A Gentleman In Distress by Angel Islington

1222

Beauty (Un)Bound. Book 1

The Devil is a beautiful boy…

An intriguing presence enters an ordinary London office building, mesmerising men and women alike. Conrad Beaumont is rich, cultured and breathtakingly beautiful, but under that seemingly perfect surface may lurk a true monster.

One day, his world falls apart and he finds himself thrashing in a straitjacket, at the mercy of a cruel nurse. As he gives in to a life of pleasure and pain in equal measure, Connie tries to piece together the hidden fragments of his dark soul.

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Excerpt from A Gentleman In Distress © Copyright 2024 Angel Islington

“Wow. If only you could see yourself. You look exquisite,” Geoffrey says, delighted.

In the cracked mirror of his mind, Conrad has a fairly clear idea of what he looks like, even though that image is shattered beyond recognition. He trembles as the white jacket closes its ravenous jaws on his naked flesh. One by one, the leather and metal teeth at the back ensnare him. The last buckle makes a soft sombre clink that sounds so definitive, like the deliverance of a life sentence. He whimpers, his sleeves unfurling like alien extensions of self-possession. In no time, his arms will trap and defeat him, and the Conrad he knows will disappear. The bound Other will replace him and drain the last traces of humanity out of him. His eyes hurl a corrosive shimmer, like fine uranium glass. Emerging from a pitch-black corner of his soul, a cold eldritch giggle cascades along the walls and explodes into hair-rais- ing echoes bouncing off every surface like marbles, until a gasp of painful surprise abruptly stifles the laughter.

Brutally yanked upward, the canvas strip increases the strain on his genitals and gluteal cleft. This is really happening. He is being locked in. His cheeks are pushed further and further apart, and then, the crotch strap’s clasp snaps shut. Dis- comfort. Panic. He is thoroughly owned. That Geoffrey bastard fucking owns him.

“Help me,” he mumbles to his carer, who rushes to hold him and squeeze him gently with his sinewy arms.

“Are we getting shaky again?” Geoffrey murmurs.

Conrad presses his lips thin – he has to, or else, he may try to bite the hand that binds him.

“Relax, Connie Beau, there is no shame in being a gentleman in distress. It takes a lot of strength to accept your predicament with poise and grace.”

Sheepishly, Conrad lets himself be manhandled. His canvas-encased arms are knotted over his chest, each sleeve inserted through the front loop of his prison camisole.

“You are so cut out for this straitjacket.”

“Am I, by Jove?” Conrad asks, the shift from apprehension to insolence stirring inside him. The possession is now complete.

“Deffo. You’re rocking this with swaggering skill. Come on, give us a little smile.”

Despite being creeped out of his mind, Connie forces a slightly sarcastic smile. His dishevelled hair gives him a certain boyish charm. Kneeling on the examination table, he is wearing nothing besides his punishment jacket and medical ankle re- straints.

“You have… misbehaved. Brace yourself for what’s coming to you, boy,” Geof- frey warns.

“Oh, crikey,” Conrad scoffs.

Tied up like this, he is both helpless and mighty. It will be a cold day in Hell when he begs Geoffrey for mercy. The temperature is plummeting, though. Maybe he should reconsider his attitude.

“Believe it or not, you have far too much power over me, Connie Beau. Other- wise, I would have crushed your skull the very first second I saw you. You’re an in- sufferable prick.”

“Oh, am I?”

“God, yes, but lucky for you, you’re also drop-dead gorgeous. And I fancy the fuck out of you.”

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