Once a Brat

By Kim Dare

Experienced dominant Marcus has a stalker. On the plus side, the boy who follows him around every time he visits his local leather club is both gorgeous and a self-professed submissive. On the other hand the boy is also inexperienced, bratty and liable to drive Marcus insane within his constant chatter.
Bret fell head over heels with Marcus the moment he saw him. He’s willing to do whatever it takes to get Marcus’s attention and prove his own worth as a submissive. Just because he isn’t a traditional sub, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a lot to offer a dom who can handle his quirks.
When Marcus gives in and agrees to do a scene with Bret, sparks soon fly. But, will it be a case of once a brat, always a brat?

Please note - This is the second edition of this title. The cover and publisher have changed, but the text has not been altered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kim Dare
• Release date: Nov 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463089330

Kim Dare

Kim is a bisexual submissive from Wales (UK). First published in 2008, she has since released over 100 BDSM erotic romance titles ranging from short stories to full length novels. Having worked with a host of fantastic e-publishers, she moved into self publishing in 2013. While she occasionally enjoys writing other pairings, most of Kim's stories focus on Male/Male relationships. But, no matter what the pairing, from paranormal to contemporary, and from the sweet to the intense, everything she writes will always feature three things - Kink, Love and a Happy Ending.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Blurb

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Also in the Kinky Cupid Series

Also by the Author

About the Author

Chapter One

Your shadow’s here again. Jack clapped Marcus Tremayne cheerfully on the back, making no attempt to hide his amusement.

Marcus sighed and tipped back his head to glare at the ceiling several yards above him. They were standing in one of those rare but wonderful spaces where a man could wield any whip he liked without worrying about damaging the fixtures and fittings. Unfortunately, he doubted that The Spread Eagle’s owners would take kindly to one of their patrons selecting one of the decorative bullwhips that hung on the walls and using it to throttle the little brat who insisted on stalking him.

The third man in their group, McCormack, wasn’t generally the laughing type, but even his lips twitched in response to Marcus’s discomfort.

It’s not funny, Marcus muttered.

Jack chuckled. Sorry, mate, but it really is.

Marcus folded his arms and stared ferociously at the scene being set up around the whipping post opposite them. He was not going to turn around. He wasn’t even going to look over his shoulder. He’d be damned if he’d give the boy the satisfaction.

The little sod’s eyes turned into laser beams and threatened to burn through the back of his neck. Worse, they fried his self-control. He managed to hold out for all of thirty seconds.

I need a drink. Marcus strode past the whipping post and out of the play area, pointedly ignoring both Jack’s chuckles and McCormack’s mutters about starting as he meant to go on.

Marcus didn’t intend to go on. He didn’t intend to do anything with the boy—really, he didn’t. As if to prove that to himself, Marcus quickened his pace. He’d show everyone in The Spread Eagle, not to mention the increasingly rebellious little voice in the back of his mind, that he genuinely wanted to lose his stalker.

Whiskey, double, whatever brand you’ve got to hand.

The bartender gave Marcus one look and poured his drink without uttering a word. He obviously had no interest in crossing a dom who had sub trouble.

Marcus rolled his eyes and tossed his drink down.

I’ll have another.

The words were right on the tip of his tongue. At the last moment, he bit them back so hard he risked drawing blood. If he had another drink, he wouldn’t be clearheaded enough to play a scene with his stalker.

Forget whispered voices from the depths of his subconscious—suddenly the idea was in the forefront of his mind. Refusing to play with the boy was no longer an option. Somehow, over the past few weeks, what had initially been unthinkable had grown to be irresistible.

You know, you’ve got to be the worst stalker on the planet.

The bartender gave him a strange look, but Marcus didn’t falter. He had faith in the boy’s persistence if nothing else. He hadn’t managed to lose the guy in the crowd during the last few weeks—he wouldn’t have out-manoeuvred him tonight either.

Come here, sit down.

Marcus indicated the barstool next to him, and began a mental count.

One . . . two . . . three—

A man climbed up onto the stool. The bartender stopped staring at Marcus as if he might need to call a psychiatrist and went off to serve another customer.

Do you have a name? Marcus demanded, still looking straight ahead.

Yes, sir—it’s Bret Daniels.

Marcus finally turned his head. The guy was young, angelic-looking, and generally stunning. No shock there. He’d been at the edge of Marcus’s field of vision for, what? It had to be at least four or five weeks now—since the beginning of January, at least.

When I told you that I believe it’s a dom’s place to invite a sub to play, and not a sub’s place to put himself forward by approaching a dom, that wasn’t an invitation for you to stalk me, Marcus pointed out.

Really, sir? Bret opened his big blue eyes wide in apparent shock. I thought maybe it was one of your kinks, sir. I’m new to the scene, you see. I’m really not sure who’s who in the local clubs, or what everyone is into.

Marcus ignored the blatant bollocks at the start of Bret’s speech and homed in on the sole piece of interesting information. Exactly how new to the scene are you?

Well . . . Bret seemed to think about it carefully, but Marcus was already sure that meant bugger all with this particular sub. I made my New Year’s resolution on the last day of December. I came here the first day it was open in January—that was the second—and . . . His eyes narrowed with concentration. I spotted you about three minutes after that.

You’re telling me you’ve never done a scene?

Bret tilted his head to one side. If you—

Marcus held up a palm before Bret had a chance to get started. One word answer.

Sir, Bret said.

Marcus forced down a sigh. Fine—if you want to add a ‘sir’ to your response, you can. But I want it preceded by either a yes or a no, understand?

Yes, sir.

Part of Marcus wanted to cheer, just for getting them to that point. That’s better. He settled himself more comfortably on his stool. Have you ever submitted to a man?

Yes, sir.

Marcus wasn’t sure why he should feel disappointed, but he couldn’t ignore the upwelling of dissatisfaction from the pit of his stomach merely because it didn’t make any sense.

Bret raised a hand, like a schoolchild looking for permission to speak.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. Apparently that was authorisation enough.

You, sir.

Marcus frowned. What?

Yes, sir. Bret paused for a moment. You, sir, he repeated.

The frown deepened as Marcus’s confusion grew. Me, sir, what?

Bret nibbled at his bottom lip, as if suddenly at a loss for words.

Marcus mentally cursed. You can expand on your answer, but only this once—and keep it brief.

I’ve submitted to you, sir.

What? Marcus knew he’d have remembered that. Bret wasn’t the kind of sub a man could forget.

I waited for you to talk to me first. Bret tilted his head to one side. That counts, doesn’t it?

"You’ve never submitted to another man?" Marcus specified.

Bret smiled and absentmindedly pushed a lock of golden-blond hair off his forehead. No, sir.

You’ve never knelt at another man’s feet, worn his collar, taken a spanking?

No, sir.

Marcus frowned and purposely ignored the sense of satisfaction that welled up inside him. Turning the possibilities over in his head, he concentrated on working out if there was some angle or other he’d missed along the way. What about submitting to a woman?

Gay, sir, Bret said.

And how old are you?

Twenty, sir.

Marcus scrutinised the submissive’s face. It was a feasible answer, but it was also provided by a slippery little bugger who could probably be counted on to manipulate the truth at the slightest opportunity. Give me some ID.

Certainly, sir. Bret hopped off his stool, took his wallet out of his back pocket, and handed Marcus a student ID card, and a driver’s licence for good measure.

Marcus compared each photo with the man sitting before him. Everything matched. Bret Daniels. Twenty years old. Possibly the only guy on the planet who could make a passport-style photo look hot. He was officially legal and eligible to play. Marcus couldn’t have felt happier checking the numbers on a winning lottery ticket.

You’re a student?

Yes, sir.

Marcus handed the IDs back.

History, sir, Bret said, as he pushed his wallet into his pocket and hopped back up onto the stool.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. What?

Degree, sir.

"Oh,