Dark Obsessions - Volume I: Four Intense Capture Fantasies in One Sizzling Collection

by Claire Thompson

  “That sounds pretty sleazy to me,” Devin said.

  Reggie shrugged. “Hey, this is Pattaya, not London. You want to find Leah, you’re gonna have to get down into the trenches with people who have connections and know the local scene.”

  Devin already had his mobile out, more than ready to get down into the trenches if it meant finding Leah.

  ~*~

  The room was elegant but austere, with a dark, shiny hardwood floor and pale gray walls with white trim molding. The space was windowless, lit by tall brass floor lamps. The only furniture in the room was a single chair made of black, shiny teakwood, and a circular raised dais covered with a black mat set directly in front of it.

  Sitting in the chair was a tall, angular man with a shaved head and a black goatee and mustache. He wore a single, large diamond stud in one earlobe. His fingers, long and slender, were tented just below his chin, lending him a contemplative air. He was staring at Leah as she was brought into the room, his eyes dark and glittering, his expression inscrutable.

  The guards lifted her onto the dais and stepped back a respectful distance. Leah stood on what she would have described as an auction block in front of the steward, feeling both frightened and ridiculous.

  “Drop the robe and lift your hands behind your head.” He spoke in the same cultured, British accent as the man they referred to as Master, though there was more of a hint of what Leah guessed was his native Arabic in the guttural turn of his vowels and the way he rolled his r’s.

  While Leah’s rational brain, which was highly sensitive to linguistic nuance, was busy identifying the man’s accent, it took a moment longer to process what he had just ordered her to do. Aware she had no choice in the matter, Leah let the silky robe fall from her shoulders. Lifting her arms, she clasped her fingers together behind her neck.

  The man’s eyes moved slowly over her bare body, resting a while on her breasts before moving in a sweep over every inch. Leah felt thoroughly violated by his relentless gaze. “Turn to the right,” he ordered, and then, “Now to the left.”

  Leah’s stomach burbled audibly and she felt suddenly light headed from hunger. If you please him, he may invite you to dine with him. Leah refused to contemplate the second half of the guard’s promise, or, rather, his threat, instead focusing her mind on the hope of food. If she pleased this man, this steward, she would get to eat. That was what mattered now—she had to get some food in her body to keep up her strength while she figured a way out.

  “Turn completely around,” the steward ordered. He spoke in a quiet, almost lazy way, for some reason recalling to her mind The Jungle Book animated movie she’d loved as a child, when the evil snake Kaa had hissed, “trussssst in meeee,” to the unsuspecting Mowgli.

  Leah turned, bringing the ever-present guards into her line of sight. The guards were standing with arms folded, like statues on either side of the door, their eyes straight ahead.

  “Bend over and grab your ankles,” the steward ordered. Leah felt her cheeks flaming, but she did as she was told, reminding herself this was a means to an end, a way to stay alive.

  In spite of her resolve to get through this, her legs and arms had begun to shake, fear, hunger and exhaustion taking their toll. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could maintain this embarrassing position and was greatly relieved when the steward said, “Stand and turn again to face me, arms at your sides.”

  With relief, Leah straightened and turned slowly until she was again facing the steward. He sat back and tilted his head as he continued to scrutinize her. Leah wasn’t sure she could hang on much longer, being stared at as if she was an animal or a piece of furniture he was considering buying.

  Finally he spoke. “Though imperfect, you are passable. With some work and training, you might be acceptable to the Master.” He stood, adding, “Put on your robe. I am going to break my fast. Would you care to join me?”

  Leah had a sudden, vivid fantasy of whipping out a Samurai sword, like Uma Thurman in the movie, Kill Bill. She would leap from the dais, sword swinging, and lop off this arrogant man’s head. Then, whipping around, she would skewer both guards, running them through with the sword and pinning them, like shish kebab, to the wall.

  Focus on what you can control. Food. He is offering food.

  Bending down, she reached for the silk robe, pulling it over her shoulders and wrapping it around her body. “Yes, please,” she managed in what she hoped was a submissive tone. She cleared her throat, forcing herself to add, “Thank you, sir.”

  The steward nodded slightly in the direction of the guards. Leah was lifted from the dais. The guards flanked her on either side as they followed the steward through a door that led into a second room.

  Leah’s senses were at once assailed with the smell of roasting coffee. Sunlight was sparkling through a large window that faced the water. A circular table covered in white linen, like the one in the Master’s bedroom, was set for what looked like afternoon tea, or, in this case, coffee. There was a plate with peeled oranges and another piled with finger sandwiches filled with various pastes and vegetables. Beside them was a tray of what Leah recognized as baklava, a delicious pastry of filo dough, honey, cinnamon and walnuts. Next to the food sat two small china cups and a brass dallah Leah assumed held coffee.

  There were two chairs, one on either side of the table. The steward sat down. Nearly faint with hunger, Leah started to sink into the other chair, but a firm hand pushed hard on her shoulder, forcing her to her knees.

  The steward regarded her, lifting an eyebrow. “Untrained, impertinent American. Slaves never sit on furniture uninvited. You may kneel on the cushion.”

  Fuck you, you arrogant prick!

  Leah tried to keep her face impassive, aware by the man’s sudden frown that her anger had probably been obvious. She couldn’t fuck up now, not when she was so close to being given food. She scooted toward the flat silk cushion she now noticed on the floor beside the steward’s chair, taking small comfort that at least she wasn’t being required to kneel on the hard wood.

  There was another nearly imperceptible nod from the steward toward the guards, who withdrew from the room, closing the door softly behind them. The steward lifted the samovar and poured dark, rich coffee into the tiny cups. He stirred in sugar from a silver pot and held one of the cups out to Leah.

  She took it, sipping the bitter coffee, her eyes on the food. She watched hungrily as the steward selected a sandwich with what looked like cheese and cucumber on two thin slices of bread from the plate. Leah’s mouth began to water uncontrollably as she watched him lift the sandwich to his mouth and pop it in.

  He selected a second sandwich. This one he ate more slowly, his gaze on the window as he chewed. When he had eaten four of the tiny sandwiches, he took the orange and split it in half, eating several segments one at a time.

  Leah was ready to scream. She wanted to spring on the man like a wild animal and topple him from the chair. Then she would grab handfuls of the food and eat and eat until she was finally full. He was taunting her by making her sit at his feet like a dog, waiting patiently for scraps.

  And yet, that was just what she was doing, and she knew she’d better keep doing it if she hoped to get those scraps. This was a test, she was sure of it. And she would pass it if at all possible.

  Finally, almost as an afterthought as he sipped his second cup of coffee, the steward turned his gaze to her. “Would you care for a sandwich? Perhaps a bit of fruit?”

  “Yes, please,” she whispered fervently.

  The steward held out his hand and Leah realized he wanted her empty cup back. She complied, watching with hungry eyes as he set three of the small sandwiches and half an orange on a plate.

  When he handed it to her, Leah took it with shaking hands. She ate the orange first. The fruit was juicy and sweet, and very quickly gone. She tried to savor the different cheeses and raw vegetables and fresh bread of the dainty little sandwiches, but she was too hungry to do much more than w
olf them down.

  She realized the steward was watching her with an amused expression. “Would you care for a piece of baklava?”

  “Yes, please.”

  The steward selected a plump piece that was oozing with honey and set it down on her now empty plate. She bit into the delicious confection, the sweetness exploding in her mouth. With food finally in her stomach, she was able to savor the dessert, one of her favorites.

  The steward poured another cup of the strong coffee and stirred in some sugar. He handed her the cup. Leah sipped it. She would have loved another ten or twelve of those finger sandwiches and at least three more pieces of the pastry but nothing more was offered. Instead, the steward patted his lips with a linen napkin and rose from his seat.

  A quick, sharp clap of his hands brought the guards back into the room. “Take the girl to the assessment chamber. I am interested in testing her tolerance of sexual pain for the Master.”

  Leah was hustled along yet another hallway of the huge house, the food she’d eaten now sitting like lead in her belly. She was brought into a large room filled with all kinds of equipment, including whipping posts, wooden stocks, a spanking horse, a bondage table and other wicked looking apparatus that, even with her experience with BDSM, Leah didn’t have a name for.

  She gasped when she saw the long, low sleep cage. Inside was a young woman lying on her side. She was naked, with silver cuffs on her wrists and ankles like the ones Alex had worn, a silver slave collar around her neck. She had long, straight black hair, narrow, dark eyes and a wide, sensuous mouth. She was clutching the bars of the cage, watching silently as Leah was led into the room.

  The steward entered the room a moment later. Ignoring the caged girl, he said in his soft, serpentine voice, “Remove her robe and secure the girl to the suspension rack. Then bring me the quirt.”

  Leah was propelled to the center of room. Her robe was pulled from her and she was forced to stand on a small platform beneath chains that hung from the ceiling, leather cuffs at their ends. She was cuffed in place, her arms pulled taut overhead. Her ankles were cuffed to eyebolts on the platform, her legs spread far apart.

  Leah’s breath was coming fast, her heart racing in fearful anticipation. Though she was no stranger to erotic BDSM play, it had always been consensual and on her terms. Hadn’t she already been “assessed” at the hands of the guards? She had a feeling the steward had something different in mind and she didn’t like the sound of it one little bit.

  She watched with trepidation as one of the guards went to a wall hung with an assortment of whips. He returned to the steward and held out a whip with a braided leather handle and two long, thin strips of leather Leah knew from experience could sting like hell on contact.

  The guard handed the quirt to the steward, who nodded brusquely. “You may wait outside. I’ll let you know when you are needed.” The two men withdrew, closing the door behind them. Leah was alone with the steward and the naked, caged girl, who had remained utterly silent, her wide eyes fixed on Leah.

  The steward moved to stand directly in front of Leah, the quirt in his hand. “The Master has certain tastes. He values girls who can take a good beating without crying out. He especially values girls who can derive sexual pleasure from erotic pain.” He drew the leather tips of the quirt over Leah’s bare breasts and leaned in close.

  “American girls are willful and noncompliant. It is rare that they prove themselves worthy of the Master’s attentions. More often than not, they are sold to the highest bidder for the exotic gentlemen’s clubs or, if they aren’t even worthy of that, they will be consigned to the brothels that litter this country.”

  Leah shuddered as the steward drew the quirt down her body. “He has plenty of Asian girls like Setsuko.” He waved toward the girl in the cage. “These women understand the value and duty of proper submission. Though,” he smiled dryly, “they do sometimes need reminding and punishment.”

  He turned toward Setsuko. “Roll over and show the American girl your stripes.”

  The girl released the bars and rolled obediently onto her other side. Leah drew in her breath as she took in the welts on the girl’s back and ass. There were easily a dozen long, red, ridged lines, probably caused by a cane. Several of the welts had cut the flesh, and the girl’s skin was smeared with dried blood. Leah wondered what she had done, or failed to do, to earn such a harsh punishment.

  Setsuko apparently forgotten, the steward turned his focus back to Leah. “A golden-haired beauty would be a nice addition to the Master’s harem. Especially one who can tolerate pain.”

  Though she didn’t relish the idea of entering the Master’s harem, it seemed a better alternative to being sold to the highest bidder to serve out her days in an exotic club or whorehouse. At least given what she knew of harems from what she’d read, the women were confined in luxurious quarters and afforded relative freedom within those confines. It had to be better and certainly safer than being whored out on the street.

  Stepping back, the steward struck Leah’s left breast with the quirt, leaving two stinging lines of fire in its wake. Leah jerked and gasped, breathing hard through her nose to keep from yelping as she gripped the chains above the wrist cuffs.

  The man nodded in apparent approval, while lifting his eyebrows as if surprised. He struck her again, this time across the front of both her thighs. Leah winced and bit her lower lip to keep from crying out. The steward pursed his lips as he regarded her, as if thinking what to do next.

  He walked out of her line of vision. She could see the girl in the cage, who was again facing her, her fingers wrapped around the bars. The girl silently mouthed something Leah couldn’t catch. Distracted by this, Leah wasn’t ready for the next stroke, a hard lash across her ass, and she cried out.

  She was ready, though, when the next stroke came, landing just above first. This time, however, the tips of the quirt curled painfully around her left hip, drawing tears to her eyes. The steward struck her several times across her back and Leah felt herself edging toward panic, pain and fear rising like a bubble from inside her, threatening to burst out in a howl.

  Breathe. Let go. I can feel your tension. Hold nothing back.

  Leah startled, glancing sharply around the room. The voice was that of Jean Luc, her only lover since Todd. Though the relationship had only lasted a few weeks, ending with his return to his native country of France, during that time Jean Luc had taught her in a hands-on way about using erotic pain to reach that heavenly place where pleasure and suffering fused into a sublime experience.

  The steward was focusing on the backs of her thighs now, a thousand bee stings moving in relentless waves over her skin. Cuffed to the platform as she was, she couldn’t even try to twist away from the onslaught.

  Again she heard the voice, which of course was entirely in her head. Flow with the pain. Let it take you where you need to go. Show me your grace. Show me your courage.

  Leah felt her eyelids fluttering closed. The sting of the quirt, while still painful, was somehow more tolerable. She took a deep breath and expelled it slowly.

  That’s it. Do it for me. Do it for us.

  Her head felt suddenly heavy, too heavy to hold upright. She let it fall back and felt her lips parting as a soft sigh escaped them.

  Yes. You’re nearly there. Take the last leap and let yourself fly…

  The steward had moved in front of her again, his quirt striking like snake bites against her breasts. It hurt, oh yes, it hurt, but at the same time she felt a deep, sensual peace settle over her like a gossamer net, enfolding her and keeping her safe.

  She saw the endless blue sparkling ocean beneath her as she soared away from the pain. The leather tips still struck relentlessly over her breasts, stomach and thighs, but Leah no longer felt the sting.

  She was flying.

  She was free.

  Chapter 7

  After Devin established himself as a friend of Reggie Smith, George had been forthcoming about his location, w
hich turned out to be only fifteen minutes by cab from the pub. After a quick stop at the local bank where his company did business, Devin directed the cabbie to the address George had given him.

  The private investigator’s office was a small, crowded space located on a narrow street, wedged between a dry goods store and a hair salon. George S. was a small, trim man of about fifty. He wore a white straw fedora and had a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. The once-white walls of the cluttered office were yellowed with years of nicotine and the air was stale.

  Reminding himself that beggars couldn’t be choosers, Devin sat down on one of the folding chairs set in front of the metal desk, which was piled high with folders and scattered papers.

  After the obligatory greetings and discussion of their shared acquaintance of Reggie Smith, Devin dived in, explaining his concerns while George scribbled on a yellow legal pad, the cigarette still dangling. When Devin mentioned the cold case of the other missing American woman, the PI perked up.

  “Ah, yes. I’m quite familiar with that particular hotel. I have collected much useful information. Jane Erwin wasn’t the first to go missing. There here have been at least five other girls in the past four years who’ve vanished into thin air after either working at or staying in that hotel.”

  Devin leaned forward, hanging on George’s words, desperate to hear more. But George only took another drag on his cigarette and smiled politely in Devin’s direction.

  Devin realized he was waiting to be paid for his information, as Reg had predicted. “Oh, right,” Devin faltered, and then, catching himself, made sure to phrase his offer in the proper polite terms that wouldn’t offend, while still making his intentions clear.