing back and forth like a horse. She’s in ecstasy. Syrus leans down and licks her neck. That looks like it feels good. I can get on board with that, I whisper to myself.

Then he fastens one more clamp that’s hanging between her tits by a thin chain down on her clit. The camera pans over the area quickly. Only a second or two tops. I have to rewind and freeze frame so I can look closer at the device and how it’s clamped. It prohibits her from squirming. If she arches her back, the chains on the clamps tug at her most sensitive areas. He tells her not to move, but you can see the delight in her eyes when he explains the new game he wants to play with her.

Pressing play, I lean forward and lick my lips in anticipation.

Are you wet for me? Syrus asks.

Yes, Sir, the woman says. He tugs the chains a little, causing tension on her nipples and clit. She screams out. Yes, Sir. I’m so wet for you, Sir, she breathes out in a fucking panic, her eyes screwed shut as a bead of sweat drops down her forehead.

The wetter you get, the more fun we’ll have, Syrus says, his voice a low, growling timbre. They rarely show the Doms’ faces on screen. It lends to the mystery and overall sex appeal. This could be any man granting such pleasure. It could be your fat husband in the lazy boy recliner chair with a Bud Light and a bag of potato chips. The intrigue helps the fantasy along. In return the ratings skyrocket. Women need fantasy to disappear from their own lives. Men need sex. The combination is wildly successful. Add in the BDSM components and there’s just enough taboo to reel in a whole new audience alight with curiosity and false disgust.

I’m on the edge of my seat and breathing heavy myself when the scene cuts to black in the over exaggerated way it does any time there’s penetration. The music cues a haunting, sexy melody, and the episode fades to a commercial break.

And now they’re fucking, I say, nodding my head. I pause my DVR and head to my room to begin packing. Judging by the episodes, I won’t need much—a bag full of courage and my beat-up laptop so I can continue my education in submission.

Chapter Two

Boss man

Dominic

They say the camera adds ten pounds. Don’t be fooled by that saying. My cock really is as large as it appears. It’s okay to stare. Dominic Reed, Owner of REED STUDIOS and Creator of The Dom Games.

My back is killing me because of this fucking chair. Go on. Show me, I command. The headquarters of my Southern California production company is expansive and beautiful. You’d think we’d have nicer chairs. Buy better chairs, I say before the thought gets away. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Is this shit made in China? I stand and toss the light piece of junk across the room. It slams into the glass wall and falls onto its side. The sight pleases me. I smile, cock my head to the side, and turn to face my minions. They can’t expect a man of my size and caliber to sit in a swiveling fucking office chair. Give me a leather wrapped bench coated in plastic. That’s where I make the fucking magic happen.

Several employees around the table widen their eyes and flinch, but they’re used to my aggressive nature by now. I’ve merely startled them. Yes, sir. Of course. I’ll do that today, my producer, Laurel, says, dimming the lights in the conference room. She hits the play button and the first contestant flashes on the floor-to-ceiling screen. Her white teeth flawless, her nose a touch crooked, and her plain brown hair mousy. She introduces herself meekly, the way any good submissive would, and tells the camera a little bit about herself.

By the time she says where she’s from I’ve already lost interest. They’re mostly the same. Some are more beautiful than others, but sometimes you find a gem. She’ll have a hint of something in her eyes to let you know she’s not at all what she seems. I need that if I’m going to select a submissive to share my life with. I’ve been through six within the past year and frankly, it’s getting old. Typically the women want more than what I’m offering, or they just use me for money and take off before emotions get mixed up. Emotions are a bitter bitch. It’s best to keep them out of everything involving sex. If you can remove them completely, you’re left with two satisfied humans who reach orgasm. What is better than a wet pussy and a hard cock? Not much, that’s what. Especially if it’s my cock. Right now my cock demands something different.

I groan and yell, Next. Tapping my fingers in front of me, I lean over the table, keeping my gaze focused on the screen. Others take notes around me, scribbling on little pads or tapping on their tablets and cell phones. "I told you I wanted different girls this year. Not the