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  Sackmaster

  Ann Jacobs

  Book 1 in the Necessary Roughness series.

  All-pro defensive end Jimmy Bronson, new to the Savannah Rebels, moved to escape memories of a disastrous marriage. A sexual Dominant who’s in no hurry to jump into another relationship, he falls in lust with an arresting female face in a magazine.

  Julie Silver, the object of his obsession, happens to live in his condo building. Their connection is instantaneous and the sex is hot and wild. Quickly, they discover they share a fetish, which they decide to play out at Rebels’ Roost, the team’s exclusive BDSM club.

  The perfect Master and slave ’til death do they part? Julie is not so sure. She is older than Jimmy and knows that lust comes easily when you’re young, but love requires time and compromise. Jimmy is very sure, though. Julie is perfect for him. He’s already bought her collar and a length of diamond-studded chain to lace through the rings that adorn her clit and nipples. A committed player—in sex games and life—always gets just what he wants.

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  Sackmaster

  ISBN 9781419926969

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Sackmaster Copyright © 2010 Ann Jacobs

  Edited by Pamela Campbell

  Cover art by Syneca

  Electronic book publication November 2010

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Sackmaster

  Ann Jacobs

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Acura: Honda Motor Company, Ltd.

  Botox: Allergan, Inc.

  Escalade: General Motors, LLC

  Fathead: Fathead, LLC

  Jacuzzi: Jacuzzi, Inc.

  Lycra: Invista North America S.A.R.I.

  Navigator: Ford Motor Corporation

  Perrier: Nestlé Waters

  Pirates’ House: Trustees Garden Development LLC

  Porsche: Dr. Ing. h.c.F. Porsche AG

  Ram: Chrysler LLC

  River Street Sweets: PJT Inc.

  Sports Illustrated: Time, Inc.

  Super Bowl: National Football League

  Wikipedia: Wikimedia Foundation, Inc.

  Prologue

  Savannah, Georgia

  March 1

  For the first time in ages, Julie Silver felt she’d done something more valuable for her fellow man than just smiling and looking good for the camera. She’d just raised more than ten thousand dollars by sitting onstage in a barber chair and letting the owner of an upscale Savannah salon cut off her long black hair and shave her head to benefit cancer research.

  Though she’d decided to do it in memory of a dear friend who’d died of breast cancer, it hadn’t been that much of a sacrifice since she had a modeling assignment next week that required her to have a shaved head. Back home now, she unwrapped the pink silk turban from around her head and ran her hands over her smooth scalp.

  It felt good. Almost like another erogenous zone that she’d kept free of hair ever since discovering, when she was in high school, how good that smooth pussy felt. With eager fingers she explored her satiny scalp, and as she did she felt moisture drip from her tightening cunt. Her nipples tightened when she caressed the sensitive hollow just above the back of her neck, imagining it was a lover enjoying her new nakedness.

  Breathing hard, Julie stripped and stood in the shower, loving the feel of warm water dripping over her body, now totally hairless except for her eyebrows and lashes since she’d had most of her body hair permanently removed years ago—a present from her ex who’d tried almost everything to convince himself that she was who he wanted in his bed. He hadn’t succeeded, but she had to admit he’d tried hard. Hard enough that it had stung when he finally gave up and left her three years ago for a fresh-faced boy toy he’d told her matter-of-factly was better at sucking cock than she’d ever been.

  Now Julie only had to please herself. And it pleased her to be totally naked and to revel in autoerotic sensations she’d only dreamed about. Stepping out of the shower, she toweled herself dry. Then she selected a large glass dildo, filled it with warm water and proceeded to use it on her clit and pussy as she rubbed her bare scalp with her other hand. Soon she shuddered with the force of a climax she’d attained all by herself. Loving herself.

  * * * * *

  The next day she looked in the mirror and frowned. Her hair grew too damn fast. A dark shadow marked her hairline, and when she ran a hand over her head it didn’t feel smooth anymore. This wouldn’t do. Skillfully, for she’d shaved the ex’s head pretty regularly when he was in his leatherman phase, she lathered up her scalp and shaved it smooth again. And she went ahead and swiped the razor over her eyebrows, knowing they’d have to go anyhow for the photo shoot.

  She liked the feeling of smoothness, total nakedness. Although she always put on makeup and donned a wig to go to the gym and out shopping, she went bare in her Savannah condo, every so often rubbing her hand over the smooth surface of her scalp.

  * * * * *

  When she got to New York the day before the photo shoot, she submitted to a professional waxing that left her feeling even smoother than she did with a fresh shave. Not that she had enough growth to make the waxing necessary, strictly speaking. Julie knew it was kinky but didn’t care. She loved the sensation of total nakedness, even now that the photo shoot was finished and she was back home in Savannah.

  She looked at herself in the mirror, liked knowing she was smooth from head to toe. Skimming her palm over her scalp, she felt a little prickly growth and picked up a razor to whisk it away.

  But she looked assessingly at her image in the mirror. What would a lover think?

  She didn’t have one, hadn’t since her marriage had crashed and burned. Not that she wasn’t interested. The right opportunity hadn’t arisen. She didn’t want just any hard cock. She wanted a loving brain and dominant spirit to go with it, and those seemed hard to come by, particularly in tandem.

  She imagined her dream lover’s calloused hands caressing her bare scalp while she sucked his hard, hot cock and licked the velvety-smooth lubrication from his slit. He’d pull out when he was ready and come on her head, massaging the slick liquid into her scalp until it felt like wet silk.

  Dream on, Julie. Most likely your fantasy lover would take off faster than a jet plane the minute you took off your wig. Shaking her head, she set down the razor and resolved to grow out her crowning glory.

  Chapter One

  One year later

  Savannah Rebels�
�� spring minicamp

  Tackling sled one, Bronson nothing.

  Sweat damn near blinded him, or was it the sodden air turning to water when it hit his skin? Jimmy Bronson paused in the shade of a moss-draped oak at the edge of the practice field, wondering momentarily why the fuck he’d asked to be traded by his former team.

  Never mind that he’d been ready to go anywhere to get as far away as possible from Chicago and the memories he’d always associate with the place.

  He could only imagine how miserable training camp would be down South in July and August. Today’s nearly ninety degree weather was killing him. Come summer, he’d probably remember the weather now as comfortable by comparison. But it sure as hell wasn’t comfortable now, probably because a week ago he’d been experiencing the crisp, cool dregs of winter at his parents’ Montana ranch.

  That was it. The contrast. Mopping his brow with the back of his hand, Jimmy decided he’d better find an apartment and move on down here now, get used to being perpetually steamed like a lobster while getting into playing shape. Not going home would provide an added benefit of several thousand miles more distance between him and the things that triggered his memories of Belinda.

  Forcibly he banished the two-timing slut from his mind.

  “You okay?”

  Jimmy forced a grin when head coach Colin Zanardi came up to him, concern evident in his expression. “Yeah, Coach. I just need to start getting used to this godforsaken climate.”

  “Guess the change must be a shock. It hit me hard when I first came down here after all the years I lived in Manhattan, but at least I’d experienced the heat, if not the humidity, back in west Texas when I was a kid. You’d better go on in the locker room and get a rubdown.”

  Good idea. Jimmy already liked Zanardi, even though the guy had been a quarterback—the breed of player Jimmy had long ago programmed his brain to think of as a mortal enemy. Zanardi was an offensive guru who’d been a perennial MVP during his playing years.

  “Will do, Coach.” He figured as he jogged to the clubhouse that the almost fifty-year-old coach could still step out on the field and run plays if he wanted to. The man could still throw, for sure, because Jimmy had seen him drilling balls through hoops from fifty yards when he’d checked in at the practice facility last week. He imagined Coach was headed out to throw some now, because he was pulling a wheeled box full of footballs.

  Tom Harris, the Rebels’ defensive line coach, caught up with Jimmy in the locker room. Figuring he was in for an ass chewing about his lack of conditioning, he sat in front of his locker and took off his cleats before looking up at Harris. “Yeah, Coach?”

  The big former defensive tackle shot a knowing grin Jimmy’s way. “Heat gettin’ to you, Bronson?”

  Lying would do no good, since Jimmy felt the sweat plastering his jersey to his aching body. “A little.”

  “How about toughening up your lily-white hide by spending five days next week helping out at Zanardi’s football camp out in Nowhere, Texas? I need to recruit a few more live bodies for him, and you being single again, I figure you’ve got nobody pantin’ at home for you.” Harris made it sound like an invitation, but Jimmy could read between the lines. He’d just gotten an order. Though it stung to admit it, Harris was right. He had nobody waiting at home for him to roll in the hay with.

  Not that losing Belinda bothered him. At least not much. Yeah, it had stung his pride, finding that whenever he’d been at away games last winter, his almost-ex-wife had been fucking a rich Dom with a talent for wielding a cat-o’-nine, and not only in club scenes either. Obviously when she’d sworn she’d be his faithful slave at the club the year before, she hadn’t meant it. He ought to have known when she’d flatly refused to let him cut her long blonde curls when he wanted them short, or even to have her high-dollar hairdresser do it.

  Put the bitch out of your mind, Bronson. He’d be damned if he’d feel sorry for himself. Forcibly he squelched the painful memories. “Sure, Coach. I’ll go.” He liked working with kids, looked forward to getting to know some of his new teammates and coaches better. Besides, it would mean he had an excuse not to go back to Montana and face sympathetic stares from the hands at his parents’ ranch. He figured most of them had probably fucked Belinda at one time or another, too, since she’d grown up right there on the ranch where her dad was still foreman. Worse, he worried the whole time he was home that the bitch might blow in to see Daddy almost any time.

  “Good. We’re all meetin’ tonight at the Rebels’ Roost. You know where it is?”

  “Sort of. I’ve never been there, though.” He’d heard rumors about the exclusive club containing a poorly disguised dungeon where Rebels with a taste for kinky sex could go without taking chances of getting in trouble. “Nobody’s invited me.”

  “I’m invitin’ you now. Nine o’clock tonight. Be there. You better program the location into your GPS—the place ain’t easy to find.”

  “Okay.” Jimmy took the paper Coach Harris handed him and set it on the floor of his locker, next to his wallet.

  “You’re lookin’ good. And you’ll get used to the heat. I’m glad we got you.” With that, Coach Harris headed toward Matt Rubin, the Rebels’ veteran defensive tackle.

  You’re gonna get snookered into volunteering for this camp, too, buddy. Or maybe not. Jimmy had heard Rubin was living with Harris’ daughter and that she kept him on a tight leash, literally. Not his business. Jimmy draped a towel around his neck and escaped into the training room.

  * * * * *

  By eight o’clock darkness was settling in. Towering pines and grandfather oaks dripping with Spanish moss lined the two-lane asphalt road that followed the Intracoastal Waterway south from Savannah. The few tumbledown shacks with rusted-out cars on blocks and washing machines on porches reminded Jimmy of Tobacco Road, clear out of the 1930s or 1940s, whenever the movie was made. A burned-out, redbrick church stood sentinel on the opposite side of the road.

  The twenty-first century obviously hadn’t made it quite this far. He scanned the road for the turnoff his GPS system indicated was coming up, didn’t see it. But it had to be there. Slowing to a crawl, he finally spotted the single-lane, sand-and-crushed-shell road. No sign or landmark.

  “Turn right, now.” He hoped to hell the GPS knew what it was talking about.

  Would his Navigator fit? Gingerly Jimmy made the turn, found the crushed-shell road was smoother than it looked. “Follow the road for a mile to your destination,” the sexy female voice instructed him.

  At the end of the winding road sat a large, square, two-story building in the center of a clearing. Straining his eyes in the dusk, Jimmy saw half a dozen cars out front, recognized the black, vintage Porsche that belonged to Coach Zanardi. Coach Harris’ white Escalade shone in the moonlight, as did wide receiver Sid Conyers’ silver Acura. Jimmy pulled up next to Matt’s red Ram truck. He saw several other cars but couldn’t match them with their owners.

  He opened the door and stepped outside, was hit immediately with a brisk, damp breeze that smelled of fish and ocean. Different but not entirely unpleasant. Crushed seashells crunched under his feet. Not for the first time since he had arrived two weeks earlier, it struck him how different this place was from the wide open spaces where he had grown up. And from Chicago, where he’d played his first three years as a pro.

  You wanted different scenery, didn’t you?

  Striding toward what he assumed was the entrance to Rebels’ Roost, Jimmy reminded himself that Savannah was going to be his home. Yeah, he’d go back to the ranch to see his parents and sister, but he’d sworn he wouldn’t live there again. Too many memories. Too much angst. And too many regrets over a woman who wasn’t worth the effort.

  When he tried the door and found it locked, he rang the bell. Coach Harris opened the door. “Hey, Jimmy. C’mon in. Colin’s gonna tell us what we need to know about the football camp, and then we’ll show you around. Meet the staff and all that.”

  The staff
? Jimmy began to get the idea this was an honest-to-God dungeon like the one where he and Belinda had played in Chicago, only more exclusive. He inhaled, caught a whiff of something that smelled mighty good.

  “Yeah, we have to behave in town, so Mr. Hargraves built Rebels’ Roost so we can play without worryin’ about nosy townspeople. He went all out, put in a full kitchen and bar as well as hiring some Doms and subs— they live upstairs—in case you want to play and didn’t bring your own.” Coach led the way into a contemporary dining room where somebody had laid out huge platters of prime rib, mashed potatoes, several salads and a selection of desserts on two of the six large, round tables draped in the team colors.

  “What do I have to do to join?” For the food alone, Jimmy figured membership would be worth whatever it cost him. Besides, he’d sworn off Belinda—not off all women. He might not be ready to look for anything permanent in the way of female company, but he missed the BDSM play—not to mention the sex.

  “You already did. You’re a Rebel, and that’s all it takes. It goes without saying that Rebels’ Roost is the team’s secret. Nobody else is eligible, and everybody’s guests have to be vetted before we let them in. Inconvenient sometimes, but it’s the owner’s rule.” Coach paused. “Vanilla couples’ nights are Tuesdays and Thursdays. Dungeon’s open Mondays and Wednesdays, and also Fridays and Saturdays when we don’t have Sunday games. Sundays, out of season, Mr. Hargraves throws picnics for the kids.”

  Something for everybody. Jimmy liked Hargraves already and he’d never met the billionaire financier who paid his salary. “I can see I’ll be spending a good bit of my spare time here.”

  “Good thing. Keeps our guys out of the newspapers except for the sports section. Boss likes that.” Coach Harris shut up at the sound of a microphone crackling at the front of the room. “Coach Zanardi’s about to tell you guys about the camp schedule.”