A Betty's Pledge: Volume One
Read A Betty's Pledge: Volume One Online
Authors: Emma Husher
The Prologue ~ A Betty Candidate ~
A Betty’s Pledge: Volume One
By
Emma Husher
First published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2014
Copyright © Emma Husher, 2014
The right of Emma Husher to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted
by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
This work is copyrighted. All rights are reserved. Apart from any use as permitted
under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in
a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without
the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters and events in this book—even those sharing the same name as (or based
upon) real people—are entirely fictional. No person, brand or corporation mentioned
in this book should be taken to have endorsed this book nor should the events surrounding
them be considered in any way factual.
This book is a work of fiction and should be read as such.
The Writer’s Coffee Shop
(Australia)
PO Box 447 Cherrybrook NSW 2126
(USA)
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Paperback ISBN- 978-1-61213-232-7
E-book ISBN- 978-1-61213-233-4
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.
Cover image by:
© depositphotos.com / Evgeniya Porechenskaya
Cover design by:
L.J. Anderson
www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/ehusher
To the women who’ve struggled with rejection and sexual oppression and inequality,
this is for you. Celebrate that which makes us beautiful.
The Prologue
~ A Betty Candidate ~
I walked onto the serene property, impressed by the vast grounds and expansive architecture.
It wasn’t anything like the houses I’d seen back home. Those were mostly duplexes
or mobile homes bolted to the ground, giving the illusion of stability. There was
nothing promising or comforting about my hometown, and I welcomed this new distraction
with open eyes and a free mind. Yet I didn’t expect the property to be so grand.
The Grant estate appeared to be the epitome of a Hollywood mansion, framed by marble
columns and a perfectly manicured landscape.
Expanding over several acres, the property sat on premium Californian real estate
featuring green-covered hills under blue skies, away from the smog of the inner cities.
Ostentatious and pristine, this atmosphere so vastly contrasted with what I’d been
surrounded by my entire life that I started to question my place here. As I negotiated
the twisted driveway toward the main house, I replayed my reasons for coming to the
Grants in the first place.
Since I’d been specially picked for this trial period, I figured there must have been
something in me that they’d found appealing, for only those who were granted an invitation
were welcomed. I wasn’t going to dwell on how out of place I felt among all the glitz
and glamour of the Los Angeles hills.
I couldn’t imagine how much square footage the estate contained. In fact, I doubted
I had ever seen anything so luxurious. But the reason for my being here was not to
ogle the lavish surroundings. If I was lucky and passed all their tests, I would be
blessed enough to call this place home for the next six weeks or so. The training
I would receive would be unlike anything I could possibly imagine.
I wasn’t sure what the initiation process entailed. I had never heard of such a thing,
except in old cult movies where secret societies were membered by stuffy men in tuxedos
who held more money in their pockets than I had in my savings account. And even those
were not as elusive as this place seemed to be, evidenced by the solid enclosure securing
the grounds and the nature of the invitation itself.
It had come in a box hand-written to me, with no return address. When I’d seen it,
my warning bells had sounded. I’d been accepted to trials, and with no further information
offered but a date, time, and address on the invitation, I prepared myself from that
day forward for anything and everything they could throw my way.
My mother had always told me I was opportunistic. My father had called it dumb luck.
I didn’t know what my being accepted by the Grants meant other than the fact that
they’d found something about me to their liking. Either way, I wasn’t arguing.
I arrived at the mansion, parked my car and made my way up the entrance steps leading
to the large front doors. I noticed that I hadn’t seen anyone on the grounds, except
for the guard at the entry gate when I’d first come in. Keeping a lookout for some
sort of welcoming party, I gently knocked on the oak door, hoping that someone would
come to let me in or direct me on where I was supposed to be. I didn’t want to be
late for my first trial.
As I touched the door, it opened, and I carefully made my way inside. I half expected
to see a suited butler waiting to greet me and was surprised to find the foyer vacant.
The entryway opened to a wide room with a large staircase going up both sides, adjoining
a rather extravagant balcony that served as the landing for the second story. The
decor appeared to be regal and classic with modern furniture paired to match a more
elegant undertone. The whole picture spoke of money and history. No doubt each room
was filled to the brim with priceless heirlooms. It was beautiful, and I hoped I’d
get the chance to explore the home more fully.
First, I’d have to pass their tests to gain membership status. My nerves flared as
I looked around the room, trying to find my next move. On a small table near the entry
was a glass of champagne and a note addressed to me. I opened it carefully and read
the directions written in an elegant thin cursive.
Upstairs, second door on the right.
Your directions are inside.
Have a drink on us.
Taking a deep breath, I placed the card back onto the table and gazed at the tall
crystal flute that held bubbling nectar. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I poured
the golden fluid down my throat, enjoying the little jolt of courage it gave me as
the alcohol zinged through my blood.
I made my way up the marble staircase, the click of my stiletto heels against the
hard surface the only noise I could hear. The fact that I was utterly alone in this
grand place left me feeling like I’d stepped into a stately museum only added to my
anxiety, and I hoped I’d made the right decision by coming here. I’d heard that they
took the sanctity of their rituals quite seriously, and nothing was to be questioned
when it came to the rules of this home.
At the top of the staircase, I stepped onto the expansive balcony. On the back wall,
opposite the front door, were two large bay windows. The glass was etched and thick,
lined with stained-glass fixtures with old sayings marked in Latin.
I turned right and made out three doors leading down a long corridor. There was a
deep ruby rug trailing down the hallway, like the proverbial red carpet. With trembling
fingers, I reached out to the knob on the second door and turned. It opened easily,
revealing a dimly lit room. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust.
Stimulating in its deep red coloring, the luxurious bedroom seemed to be designed
to cater to a person’s darkest sexual desire. The main focal point was a large, brick
fireplace where a low fire was churning, offering the only source of light. In the
middle of the room was a huge, plush bed covered in dark satin sheets. An L-shaped
couch was off to the side. I guessed it was most likely used for observation. Large
mirrors adorned two walls, practically covering the entire surface. A soft melody
played in the background and a subtle scent of sandalwood and sex wafted into my senses.
On the table by the door was another glass of champagne and a folded note card addressed
to me. I opted to drink first this time, knowing that I’d need the courage once I’d
read my instructions. My hands shook as I reached for my orders and began to read.
Sit in the center of the bed and pleasure yourself.
Take your time and bring yourself to orgasm
three
times.
Use whatever you need.
The room is yours.
The Trial
~ Isaac Wilson ~
I hadn’t expected my day to be as
productive
as it turned out to be. In fact, I usually detested days when we had to start the
screening process because the outcome was often a disappointing one.
Cruising up the long driveway toward the Grant Mansion in my Bugatti, I tried to put
myself in the mental state that I’d need to make it through the morning before I viewed
the first trials, but I couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding.
I’d been dissatisfied more times than I could count in the past two years. Usually,
it just meant another long month of disenchantment on my part when we realized the
new batch of women were not up to our standards. We’d found several candidates that
fit our needs, but as was often the case, they lacked that certain spark I’d personally
been looking for.
It didn’t matter, though. I always had a lot of fun sorting through the rejects.
I had become incredibly bored waiting for that
one
to come along. Perhaps my standards were just too high. I needed a woman who was
supple, but slender and toned at the same time. I wanted her elegant and refined,
but able to get dirty when I happened to be in the mood. I wanted a woman who could
submit to me, but also put me in my place when she craved domination. She needed to
be gorgeous and alluring, but not overtly so. I wanted a natural beauty, one that
had the appearance of my every sinful desire yet with a warm heart and endearing character.
I didn’t think it was too much to ask for.
I was tired of the blond plastics who paraded around LA, shoving their ten thousand
dollar tits in my face. Sex with those types of women had been as counterfeit as their
golden brown skin and bee-stung lips, and I was sick of having mediocre orgasms as
the result of passionless fucking.
I was relying on the logic of the Grant program to get me through this. I had bedded
several women in the past two years, each hand-selected for me by a strenuous system
of checks and balances designed to please my every desire.
It wasn’t about promiscuity or experimentation, although we did plenty of that. The
program was about learning how to find sexual pleasure, adapting to different methods,
and finding that one person who chemically and physically matched us to perfection.