“Yes,” he agrees.
She drops her head again, her dark shiny hair tousled and damp with perspiration. He brings the whip down, striking her supple flesh again and again, coiling it around her thigh, her breasts, the perfect globes of her ass. Her cries echo in the empty room.
Mark lay on the bed, his hand on his cock as he watched her on the screen. Alana Hunter was laughing toward him, her dark blue eyes beckoning him as he sighed. He’d watched this video a dozen times or more, but he never tired of it. When the male character began to unbutton Alana’s blouse, Mark moaned. He should be the only one to do that.
Soon he would be.
Soon Alana Hunter, adored by millions, would belong to Mark and Mark alone. On the screen, Alana pouted at her faux lover, her lips like ripe fruit begging to be bitten. It wouldn’t be long now, and then Mark would be the only one to touch that lovely face, kiss those luscious lips, whip that perfect ass.
As Mark watched Alana surrender herself to her on-screen lover in the climactic final scene of the adventure-love story, longing dragged like a knife through his gut. He groaned as he pumped his cock, stroking in time to the movements of the lovers on the screen.
When she looked at the camera—at him—there was a sultry “I dare you” quality in her expression, but Mark knew she was an innocent. He’d followed her career for the past seven years with avid attention. Beyond the movies, he read every interview, scoured the internet for every story, feature and hint of gossip he could find, and wrote for several online blogs that catered to Alana Hunter fans.
Two years ago he’d finally managed to get tickets to the screening of her latest movie, and that was the day he’d decided to stop living on the sidelines of Alana Hunter’s life. Seeing her in person had been the most thrilling moment of his existence to that point.
She had worn a simple but elegant blue dress that clung alluringly to her perfect curves. She’d walked with the easy confidence of the beautiful and adored along the receiving line, stopping every few feet to be photographed and to greet her fans. When she’d turned her dazzling smile on Mark, electricity had sparked between them. Though she looked away a moment later to smile at the next fan, they’d shared something unique.
It was at that moment he began to devise his plan.
The credits were rolling across the screen and he still hadn’t come. Closing his eyes, he let his favorite fantasy unfold once more…
Alana lifts her head, trying to focus those violet-blue eyes on her Master. Her breasts heave as she tries to catch her breath. “Thank you, Sir,” she gasps.
“For what?” Mark demands.
“For whipping me, Sir. I needed it, Sir. I need you, Sir. Fuck me, my Master, my darling…”
Mark could almost feel Alana in the room with him, her perfect mouth wrapped around his cock. With a grunt, he exploded onto his stomach and chest. “Once I own you, Alana,” he said aloud, “I’ll have you lick me clean.”
The autumn morning was crisp, a hint of snow in the air. Mark stood across the street from the studio where Alana Hunter was having her photo shoot for a women’s fashion magazine. It should have been over by now. Impatiently he glanced at his watch. He recognized her driver’s car, the nondescript black sedan, its windows tinted to keep out prying eyes. It was parked near the back entrance of the studio on a narrow side street, ready to whisk away the woman of his dreams.
His heart leapt as the door opened and Alana came out, tossing her dark hair out of her face as she pulled her beautifully tailored jacket more tightly around herself. She strode quickly toward the parked car. The passenger door was opened from inside, and she slipped in, shutting out any would-be autograph seekers or paparazzi before anyone even realized she was there.
Mark knew where she was going. It being midday in Manhattan, he knew he would get there as fast, if not faster, on foot.
Today she would be meeting with Lisa Carter, her personal assistant, for lunch at Caliente, the Mexican place on 6th Avenue in Greenwich Village. After lunch, she would go for her massage at Chez Paul, and then off to the studio to rehearse or do whatever she did in there. So far, he hadn’t been able to get into that studio. The damn security was too tight. He didn’t care, though. What did it matter?
He knew where she lived.
Mark Stratton knew as much about Alana Hunter as anyone alive. He knew she had been born in Galveston, Texas, and her parents still lived in Houston. Her father was a doctor and her mother was a writer and illustrator of children’s books. Her older sister lived in Dallas with two children, a husband and three dogs.
She kept an apartment in the city, but spent several months a year filming in Los Angeles, where she owned a small house in Malibu. He had seen all twelve movies she had been in, even the first one, where she had a bit part as the star’s little sister, and he had downloaded every interview and YouTube video of her there was, not to mention bought every magazine in which she’d ever appeared.
She was slated soon to begin work on a romantic comedy, with that untalented pretty boy, Tim Rutherford, as her co-star. Despite all the bullshit gossip and speculation on Twitter and in the tabloids, Mark was certain they weren’t romantically involved. No way Alana Hunter would stoop so low.
As he hurried along the crowded streets of New York, he almost tripped over a homeless guy who was snoring loudly, slumped against the wall of a building. Mark cursed softly under his breath as he stepped over the bum. He hated the city and his crappy, expensive, tiny apartment. Even in her snazzy penthouse, Alana probably hated it, too.
Happily, it was temporary. He was nearly ready to put his plan into action. At last he would save his darling girl from the undisciplined turmoil of public life. She would love the home he’d been working every spare moment on for the past year and a half.
Luckily, his job as programmer with a software development company was going quite well. He had been slowly getting them used to the idea of his working less and less in the office, and more and more remotely. They were okay with this, for the most part, as long as the work got done. They recognized his creative genius, and thus gave him the leeway he needed, not to mention an excellent salary and a generous stock option plan.
He got to the restaurant just as Alana’s driver was opening the car door for her. Mark’s fists clenched in sudden rage, but it was just jealousy. The driver got to be close to Alana, so close he could smell her perfume. He got to take her places and open doors for her. Maybe they chatted as they drove, Alana telling him tidbits about her latest project.
Calming himself, Mark waited a minute or so in the shadows before entering the restaurant. Spying Alana and Lisa at a table near the back, he managed to get himself seated in a small booth nearby.
Poor Alana, she looked tired. She worked much too hard. Soon that burden would be lifted from her lovely shoulders. Soon, her sole occupation in life would be to be worshipped and adored by him, Mark Stratton, the only man who properly understood and appreciated her.
Sometimes he imagined them together as husband and wife, strolling in the park, a baby in Alana’s arms. Alas, children weren’t in her future. Mark had suffered an injury when he played college football, which had made him sterile. Just as well. He wouldn’t want to share Alana with anyone else, not even their child. She would belong only to him, forever and always.
Mark’s musings were shattered as he overheard Lisa’s words. “Yes, he called again for you. And he sent a huge bouquet of the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen. The note said he can’t wait to work with you, and that he’s your biggest fan, and he signed it, ‘with love and anticipation, Tim.’”
Tim! Rutherford, that bastard. How dare he push himself on Alana like that? The nauseating little prick.
“Wow, I can’t wait to see the flowers. Tim is so hot I’m afraid I might get burned during our sex scenes,” Alana replied with a grin, her eyes sparkling with amusement and mischief.
Blood rushed into Mark’s face, every muscle in his body tensin
g for a fight. A lesser man might have leapt up at that moment to protest, but not Mark. Oh no, Mark was nothing if not patient. He had waited a long time for the right moment to introduce himself to his beloved and he wasn’t about to blow that now, just because that pretty-boy asshole Rutherford thought he could charm Alana.
But he would have to move fast. Clearly, Alana had deluded herself into thinking she wanted to work with this jerk, even to do love scenes with him. Mark couldn’t bear the thought of her lying naked in another man’s arms, even under the bright, artificial lights of a film studio. Another man’s mouth on her perfect nipples. Another man’s whip lashing that tender flesh…
She was scheduled to fly to Los Angeles soon, and then it would be too late to stop Rutherford from his attempts to corrupt the pure and lovely Alana. Since she had dumped that ridiculous low-life movie director last year, his Alana had remained faithful to Mark, telling the interviewers she was enjoying being single for now. She had saved that creamy flesh for his use alone. And soon—very soon—she would belong to Mark, and dreams she didn’t even know she had would be realized.
Two days later, he was ready to make his move. Even at this early hour, the city hummed and honked. The air was chilly, the sun still hidden behind the skyscrapers. Mark waited by Alana’s apartment building, the black sedan car he’d bought in anticipation of this fateful day parked by the curb in front. It was an identical model to the ones driven by the studio chauffeurs.
Mark knew her routines, and Alana liked to come out a few minutes early, since it was usually impossible for her driver to find a parking spot. She would be waiting by the curb when he finally sidled up to retrieve her. Today, however, her new driver would be waiting for her. With a little digging and using his superior computer skills, it had been ridiculously easy to track down the name and pertinent information for her regular driver, and to send him a phone text that he was to pick up Alana at a different location that morning. He’d procured a nearly identical uniform to the one the studio drivers wore. Now it was just down to timing and good luck. Today was the day—the culmination of all his hard work and planning. Soon, she would be his.
He held his breath as the doorman opened the door and Alana appeared, radiant in a bright yellow cotton sweater and faded blue jeans, a brown leather jacket slung casually over her shoulder. From now on she would be wearing only dresses, if anything. He wanted to see those glorious legs at all times. And of course she must always be available to him.
As she walked toward the car, he pushed the passenger door open, hoping she didn’t notice that his hand was trembling. “Good morning, Ms. Hunter,” he said in a subdued but pleasant tone, though he could barely hear himself speak over the pounding of his heart.
“Oh.” Alana looked at him uncertainly. “Hank isn’t—?”
“Hank is sick,” Mark said smoothly. “I’ll be your driver just for the day, ma’am. My name is Mark. I’ll drive you to the studio, Ms. Hunter.”
She paused, still apparently uncertain, and for one horrible moment, he thought she was on to him. All his carefully laid plans would be ruined. She would refuse to get in and she would call the police.
Sweat prickled at his armpits as he forced a calm smile. “I’m sorry no one let you know, ma’am, but if you could get in? I’m not supposed to park here.”
He almost sighed aloud with relief as she shrugged and nodded. “Okay. Thanks.” She climbed into the back seat, and Mark began to breathe again.
He could smell her perfume, something light and slightly spicy. He could have reached back and touched her soft cheek then and there. He could touch that perfectly rounded breast. She was in his car. He had her.
He had her!
Loud, angry honking brought him back to the reality of New York City traffic. Smiling at her in the rearview mirror, he clicked the childproof locks into place and eased into the street. He began to weave his way through the early morning traffic.
Alana leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes.
Excellent. He would have that much longer until she began to notice that they weren’t, in fact, going to the studio after all.
Several minutes later, as he was easing onto the George Washington Bridge, Alana opened her eyes and looked out the window. Her face creased into a frown. “Hey, where are you going? This isn’t the way to the studio.”
“Sorry,” Mark said, affecting a bland air. “Didn’t they tell you? We have to pick up another actor for the shoot.”
Alana looked suspiciously at him, her eyes narrowing. The sweetest little furl appeared between her eyebrows. “Who?” she demanded. “I wasn’t told about this.”
“Marilee Bateman.”
“Marilee?” Alana shook her head. “She’s not even in the city right now.” Her frown deepened. “What’s going on here?”
He hadn’t known Marilee Bateman was out of town. Shit. Oh well, he’d just have to make his move that much sooner. It would be fine.
“Listen, Alana—” he began amiably.
“Alana? I’m Alana now? Take me to the studio this instant.” She fumbled in her huge bag, no doubt reaching for her fucking cell phone. He could hear an edge of panic beneath her attempt to sound authoritative.
His cock responded to the sexy note of fear in her voice. He thrilled to the idea he could make his darling little girl afraid. And this was just the beginning. He would teach her real fear once he had her where he wanted her.
Before she could find her phone, he reached a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the gun he’d purchased just for her. Aiming it back toward her in a much-practiced gesture, he said, “Put your bag and jacket in the front seat. Don’t try anything stupid.”
“Oh, my god,” she whispered, her eyes glued to the gun.
“Do as you’re told,” Mark said, his voice firm. “I’m not stealing your things, don’t worry. I’ll keep them safe for you. Hand them over and then I’ll explain everything.” He waved his gun for emphasis, his eyes flickering between the road and the mirror.
“Who are you?” Alana asked, still whispering, but she handed her Louis Vuitton bag and leather jacket over the seat.
He reached into her bag and rummaged until his fingers closed over her cell phone. Pulling it free, he opened his window and dropped it onto the road, noting with satisfaction in the rearview mirror that it was immediately run over by the car behind him.
“Hey!” Alana cried. “What the hell? That was my phone!”
“Relax. You won’t be needing it anymore. I am your savior, Alana. I’m taking you away from the strife and chaos of your life. We’re going to a safe haven where we can get to know each other, without all those agents, producers, directors and paparazzi harassing you every hour of the day and night. I am setting you free, my love.”
He looked triumphantly in the mirror as he waited for her response. Naturally, she wouldn’t understand yet, but in time, she would appreciate what he’d done for her—for them. At the moment, however, she looked horrified—there was no other word for it.
“Don’t worry, darling,” he soothed. Oh, it felt delicious to say that! “I won’t use this”—he waved the gun again at her—“unless, of course, you make me.”
She made a small whimpering sound that went directly to his cock.
Glancing from the road to her face in the mirror, he continued, “I’m Mark, as I told you earlier. You don’t know me, but I know you. I’m your biggest fan.”
I really am her biggest fan. Not like that asshole Rutherford who just wants to get into her pants.
“I’ve seen all your work,” he went on, smiling. “Even that dreadful shampoo commercial you did back in the early days of your career. I know where you live. I know your daily schedule. I know where you eat. I know who your friends are. I know who your family is and where they live and what they all do for a living.”
As Mark spoke, Alana looked more and more frightened. This irritated him. She ought to be flattered to know he was so interested in her and h
er life.
“A stalker!” she blurted. “You’re a stalker, oh my god, oh my god.” Her normally husky voice rose, ending on a squeak.
“No name calling, little girl,” he replied, stung by the unfair term. They were over the bridge now, heading northwest. “Just pretend you’re Catherine in The China Hunt. I’ll be Garth Blackstone.” It hadn’t been one of her more famous films, but Mark loved it. It was romantic, but more importantly, she got kidnapped and tied to a chair. There was an implied whipping, though the audience didn’t get to see it. Her screams in the film had been heart-wrenchingly real. He had watched that scene so many times there wasn’t a detail that escaped him.
He glanced back at Alana, amused by her look of confused fear as she took in what he’d just said. After all, Garth Blackstone hadn’t been the “good guy.” He was the abductor who had plans to murder Catherine if his demands weren’t met.
Alana began to cry quietly, large tears welling and spilling over. “Please, don’t hurt me,” she begged sweetly. “Please, take me back home. Please.”
Again his cock fought with him, straining against the fabric of his polyester uniform. He loved the terror in her eyes and the way her voice cracked with fear and pleading. But he also loved Alana, and didn’t want her to suffer too much. At least not like this. Not yet.
“I am taking you home, darling. To our home. I’ve been working and saving for two years for this. I have it all arranged so I can work from home. I’ll never leave you alone again, my beloved. No more lonely nights for you. No more endless work schedules with all those vultures profiting off your talents.”
Alana continued to cry, her head now hidden in her hands. Mark was annoyed. Wasn’t she listening to him? “Stop it at once. I don’t like that crying. I just gave you wonderful news.”
Twisting back for a second, he touched the top of her bowed head with the hard metal of the gun.
Alana jumped and jerked her head back with a cry.
Again facing forward, Mark glanced angrily into the rearview mirror. “Your face is a mess. I told you to stop that damn crying.” She was ruining her pretty face with the mascara-streaked tears and the ugly expression. He’d have to focus on something else. A brilliant idea popped into his head. After all, the windows were tinted—no one could see in. “Take off that sweater,” he commanded. “And your bra too.”
Dark Obsessions - Volume 2: Four Dark, Delicious Capture Fantasies Page 30
