Bound by Consent

From Scotland to London, Amsterdam, and New York, two women struggle to build an enduring relationship in the face of adversity.

Danger haunts fashion photographer, Bryana Austin, at every turn. Her ex is seeking revenge and will do anything to achieve her aim. Bryana needs a safe haven. Cassie offers her healing and protection but is the price too high?
Cassie Stuart is a Mistress in every sense of the word. Her Scottish castle boasts its own fully equipped dungeon. She is searching for the perfect submissive to make her life complete but she finds love instead. Will it be enough?
A chance meeting offers both Bryana and Cassie hope for the future if they can overcome the obstacles of the present.


Excerpt:

“You expect me to get up on that?”

I eyed the horse and wrinkled my nose with distaste at the unpleasant odor emanating from the stained gray blanket covering its back before switching my gaze back to the butch dyke who’d ridden to my rescue. She had appeared out of the mist, mounted on an enormous, dark brown beast with evil eyes, with the other horse on a leading rein behind.

The woman, who’d introduced herself as Cassie Stuart, sat astride her mount with the easy confidence of someone who shared a close affinity with horses. With cropped dark hair and androgynous clothing, I had almost mistaken her for a man. Only the soft lilt of her voice betrayed her sex.

“It’s your choice, Ms. Austin.” Cassie glanced down to my feet then shrugged. “You either ride Tavish or face a five-mile walk to Auchtercairn.”

Some choice.

My day had started badly and then rapidly nose dived into a total disaster. Leaving me at a loss to understand how I’d ended up in this predicament. One minute I was driving along a discernible mountain road in early evening sunshine and the next... Nothing. Both the view and the road had suddenly disappeared, obscured by a blanket of white mist. I hit the brakes; expecting the car to slow and eventually stop but nothing of the sort happened. Instead Jazzy skidded off the road, gathering speed until it felt like she was flying, before eventually coming to a rest buried up to her axles in a sticky gooey mess of water and mud. I had no idea what damage had been done or how I was going to get her out and back on the road.

I shivered as the mist swirled around us. Although barely evening and still daylight, it might easily have been the middle of the night for all I could see. I momentarily regretted abandoning my shoes to the peat bog, but Jimmy Choo’s were never designed for a five-mile hike in rough terrain and neither were stocking-clad feet. If I wanted the promised hot bath, some food, and a bed for the night, I’d have to grit my teeth and do it. I nodded agreement and edged closer to the fetid beast, my sense of unreality growing with every step.

“Let me help you up, Bryana.” Before I had the opportunity to protest that I’d changed my mind, Cassie freed her feet from the stirrups and sprang from her horse in one graceful movement. Then, in the blink of an eye, she had manipulated me into a position where, with no apparent effort, she hoisted me onto the horse.

Without a saddle or stirrups, I was forced to wrap my legs around Tavish and hang onto his long, silky mane as Cassie led the way along the narrow mountain track. But worse was to come when the friction of the rough horse blanket against my crotch began to drive me toward a climax.

God! What is the matter with me?

Sex should be the last thing on my mind right now; yet the memory of Cassie’s strong hands gliding up my thighs, as she eased the pencil skirt up to enable me to sit astride Tavish, made me crave the satisfaction of a good hard fuck even more than the hot bath.

I prayed for a speedy end to this torment and forced myself to think of anything other than sex in the struggle to hang on to my sanity.

Whatever possessed me to accept a commission so far from civilization?
Why didn’t I insist that we do the photo shoot for Esmée’s new collection of designer tartan in my London studio rather than on some wild headland in the north of Scotland?

And, more importantly, why didn’t I have the sense to stay put at the hotel until morning, like the rest of the crew, instead of driving off in a rage when I discovered Esmée fucking the brains out of that stuck-up bitch Marisa in our hotel bedroom?

God! I must have been blind not to see what was happening right under my nose. Now I know why Esmée always insisted on Marisa as her model of choice. Though what she saw in that haughty stick insect, I couldn’t fathom and quite frankly didn’t care; they were welcome to each other.

What I did care about was Jazzy, my much loved Jaguar XJS convertible, now stuck in a peat bog, leaving me perched on a disgusting smelly animal en route to some God-forsaken hovel.