Dark Obsessions - Volume 2: Four Dark, Delicious Capture Fantasies

by Claire Thompson

  She could go.

  And yet she didn’t.

  It was too risky. There would be a trap. Better to wait, to bide her time.

  She curled up in a chair and opened the book to page one.

  That night Mark suggested she make the dinner, something she’d never done without his express participation and direction. She was wearing a pink blouse and a pair of blue jeans, the clothing still unfamiliar against her skin. Alone in the kitchen, she could have grabbed a sharp knife and used it on her captor, but she didn’t. She thought about his gun, which she hadn’t seen, she realized, in quite some time.

  But she didn’t want to kill Mark.

  She wanted to cook, something she had used to enjoy doing, in the before time.

  Mark kept a well-stocked freezer and pantry, and Alana found everything she needed to prepare beef goulash with carrots, mushrooms and fresh herbs. She made a pan of cornbread to complement the spice of the goulash. They shared a bottle of Cabernet, and Mark toasted the meal with a raise of his glass.

  “I had no idea you were such an accomplished cook, Alana. This is delicious.”

  Alana smiled, warmed by his praise.

  After supper they sat on the couch together in the living room. Again, it felt strange. She wasn’t used to being treated as Mark’s equal. To her surprise, she wasn’t entirely sure that she liked it. Normally she would have been naked at his feet. He might suddenly pull her up and onto his lap so he could stroke her. Or tell her to go to the playroom and prepare for a session.

  She would dutifully obey, waiting patiently in the middle of the room if he had told her to, or kneeling, her ass raised high, her forehead resting on the white floor, her heart beating in anticipation.

  He would enter a while later, and the erotic torture would begin. The cane, his cock, the whip, the cross, the suspension rack, whatever pleased him. Whatever he decreed.

  She would lose track of time and space as she became pure, raw sensation. Pain and pleasure would blend and bleed, twist and spiral inside her until she dissolved into it—into him.

  Alana reread the same paragraph in her book a dozen times, and still the words didn’t register.

  “A penny for your thoughts.”

  Alana looked up at the sound of his voice. He was staring at her, an intensity in his gaze.

  “Nothing,” she replied reflexively. Everything.

  He pursed his lips. As his slave, she didn’t have the right to withhold anything from her Master, not even her thoughts.

  But she wasn’t his slave.

  According to this odd, new situation, she was his guest.

  As if having the same thoughts, Mark nodded slowly, saying nothing more. Instead, he rose to his feet, stretching elaborately. “I think I’ll turn in early. I’m really tired.”

  She let him go, of course. It was a relief, in a way, to have him gone. She didn’t have to sit on the couch any longer in her clothing pretending to read her book, wondering how to behave.

  She got up and went into “her” bathroom. She stripped out of her clothes and stared at herself in the mirror, turning around and twisting back to admire the brand. He had taken her slave jewelry, but he couldn’t take that from her.

  Turning back, she noticed the shadow of stubble on her mons. She touched the soft fuzz and realized with a small shock that she liked being smooth. She had grown accustomed to the bare, silken feel.

  Looking furtively at the closed bathroom door, she decided she would do it herself. Even if he no longer wanted her, she would keep herself ready. She would keep herself soft and bare for him, just in case he changed his mind. And if it was a test, she would pass it, when he inevitably called an end to this odd game they were playing.

  He had filled the drawers with all the toiletries she would need, including a fresh razor and shaving cream. She drew a bath and placed the razor and cream on the ledge. Climbing in, she soaked for a while, luxuriating in the hot water. Then, trying to imitate his long, even strokes, she shaved her legs, then her underarms, and finally her pussy.

  He did it better. She missed his sure touch.

  Alana dried her body and applied the creams and oils he used to smooth into her flesh. Then she quickly washed her face, brushed her teeth and went into the bedroom.

  Sleep eluded her as she tried to get comfortable in the soft bed. Where were her bracelets and chains? Where was the strong, warm man she had become used to having beside her, holding her close until she fell asleep?

  Her hand found its way to the brand. She traced the slightly raised lines, visualizing the linked ovals. She had been branded by the man who would now set her free.

  She would never feel the lash again. Never again know the intensity of being cropped on her spread pussy and then ordered to come. Never know the humiliation of crouching naked while her Master urinated on her back, the yellow droplets rolling down her sides and hanging for a second in perfect globes at her nipples, before sliding down to the cold porcelain below her.

  She should be thrilled he was going to set her free. She could go back to the before time, when she was in command—in control. She could return to the filming and the photo shoots, to the runway events and the promo tours, to the hectic, glamorous, exciting life that had been hers.

  Did she miss it?

  Could you miss a dream?

  What was real now?

  What did she want?

  What would happen when she told everyone what had happened to her? Would they even believe it? She had been whipped and tortured and completely isolated from all other human contact. She had been pierced and branded. She had submitted to it all. She hadn’t really tried to fight him, had she? Would they understand she had been held here against her will? That she had had no choice but to comply?

  What would they make of it all? How would she be treated? Would they believe her wild tales? And where was the man who had done these horrible things? If they tracked him down, despite his certainty they wouldn’t, he would be tried. She would be on trial as well, with the whole world avidly watching. The star witness.

  She would be forced to testify for the record, for the world, about her punishments, about the cage. Would her brand be entered as evidence? Her piercing? It was all too horrible to contemplate.

  Well, if she did go, she would face that particular hurdle when she came to it.

  What was she thinking? If she went? Of course she was going. She had to go. Didn’t she?

  “I can’t make you love me.”

  She fell asleep finally, cupping her pussy as if it were Mark’s hand there, keeping her safe, keeping her wet for him. That night her dreams weren’t about harem girls in foreign lands.

  This time she dreamed of Mark.

  Chapter 11

  They shared meals, sitting across from each other at the table like any couple. They exchanged small talk about the books they were reading, or the weather. Neither brought up the subject of her impending departure. Alana didn’t have the courage, and Mark, it seemed, didn’t have the heart.

  Alana began to get comfortable again on the furniture. She became used to wearing clothing. Her fingers searched less frequently for the bracelets that were no longer there.

  He never called for her and never came to her bedroom at night. Still, just in case, she continued to keep her pussy shaved.

  After being so conditioned with constant sex, constant punishment, and constant attention, Alana felt lost. And lonely. Her body ached for his attentions. She found the only way to settle herself to sleep was to masturbate.

  At first she hesitated, uncomfortable and still not totally sure it was permitted. Then it became her solace. She would rub and finger-fuck herself, staying as quiet as she could when she came. The climaxes barely scratched her itch, but they were better than nothing.

  One day when Mark was ensconced in his study, she crept into the playroom. Everything was in its place—the ropes, whips and chains hung along the walls, the St. Andrew’s cross, the whipping chai
r, the suspension bar. The shades had been drawn, the place shrouded in shadow. Not sure she should be in there at all, Alana slipped over to the toy chest and opened it. Inside were the myriad of dildos, clips, clamps, coiled rope, duct tape and lubricants.

  Looking guiltily over her shoulder, Alana grabbed a battery-operated vibrator. Shutting the lid of the toy chest, she fled from the room. That night she fucked herself with the phallus, silently begging her Master for permission to come as it took her over the edge.

  As the week passed, Alana began to play with herself during the day as well. She really hadn’t much else to do. Her time when she had been Mark’s slave had been spent chained, bound, cuffed, tortured or adored, always serving him in some way. Mark didn’t have cable, and anyway, she had never much liked television. He hadn’t given her access to the internet, and there was only so much reading she could do.

  When Mark was working, she would slip into her bedroom, keeping her ear cocked for any sound that he was coming. She would slip her hand into her panties and bring herself to a rapid release. Though unbidden, the images in her mind as she brought herself to orgasm always included Mark. Scenes from their time together powered her fantasies—the torture, the tenderness, the whippings and the kisses intertwined.

  As the week drew to a close, her courage increased, along with a yet unnamed anxiety. She tried to bring up the subject of her leaving but Mark refused to discuss it. He had made his decision. She would be set free. She would return to her life, he assured her, and he would rebuild his.

  ~*~

  Mark behaved calmly with her, betraying little emotion. There was no repeat episode of the first evening, no humiliating tears. His pride wouldn’t allow it.

  He argued endlessly with himself about his decision. Why had he meddled with something so perfect? He had had her just where he wanted her—at his feet, at his mercy. Yet he knew he had no choice. It was no longer enough to keep her in chains.

  There was no going back. The die was cast.

  Tomorrow morning he would drive her to a bus station in a nearby town. He’d already arranged to sell the house and all its contents (except the toys and gear in the playroom and basement, which would go directly to the municipal dump).

  He had his fake passport and access to several overseas bank accounts that would provide him with all he needed for a long time to come. By the time the authorities descended, he would be halfway round the world, with a new identity and a new life.

  A life without her, without meaning.

  He told himself to stop being melodramatic. His life didn’t hinge on her. That was ridiculous. He could disappear into oblivion and find another slave girl. This time a willing one, one who yearned to submit without being forced.

  But she wouldn’t be Alana. She wouldn’t be his Alana.

  Not touching her all week had been the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. He’d held himself back only through sheer grit and determination. To have her so close and not touch her, kiss her, fuck her, whip her, adore her, had been a living hell, one he’d imposed on himself.

  But beneath his cool exterior, his heart was breaking.

  His lust raged unchecked. He could hold it no longer. He had to claim her at least once more. He needed to taste her sweet lips, to feel her hot cunt, to make her suffer for him one last time.

  ~*~

  Alana stood at the window in her room, watching the last splash of color fade from the sky. She wore a short dress with a batik pattern of fish and seashells in deep ink blue. Mark really had an eye for elegant simplicity. She hadn’t bothered with a bra or panties, and her feet were bare.

  Her own clothes, the things she’d arrived in, were laid out for tomorrow. He told her she would take nothing of his with her—none of the beautiful clothing, nor the strange jewelry she’d worn at her wrists, ankles and sex. She touched her bottom through the material of the dress. He couldn’t take that back. His mark would always remind her of this strange time.

  Lost in a daydream, she didn’t hear anyone enter the room, but suddenly Mark was behind her, his hands gripping her shoulders, his scent enveloping her. “Don’t move.”

  Her heart kicked instantly into overdrive.

  Was this when he admitted it had all been a game? A trap? She could barely breathe.

  She started to turn around, to sink to her knees, but his hands tightened, the fingers digging painfully into her flesh. “I said don’t move.”

  Alana froze. While a part of her was terrified, she couldn’t help but feel a kind of elation. He still wanted her! She was his adored, cherished slave girl.

  Her thoughts were cut short as he spoke, his voice low and urgent. “Put your hands up against the window. High up.”

  Alana obeyed, pressing her palms against the cool glass as she tried to get air into her lungs. His large hands slid underneath her dress and ran along her sides, sending a shiver of raw desire through her loins. She couldn’t control the whimper of desire when his fingers closed over her nipples. He rolled and twisted them until they were engorged and throbbing. Then he slid his hands down her stomach to her cunt. He cupped the smooth mons and pressed a finger inside.

  Alana groaned.

  He ground his palm against her clit, and Alana moaned her pleasure. Before long, she began to tremble, a climax hurtling through her body in shuddering waves. Her knees began to buckle and she pressed her hands hard against the windowpane for support.

  “Oh, god,” she moaned, trying to form the words she knew her Master required, “Please, may I—?”

  He cut her off, “Don’t ask me for anything,” he said gruffly. “Don’t ask permission—it’s no longer mine to give.”

  Alana was too far-gone, too close to release to fully process the import of his words. She let her orgasm lift and carry her as his fingers continued their perfect, relentless dance against her sex.

  As she sagged against the window, Alana felt Mark’s naked body press against hers, warm and strong. Gripping her shoulders, he turned her toward him. He was naked, his cock hard and fully erect.

  As her arms fell to her sides, he slipped the dress from her shoulders, and it puddled to the floor at her feet. He stared down into her eyes. “I have to have you, at least once more.”

  His voice was commanding. Gone was the almost timorous man she had experienced during this long, strange week. Her Master had returned to her.

  Moving her from the window, Mark pressed her against the wall and hoisted her onto his hips. As she wrapped her legs around him, he eased her onto his shaft. Her cunt clamped around his thick cock as it filled her completely, an after-spasm from her recent orgasm making her jerk against him.

  For a moment, Mark just held her, his face resting against her bare breasts, his strong arms encircling her. Then he lifted and then lowered her on his cock, as if she weighed nothing. He began to thrust faster, his steady, perfect rhythm reawakening her need. He began to pant, his head thrown back, his face suffused with lust.

  Impulsively she wrapped her arms around him, dropping her head to his shoulder as he pummeled her into ecstasy.

  ~*~

  Neither spoke as they pushed around the food on their plates. Mark stole a glance at the girl of his dreams, the woman he was sending away. She was dressed in the clothing she’d worn when he’d abducted her—the bright yellow sweater and faded jeans, her feet shod in expensive boots.

  How he yearned to take her in his arms. To kiss her hair and tell her how much he loved her. If he stood up now and took it all back, if he rescinded her right to leave, informed her she would remain here forever, bound to him as slave to Master until death did them part, would she accept it? And if she did, what would it mean?

  Ironically, he had achieved the goal he’d set for himself when he’d first abducted her. She had come to accept her lot as his sexual property. But he knew better. She was like those hostages who became unnaturally attached to their captors. She might think she wanted to stay, but it was fear and conditioning,
not love, that motivated her behavior.

  It was time.

  He pushed back from the table and stood. “Let’s go.”

  Silently, Alana stood as well. For a moment it seemed she would speak, but she said nothing. It was still early, the sun just peeking up over the mountains as they stepped outside together.

  Mark opened the door of his car and motioned for her to get in back. “I’m going to blindfold you so you aren’t tempted to remember the way back. You will lie down flat on the seat. If you try to get up, I’ll tie you down, understand?”

  Mutely, she nodded. There were tears in her eyes.

  Once she lay down on the back seat, he slipped a sleep mask over her face. She didn’t move or protest. Satisfied, he closed her door and slid into the driver’s seat.

  They drove in silence for close to an hour. Alana remained as still and silent as death in the backseat. Mark held the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. As he pulled at last into the bus station, his heart felt so heavy he thought it might crush him from the inside.

  “Sit up,” he said, as he pulled into a parking space at the back of the empty lot. He turned off the ignition and climbed into the back seat next to Alana. He helped her to a sitting position as he removed the sleep mask.

  As she blinked in the sunlight, he handed her an envelope. “There’s five hundred dollars in there. That should be plenty to get you back to the city or wherever you’re going.”

  Alana looked at him, her large violet-blue eyes again pooling with tears. “What’s that?” She pointed to the numbers written neatly in the center of the envelope.

  “It’s my cell. In case you needed to contact me. It will be a working number for the next twenty-four hours. After that you won’t be able to reach me. Ever.”

  Heat rushed into his face. As if she would ever want to reach him for anything ever, except to lead the police to him. He climbed out of the car and gestured for her to get out. “Go on. Go, before I change my mind.”

  ~*~

  Alana sat in the bus station her purse in her lap. There was a cell phone inside it, but the battery was long-dead. She’d bought a ticket for New York City, but she hadn’t called anyone yet. Not her parents, not her agent, not the police. She’d watched as Mark drove away, feeling strangely as if he were taking a part of her with him.