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Home / Stormy Night Publications Newsletter / His to Corrupt by Ava Sinclair – Extended Preview

His to Corrupt by Ava Sinclair – Extended Preview

What am I doing?

He’d walked me to where his bike was parked in the alley. I could have said no, but I got on. I could have told him I’d changed my mind when we pulled into his private space in the parking deck, but I didn’t. We’d entered an old elevator, the kind with the accordion grate, and I’d kept silent as it made the rickety climb up to the top of the building.

His apartment is over the club. I can hear the beat of the music coming through the floor. I can feel it, too.

I stand in the living room, taking the apartment in. It’s what I’d expect of a man like Jackson Rider, but also different. It’s small, but tidy, and open, with beautiful wood floors. There are two huge prints on the wall that look like tattoo art of some kind. One says ‘Ride or Die’ on a banner against a backdrop of roses.

On another wall are framed album covers. I’m examining them as he takes off his jacket and tosses it over a chair.

“I used to manage musicians,” he says. “Back in the day. Those records on the wall were bands I helped get started. Some of them are pretty big now.”

“I’ve never heard of them.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” he says, but there’s no condescension in his voice. “They’re all west coast indie acts, a couple are alternative metal.”

“How did you end up in jail?” I ask.

“Cutting right to the chase, are we?” He walks over. “You tell me. Or are you going to stand here and tell me you didn’t look it up.”

“No, I didn’t.” Why am I lying? I know why. I don’t want to admit that he’s right, that I was curious. When he doesn’t say anything, I admit the truth. “Fine. So maybe I did.” I look down at my shoes so he won’t see me blush. “Can you blame me?”

“No,” he says. “I couldn’t blame you for anything.”

He walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge. “You probably saw what was in the paper, which wasn’t much. I was managing the career of a band called Common Cause. The front man was my best friend Roy. Roy had a lot of problems, mostly drugs. I’ve never been a choir boy, but I’ve stayed away from that shit. Seen too many people fucked up by it. I was determined to help keep Roy clean, which is the only reason I signed on to manage him. Success is a double-edged sword. It brings a lot of temptation, and I wanted to be close to Roy, to help him manage both his career and his addiction.”

He grows quiet when he turns back to me. He’s holding two bottles of pop and hands me one. It’s a nice change from the beer. He gestures for me to sit down and continues.

“I doubt you’ve been around many junkies, but they can be crafty. Roy got into some stuff on the side, stuff he knew would have made me bolt. It was the one time in my life I didn’t listen to my instincts. Looking back, I saw the signs, but I ignored them.” He pauses. “Part of that was because of Gia.”

“Her name is on your arm.” I don’t tell him that I also researched her. And fortunately, he doesn’t call me on it.

“She was a groupie who showed up at the clubs where we were playing. But she wasn’t interested in the musicians. After sets, she’d come backstage and hang out with me. Normally, groupies put me off. But not this one.”

Of course not, I think. She was gorgeous.

“I had no way of knowing that she’d been popped for drugs, or that she knew through a friend that Roy was into some illegal stuff with guns and drugs. Gia had her own problems. She’d been part of another sting, and was offered a deal if she could implicate us all, so when she came to me one night crying about an ex-boyfriend who left a gun at her house and was threatening to call the police and have her arrested, I agreed to keep it at my place until we could work it out. That night was when it all went down. I got raided, but all they found was the gun. Roy was busted, too, under the guise of looking for weapons. They found a shit ton of drugs and a few unregistered guns I never knew he had at the place he shared with another band member, Jerry. They were guilty as fuck, but Gia was told the more people who got taken down the better deal she’d get. She set me up.”

“Did you testify to what she did?” I ask.

“There was no need,” he says. “She was given the gun to plant. There was no boyfriend. There was an ambitious agent who was convinced that if the band manager wasn’t involved it was because he hadn’t been caught yet. He didn’t want loose ends, so he made sure there weren’t any.”

“And you went to jail.”

“Yes,” he says. “For the gun. And for lying to protect Gia before I realized who she really was.”

I reach out and slip my fingernail under the corner of the pop label. I try to imagine the man across from me being so in love, so vulnerable, that he’d risk his freedom. I look at him.

“And the assault charge?”

“You did do your homework,” he says. “I beat the fuck out of Roy. I’m not proud of it, but I kind of lost it when we met with our lawyers and he admitted he’d been lying.” When he sees my sigh of relief, he folds his arms on the tabletop and leans forward. “What? You think I’d beat her?”

“I don’t know you well enough to say,” I concede. I ask the next question tentatively. “Did you want to?”

He seems to consider the question. “No. It never occurred to me.”

“If I was her, I’d feel like I deserved it,” I say. “I couldn’t live with the guilt of doing something like that.”

“You’d want to be beaten?”

“No…” I shake my head. “I’d just want consequences. For doing wrong. For being bad.”


He’s pressing me on this point and I squirm under his scrutiny. I return my focus back to the label I’m nervously worrying with my fingernail and shrug.

“Conditioning. I was raised Catholic, taught to be a good girl. Penance is part of getting past our sins.”

“And are you?” he asks. “A good girl?”

I dart my eyes to his and then away. He makes me feel convicted, which is weird. He’s a former criminal. How is it that I feel I’m being questioned by an authority figure?

“I thought I was,” I say. “Until…”

“Until you met me.”

Silence hangs between us.

“Do they correct the students at your school?”



“Suspension. But they also use corporal punishment.”

“They spank the students?”

I nod. “It’s a Catholic school.”

“Were you spanked at school?”

“I never had to be,” I reply.

“Did you ever want to be?”

I feel a jolt run through my body. The inquiry strikes my emotional quick, jarring me. I consider not answering, but there’s something intriguing about his questioning, about the easiness of answering them. I want to keep going.

“Sometimes. I… I never got into trouble, so when I did do something wrong, it went unnoticed. But I’d carry the weight of the guilt for what I’d done. It’s an unpleasant feeling.”

“Are you carrying that weight now?”

My throat feels dry. I swallow nervously. I can’t find words, so I just nod.

Jackson rises slowly from his chair and takes the bottle I’m holding. Then he takes my hand and raises me to standing. He says nothing as he leads me to the sofa and positions me by the arm.

“A girl as sweet as you has no business feeling guilty.” He bends me over and I look back.

“What are you doing?” I ask. But I know what he’s doing, even before he answers me.

“I’m going to spank your little ass,” he says. “Because you’ve been a bad girl, and you know you need it.”

I should be afraid. I am afraid. But I’m quivering and wet with excitement. He’s not asking me if he can spank me. He’s telling me it’s going to happen. His arm is going around my waist as his large hand pulls up the hem of my dress. I’m wearing white satin panties with little blue polka dots. He rubs the mounds of my ass through the fabric before hooking a finger in the waistband and skimming them down. The cool air of the room raises gooseflesh on my exposed skin. I hear myself whimper in submission, but the sound is a coaxing plea for him to carry on, to carry through.

He’s so large, and in his grip, I feel so small. I look back to see him raise his muscular arm in a backswing a moment before the room resounds with the sound of his huge palm impacting my ass. I scream as pain suffuses my bottom and lurch forward. My toes curl in my shoes. It hurts.

He hits me again. He’s not being gentle. He’s spanking my ass hard, layering heat on heat, pain on pain. I’m struggling to get away from it, but I can’t break free. He’s so strong and holds me tight as he punishes me. He’s punishing me like the bad, dirty girl he knows I really am. He’s spanking my ass raw and I’m crying from the hurt.

“I’m sorry!” I sob as his hand catches first one cheek and then the other in uppercut blows that lift and sear the underside of my buttocks. He concentrates his efforts there now as I plead for mercy. I won’t be able to sit tomorrow, and why should I? I’m playing the chaste little schoolmarm while pining away for a dangerous man with a criminal record. He’s put his cock in me. I want him to do it again. I’m bad. So bad. And the feel of his correction burns that message into me even as it brings on gales of heartfelt sobs.

“Please,” I cry, the word barely audible. “Please.”

“Please what?” He’s stopped, but his hand is resting on the throbbing, seared skin of my bottom.

He raises me to standing and turns me toward him. He puts a finger under my chin and raises it so that I’m forced to look into his eyes.

“Why did I spank you, Clara?”

“For being… because I’m bad.”

“No,” he says. “I didn’t spank you for being bad. I spanked you for thinking you’re bad.” He begins to undo the row of pearl buttons on my dress. I stand there as he pushes it over my shoulders. “That this is bad.” He puts his hand between my legs, his finger entering my slit and sliding up through the folds of my slick, swollen labia until he reaches my clit, which he rubs in small, lazy circles.

“This isn’t bad,” he says. “This is good. And so are you.”

I’m awash in sensation. My ass is pulsing with soreness, my pussy is clenching with a delicious, aching need. My nipples are hard, sensitive nubs longing to be stimulated. My whole body is screaming to be fucked, and when he picks me up, I don’t object.

His room is dark, save for the pool of light from a streetlamp. It floods the bed, turning it into a stage. Jackson lays me on a gray coverlet. The panties he’d pulled down earlier are bunched around my ankles above the shoes I’m still wearing. He steps back and begins to undress. I watch him from between the peaks of my parted knees, mesmerized. He’s perfect. Perfect and powerful. Muscles bunch and move under his skin. His hips are slim, the ridged Adonis belt forming a ‘v’ that points to the thatch of black hair nestling a cock that’s thick and hard and jutting in my direction. His thighs are defined, and when he turns to toss his pants and shirt onto a nearby chair, I’m treated to a side view of his firm, hard ass, and realize that he bears a Celtic knot down the side of one hip and upper leg.

He moves toward me. No, that’s wrong. He prowls, his movements those of a controlled predator. He reaches for my ankles, lifts them and spreads my legs apart. He looks at my body, bathed as it is in light. Then he climbs between my thighs, resting on his own knees as he curls his powerful upper body over mine. My bra fastens in the front. He pops it open, freeing my breasts. His head lowers and I gasp as his hot mouth closes over the right areola. He sucks greedily, his tongue stabbing at the tip. My pussy releases a corresponding flood of arousal. I feel the inner walls clenching on themselves, eager and hungry to hug the cock that’s yet to invade.

I reach for him, my arms hugging his head to me, my upper body arching from the bed as I offer him both breasts. He moves between them, feeding noisily. I like the sound. He’s unabashedly and aggressively suckling my breasts, stopping here and there to nibble and bite. I moan and cry and mewl, my body writhing underneath him, writhing like a bitch in heat, writhing like a whore. My bottom is sore against the coverlet, reminding me of the spanking, of his words. This isn’t bad. This is good. I’m good.

He breaks the suction of his mouth on my nipple. He was clamped on so tight that the blood rushing back into the tip is painful. It feels like a second bite, and he moves his body over mine with catlike grace, then grasps me by the middle, rolling me over on top of him. I’m straddling him, my soft white thighs flanking the hard, tanned trunk of his body. My wet pussy is against his chest. He inclines his head toward it, inhales, and looks up at me.

“Your pussy smells so good,” he says, then stares up at me. “You don’t have to worry. I’m clean. I have a past, but I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m tested. After we’re done, I’ll show you.” He pauses. “Trust me?”

He could be lying, and a responsible person would demand proof now, before playing another round of sexual Russian roulette, because I know he’s going to fuck me bare, and I want him to. His eyes. I’m staring into them. They’re hard, but the gaze is soft. They’re knowing, but understanding. I nod.

Stop! My voice of reason tries one last time to halt the trajectory of my actions. Is this who you are? What of your training?

But I believe him over my saner self. Or maybe I just want to. Either way, as he lifts and begins to impale me onto his cock, he pulls on my hips, applying traction until I feel the head of his cock kiss the mouth of my cervix. I’m filled, so filled. And not just physically. The way he looks at me beneath those hooded eyelids, the way that smile plays on his handsome face… he’s giving me a feeling I’ve always longed for. I’ve been looked at with respect, admiration, appreciation, but never have I been looked at like this… like a desirable woman.

“You feel so fucking good,” he says. “So fucking good.” He runs his hands down the inward slope of my waist and grips my hips. “Ride me, Clara,” he commands.

“I… I don’t know how.” I’m embarrassed by my admission. I’ve been on top—briefly—with other lovers, but it was chest to chest and we both moved awkwardly, with my partner hoping he’d hit a spot that pleased me. And he never did. Jackson is different. He’s demanding that I take an active role in this.

“Move,” he says, taking my hips, and begins to guide me. “Slide that pussy up and down while you rock those sexy hips. Come on, little girl. I know you can do it.”

The dark purr of his words infects me with a desire to please him. I begin to move, thinking of the sexiest thing I ever saw—a belly dancer. I mimic her movements, undulating back and forth, rocking on his cock. I take a sharp intake of breath as I feel his shaft press repeatedly to a spot behind my pubic bone. The rush of pleasure is as strong as when he touched my clit. Stronger. And stronger still when he puts his hand on the little pleasure pearl at the apex of my cleft as I move. It’s a double whammy. I feel a swell of pure sexual ecstasy erupt from the nexus of these dual sensations. It rockets through me, driving a primal scream from my throat. I feel a hot flood of my own arousal emerge from around his cock. I can hear him slipping in and out of me. I can smell my own pussy—the scent of peak excitement.

He flips me over, braces himself with one hand against the headboard and begins to fuck me—really fuck me. He fucks me so hard it hurts, but it hurts so good. He’s taking me, claiming me, leaving an inner mark that I’ll wear as he wears his on his skin. He’s branding me, and when I feel the warm flood of his seed, I want it. I want it all. I want every drop of him deep inside me. His teeth find his shoulder. I cry out.

“Hot little thing,” he says. “I knew it the moment I saw you.”

With our bodies spent, we wilt into one another, as locked muscles soften in relaxation.

Spent. I read that word once in a romance novel. It was not the kind of book a nice girl reads. The couple had fucked and were spent, the writer said. In the book, he’d abducted her. The seduction was forced, but in that sweet way that bodice-ripping romances have that romanticizes blurred consent.

I have been seduced. But I was not forced. I wanted this. I shouldn’t have. But I know now I’m addicted to this, to him. And no matter what I tell myself afterward, I’ll justify coming back until he decides he’s had enough. Because won’t he? He’s lying on his back, a half-smile on his face, his eyes closed. I rest my head on his shoulder, my fingers tracing the tattoo of the ship, but avoiding the name of the woman who came before me, the former lover who betrayed him.

I think of her, so different from me. Beautiful, raven-haired, experienced. I am the opposite. Is that why he wanted me? I could ask, but I’ve learned enough today. I close my eyes, basking in the lessons I’ve learned, and sparing myself the thought of what I may learn tomorrow.

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