This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, merchandise, companies, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters depicted in sexual situations are 18 years of age or older.
Prologue
Martha's Vineyard, June, 2059
An elderly Asian woman, her grey flecked hair gathered up in a bun, sat firmly ensconced in her favorite white Adirondack chair. She was nestled in a small grassy area of her seaside estate, shaded from the midday sun by the leaves of a flaming red Japanese maple, its delicate leaves wavering in the summer breeze. Her thoughts were clear this day as she looked ahead through watery eyes, to the whitecaps dotting the rolling seas beyond, as she reflected on a momentous series of events, forty years before, that upset her delicately balanced life, and the lives of those around her.
Keiko Muramoto bowed her head with respect when she thought of Dax Hanlon, and that tumultuous relationship with him that was the best period of her life. She was in her thirties, and flexing her muscle as a nascent Domme. During the day, she was working as a professional businesswoman, but at night she was a regular at a number of BDSM clubs in and around New York City. Her beauty gave her the pick of available men, but most were adjudged inadequate in one way or another. Her natural tendency in a relationship was to exercise control (as a means of masking her own insecurities) and she quickly learned that granting small favors would bring about nearly blind obedience -- obedience that she craved and that fed an insatiable need.
The loss of her father, Koji, during that period in her life affected the young Japanese-American woman in many ways. She had a close relationship with him, and his outsized personality allowed her to stay hidden in the background when it came to family matters. With his passing, all financial matters were thrust upon her, and one of her first opportunities to step into his shoes came about when the apartment building she and her mother were living in was under consideration for sale and redevelopment as a strip shopping center. The developer insisted that the existing owner buy out all of the apartment leases so that the building could be razed. The owner of her building was Dax Hanlon.
Dax was in his forties, but still acted in many ways as if he was an adolescent. He came from a monied family, and his acumen with commercial real estate allowed him to parlay his inheritance into an impressive real estate empire. He was self-confident, sometimes crossing the line to arrogance, and his good looks and boyish charm were often used to compensate for his many shortcomings. He personally took on the task of convincing Keiko to sell back the lease on the apartment that had been in her family for almost thirty years, and was confident that paying a substantial premium over the lease's value would persuade her to sell.
He, of course, was dead wrong. The apartment had a great deal of sentimental value to Keiko and her mother Mariko, and even more so since Koji Muramoto's passing. Dax tried everything he knew to convince Keiko, but nothing he did was effective. In the end, Dax relented and let Keiko and Mariko stay in their apartment, and in the process fell completely and hopelessly in love with Keiko.
But Keiko was not what she appeared to be on the surface, which was polite, deferential, and quiet. She had developed a distinct taste for domination. It was her budding relationship with Dax that changed everything for both of them.
Chapter Two
Manhattan and Queens, Present Day
It was a dark grey sky, the billowing clouds foreshadowing an early morning storm. Midtown Manhattan was already a beehive of activity, subway commuters pouring out of the ground like a swarm of ants. Dax Hanlon peered out the floor to ceiling windows in his penthouse apartment, watching the gathering clouds and enjoying his usual breakfast served by his chef and housekeeper Madeline. On the surface, all appeared normal, but beneath the veneer of civility lurked an irresistible compulsion that was anything but that.
The real estate magnate still had to conduct his daily business, and reached down into his briefcase to retrieve the day's agenda that his assistant Mel had prepared the evening before. As he processed the information on the printed page his mind wandered to a night the previous week where all of his assumptions about what he wanted in life were proved false. The taste of money and superficially beautiful women no longer had the allure that once motivated him. His thoughts were now focused on Keiko Muramoto, a Japanese woman of exceptional beauty who had cultivated and nurtured his submissive fantasies.
He dressed for work and finished the knot on his tie with the requisite flourish and left his apartment with an air of confidence, but now accompanied by a persistent, unquenchable need. His longtime friend and driver Mason greeted him in the underground garage, opening the back passenger door of a late model Bentley. Mel wasn't in her customary spot in the backseat, disappointing Dax because he enjoyed the early morning briefings amid the backdrop of her stunning beauty. The ride to his office felt like it took twice as long without her presence and companionship.
* * *
A high speed elevator whisked Dax up to the 48
th
floor of his Midtown metal and glass high rise. The doors opened to a gleaming white marble lobby with a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. A tall brunette, his assistant Mel, was waiting for him with a stack of papers in hand. She was impeccably dressed in a tailored tweed jacket, matching skirt, low cut top and heels.
"Morning Dax," she said with a forced smile, handing him an updated copy of his daily appointment calendar.
Dax and Mel went back many years, to when Mel was just a doe-eyed intern. Dax knew her well enough to sense that something was up.
"You don't seem yourself today, Mel," he observed dryly, folding the agenda and tucking it in his back pants pocket without looking at it.
"I'll ... I'll be OK," she said between sniffles.
He took a monogrammed handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dabbed her eyes, then grabbed her by the arm and led her into a nearby empty conference room. The lights automatically flickered on when they entered. "C'mon. We share everything. Give it up," he urged. He braced himself for the dam to break.
She looked at him expectantly, knowing she was going to be reprimanded. "I'm back together with Hank," she informed him, the words sounding foreign, even to her.
As expected, Dax exploded. "What? That
motherfucker
..." His voice reverberated off the glass walls of the conference room, making the receptionist take notice of the muffled conversation.
Hank Rossetti was twenty years Mel's senior ... and married. He and Mel had an affair years ago, which Hank broke off right before he was supposed to ask his wife for a divorce. Dax was all too familiar with all of the sordid details of their affair and didn't care for his occasional business associate one bit. This latest revelation was the last straw.
Dax forced himself to contain his growing anger and speak in a normal voice. "So what happened?"
"I saw him ... " Mel started to cry in earnest. Dax wrapped his arms around her to comfort her, the young brunette's voluptuous body heaving with each sob.
"Tell me baby girl."
"I saw him with another woman." Of course that woman wasn't his wife.
Dax was unable to contain his rage. "I'd like to ..."
Mel looked up at Dax with trepidation, knowing she'd triggered his protective instincts, her mascara now starting to run freely down her cheeks. "No ... no ... please don't talk to him. I'll handle it."
"Yeah ... sure ... you handle it like the last time you handled it," sarcasm dripping from his voice. The last time Mel "handled it" she was a wreck for three months. Dax wasn't going to let that happen again.
* * *
Dax had a ten minute break between scheduled calls, and decided to take the opportunity to call his old business partner. He willed himself to be calm for the conversation.
"Hank, we need to meet. It's personal."
"Personal?"
"Yeah, just meet me at Winthrop's at seven, OK?
"Uhh ... sure," Hank replied, befuddled by the mystery in the phone call.
Winthrop's was an old school watering hole with dark paneling and polished brass railings. It was a Thursday night, and the after work crowd was three deep at the bar. Fortunately Dax was a good friend of the bar's owner, and a choice booth in the back had a "Reserved" sign on it for him. Hank was already standing at the bar holding a scotch in his hand and waved and smiled when he saw Dax. Dax waved back, but with a deadpan face, and shook his hand as the two met. Dax led him to the back, weaving through the noisy twenty-something crowd, to the relative quiet of the booth. They took seats on opposite sides of the table.
"What's up?" asked Hank, as he took another sip of his scotch. He of course had no idea why Dax called for the meeting.
Dax never really liked Hank and decided to dispense with the small talk and get right to the point. "I understand you and Mel are back together."
"No time for drinks and pleasantries, huh?" Hank sat up straight and folded his arms in front of him, assuming a defensive posture for what he was sure was going to be an unpleasant conversation. He knew Dax was protective of Mel, and in this case for good reason.
"Not for you." His eyes burned like the sun.
Hank's brow furrowed. His voice assumed a serious tone, the din of the bar fading to background noise. "So it's going to be that way, huh?"
"I think so." Dax rarely threatened anyone, but he made this one exception.
Hank spread his arms open, indicating he had no beef with Dax. "Look buddy, Mel's a big girl. She can take care of herself."
Dax leaned forward to emphasize the importance of what he was going to say. "That may be, but it's not going to stop me from telling this to your face. You've hurt her once and I'm not going to let you hurt her again."
The smaller man got up and pointed at Dax. "Who are you, her Lord Protector?"
Dax rose up off the bench and stood up next to Hank, his bulky frame now towering over the more diminutive man. "Yeah, I guess I am."
Hank tilted his head up, his face a bright crimson. "Fuck off. Mind your own business."
Dax grabbed him by the shirt collar, pulling him up to his eye level. Hank's feet were barely touching the ground. "You asshole.
Don't fuck with my girl, got it?"
he roared.
