Tamara, Taken

by Ginger Talbot

  I would have preferred if it had taken longer for her to be reported missing, but it’s not going to be a problem. Tamara has no living family. I’ve checked. Nobody to go looking for her. In New York City, the disappearance of a girl like her—poor and with no close relatives to push the issue—will barely make a ripple. It hasn’t made the news yet, and it probably never will. More than thirteen thousand people are reported missing every year in New York City, and the disappearance of anyone over the age eighteen, when there are no signs of foul play, will not get a lot of attention.

  It’s interesting, though, that her neighbor across the hall, Heather, hasn’t reported her missing. When Tamara started working for my company, I had a very discreet private investigator on my payroll follow Tamara for a bit, due to her strange effect on me. I learned that she had no boyfriend, that she worked all the time, and that she packed food in her purse so she could give it away to homeless people even though she could barely afford to feed herself.

  And I know she was good friends with her neighbor. Or at least, it appeared they were friends, as I understand such things. When Tamara had free time, which was not often, she spent it with Heather.

  I make a quick call to the investigator, using an encrypted, untraceable line, and ask him to check up on this Heather person. Heather works at a bagel shop, and she wants to be an actress. There are various ways to start conversations with her to find out why she didn’t bother to report Tamara missing. Maybe she’s just a selfish bitch; I know I wouldn’t have reported Tamara missing if I’d been in Heather’s shoes. I mean, how would it benefit me?

  However, the way she is acting is not the way that normal people act, so it should be checked up on.

  I glance at Tamara again, then deliberately turn the screen away from me. She’s occupying a lot of mental real estate these days; perhaps too much.

  I force my attention back to more pressing projects and mentally review my tasks for the rest of the day. I expect Philip Morton from Morton Media to give me an answer tomorrow after he meets with his board of directors. I’m not interested in his newspapers; I’m interested in the valuable real estate that his various newspaper offices occupy, and I’ve also been promised a healthy fee by his competitors, who want me to shut down his printing presses for good.

  I’ll be making calls to various interested parties who want to buy the Morton real estate, setting them up against each other, creating a bidding frenzy. I mean, Mr. Morton hasn’t said yes yet, but he will. I’ve never failed to acquire a company once I’ve committed to taking it.

  I’ve also got people on the inside. Mr. Morton was desperate to cut costs, so when that new janitorial service approached him, offering him a forty percent saving over his old provider, it must have seemed like a dream come true. Unfortunately for him, I own the janitorial service—a shell company that can’t be traced back to me. And they’re planting listening devices in his office, reporting back to me regularly.

  I also need to make a decision about my latest hunting project. Should I do it soon? Should I wait a few months, now that I’ve got Tamara to keep me entertained?

  Killing Baxter quickly didn’t fulfill my needs. It’s not just the killing that answers that raw, primal call howling up from the depths of my soul. It’s the rituals. Drawing it out. They need to run, they need to fight. I must crush them slowly. When I hurried with him, it left me unsatisfied.

  My favorite prospect is a judge who takes bribes to let abusive men keep custody of their children. I’m also interested in one of the people who’s slipping him payments. A man named Steven Hamilton, a wealthy child molester who will be granted full custody of his two little girls in a few weeks, at his next court date. Up until now, Steven’s only been allowed weekly phone calls to his children, but thanks to a million-dollar donation to a Swiss bank account, the judge has decided that Steven is successfully reformed and his ex-wife is being unfairly hostile to the father of her children. What’s wrong with a little incest, as long as you keep it all in the family?

  I am debating whether I should kill the judge or Mr. Hamilton. Both are in good physical shape. Judge Gatwood takes boxing lessons and plays racquetball, and Steven Hamilton studies Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. Steven is younger and appears to be more physically fit, though.

  Maybe I should force sweet little Tamara to make the decision. The idea brings a smile to my face.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tamara

  At lunchtime, he walks into the room and snaps his fingers at me. Like I’m a dog. I scowl at the floor as I stand up. He doesn’t say a word, so I don’t either.

  He leads me down the hallway to a beautifully set-up exercise room and removes my collar and my ankle chains. I twist my head from side to side, rubbing my neck in blessed relief. He fetches a shirt and shorts and sneakers and socks from a row of cubicles on the wall, and hands them to me. I look around for a place to change.

  “Really, Tamara?” Cruel amusement laces his voice. “I own every inch of your skin. Don’t ever try to hide it from me. If you aren’t naked in thirty seconds, I will brand my name on your ass to help you remember that.”

  Brand me? Images of sizzling flesh sear my mind as I drop the exercise gear and rip off my clothing and drop it to the floor in a panic. He watches, a smile quirking his lips. He likes my fear.

  Fucking bastard.

  “Turn around, slowly.”

  I do a pirouette for his approval. He nods, and cups my breast, and my nipple instantly swells in arousal.

  “What is this, Tamara?” he asks, giving it a rough squeeze that nearly wrenches a moan of raw need from me.

  “My…my breast, Master?” I’m confused.

  His face doesn’t change expression as he slaps my breast so hard that it stings, and I yelp in pain.

  “Try again?” He squeezes once more, much harder.

  “Your breast, Master?” I pray that’s the right answer, as my eyes fill with tears of pain and humiliation. I can’t go a few hours without crying here. Will he ever tire of making me cry?

  He stops squeezing and drops his hand. “Much better.”

  He slides his hand between my legs, and I jump, but force myself to stand still as he slowly strokes me. Unwelcome heat floods my body and moisture oozes from me, soaking his fingers. How can I be filled with such hate and lust at the same time?

  “And what is this, Tamara?” he says, his fingers still moving.

  “Your pussy, Master.” I look down, and tears drip onto the floor.

  “It’s wet for me, isn’t it, Tamara?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Who is allowed to give pleasure to your pussy?”

  “You are, Master.”

  He seizes a sensitive fold between two fingers and squeezes hard, sending a jolt of pain through my body.

  “Who else?”

  “Only you!” I cry out, writhing in protest at the cruel grip of his fingers.

  His fingers relax. “Very good. You may not touch yourself without my permission. You may not masturbate. Only I can make you come, and that is a privilege that you will have to earn. Are we clear?”

  “Y-yes, Master,” I gasp as he removes his hand. My body is pulsing with desire, and I grit my teeth against it, trying to will away the ache between my legs. Anger sizzles inside me. I’m not sure if I would have tried to get myself off on my own, knowing cameras are watching me everywhere, but the complete control he demands of me chokes me with helpless rage.

  “What will I do to you if I catch you touching yourself without my permission?”

  I grit the words out. “You’ll punish me, Master.”

  He’s watching my face with that amused look, as if he can read every tormented thought that’s marching through my head. “Very good. Now get your exercise clothing on.”

  He changes into a T-shirt and shorts, stripping naked in front of me without hesitation. I’m ashamed that I keep sneaking looks at his naked body, at that broad chest narrowing down in a V-shape to his p
erfect hips, at his thick, glorious cock. He doesn’t seem to notice.

  We climb onto side-by-side treadmills. He sets mine at a pace that slowly increases from two to five miles an hour. My bruised ass and thighs ache dully. I’m gasping for breath when he waves me off twenty minutes later. He’s at a dead run and has barely broken a sweat.

  “Go to the free weight area. There’s a list of exercises on the wall next to the mirror. Do all of them,” he says, and I hurry to obey him.

  He’s just climbing off the treadmill when I finish with the weights.

  He makes me put the T-shirt and yoga pants on, then he fastens the collar around my neck and the chains on my ankles. “Get out,” he says coldly, and heads over to the free weights as I shuffle off miserably.

  It hurts that he’s dismissed me so abruptly. I just did everything he asked without arguing, I’m submitting to him at a level that makes me sick with disgust at myself, and it’s still not enough for him?

  I shouldn’t want his approval, but it’s hard for me to be around someone when they act as if they hate me. Even my kidnapper.

  I’m already wretched enough. My whole life has been stripped away from me. When he smiles at me, when he’s gentle with me, it actually makes me feel good for a few minutes, and I crave that. It’s like being warmed by the rays of the sun. But it comes and goes without apparent reason. His attitude toward me is so inconsistent that I find myself thrown off balance, not knowing how to earn even moderately decent treatment from my jailer.

  Early that evening, when I am sitting in the living room trying to find a comfortable way to read a book with that vile collar on my neck, Elizabeth comes to get me. She’s limping painfully, sucking in gasps of pain with each step. It looks like there’s a purple plum swelling where her right eye should be. Her nose is swollen, with a cut running vertically across it, and her lip is split. She holds up a chalkboard which has the words “I’m very sorry. It will never happen again” written on it.

  “So what?” I snap at her.

  I am sure this is humiliating for her, being forced to apologize to her hated rival and having to display her battered body to me. Well, sucks for her. She could set me free, she could alert the authorities to my presence here, and instead she’s crawling for the favor of a man who beats her bloody.

  She glares at me with utter hatred through her good eye and gestures at the door.

  Right. Dinner time.

  I stand up awkwardly and hobble off to the dining room. I’m praying that he’ll take the collar off, but he doesn’t, and if I ask, I’m sure he’ll whip me. I can’t look down. We’re eating tapas, and I practically have to feel around on the plate for them. Food keeps falling off my fork onto the table.

  When I set my fork down, though, he snaps, “You’re not done until I say you’re done.” So I say, “Yes, Master,” and keep eating until he says I can stop.

  Then he holds out a napkin to me. “Clean up your mess,” he says scornfully.

  I can’t believe this. He’s putting me down for being a messy eater when I can’t even see my food.

  “Yes, Master,” I mutter. I have to bend at the waist so I can see where the dropped food is.

  Elizabeth limps in after dinner, holding handcuffs and the hood. He cuffs my hand behind my back and puts the hood on, then finally removes the collar.

  There will always be some kind of shackles on me. I can’t feel free for a single minute of my life.

  As I awkwardly make my way through the hallway, I try to imagine him giving her those orders.

  “And after dinner, you’ll take Tamara down to her dungeon cell, chain her to the floor, and remove her leg cuffs and collar.”

  Seriously. That has to be the kind of thing he tells her. And she does it. She scurries to obey, like the pathetic little mouse she is. How messed up is that? How messed up is my life?

  I remember to do my tapping rituals right before I fall asleep, but they don’t bring me the comfort they used to.

  I toss and turn that night, struggling to get comfortable, and finally fall into a dreamless sleep. I wake up with my heart racing, struggling in the clutches of anxiety.

  My morning panic attacks seem like an especially cruel trick of life now that I’m here. As if waking up to this nightmare isn’t horrible enough? I breathe in and out slowly and do everything I can to calm myself down as much as possible under the circumstances.

  A little while later, Elizabeth comes in, her bruises still livid and her gaze still full of hate, and she puts the hood on me. Then she leads me upstairs.

  Joshua seems calmer and less hostile. It’s a new day. Perhaps it’s also a new chance to figure out how to earn his favor.

  I instantly climb into the bathtub at his command, and I lie back with my eyes closed and let him bathe me without protest.

  I still ache from the beating, but not as badly as I did before.

  “Look at me,” he says as he slides the washcloth between my legs, and I open my eyes. His ocean blue eyes hold me prisoner as he massages me gently, thumb sliding down between the folds of my flesh. “Think of me when I touch you like this. Only me.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  With every stroke of that cloth, he’s washing away the memories of my past. Here, with him touching me, he’s pushing my stepfather aside. For once, I don’t mind him invading my mind. Having him in there is so much better than the alternative.

  Pleasure flows through me and heat pools in my belly. My muscles loosen, and I glory in the warmth of the water and the sensation of his hands rubbing back and forth, back and forth.

  My eyes half closed, I open my mouth to tell him that it feels good. I want to ingratiate myself with him, make him think that bit by bit he’s winning me over. He freezes me with a challenging look. He cocks his head to the side.

  I drop my gaze, furious at the level of submission he demands from me.

  After he bathes me, he opens up the bath drain, then bends down and kisses my stomach. He moves down, lower, lower…

  “May I kiss your pussy?” he asks, startling me.

  I suck in my breath. I desperately want him to. But he has enough power over me already. The pleasure that he can give me is sick, and it’s wrong. And I don’t want him to be the source of any pleasure at all. My hatred for him fuels me, gives me strength.

  Maybe if he’d let me talk a little earlier, my decision would have been different. But I’m glad he’s being such an asshole; it makes it easier for me to resist the ultimate surrender. I’m thankful he’s too damn arrogant to force himself on me. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I beg for it the way he said I would.

  “No, Master,” I say. And you’re not my fucking master, I add in my head. I’ve promised myself that every time I call him Master out loud, I’ll respond with what I’m really thinking—in my head, alone.

  But he’s looking at me, as if he knows what I’m thinking. I quickly drop my gaze.

  He doesn’t say a word about my refusing him. I climb out of the tub, then dress in the pants, bra, and shirt he hands me.

  We eat breakfast in perfect silence. I’ve always been the chatty type. The effort that it’s taking me not to talk makes me want to scream. It’s not that I want to talk to him, but he’s all I’ve got.

  After breakfast, he puts the thick collar and the hobbling chains on me again. Is this going to happen every day for the rest of my life? The thought horrifies me. Weakness ripples over me, and I sway slightly, just barely catching myself.

  I wait for him to leave, but he just stands there, staring at my silently. Then he strokes his finger over my lips. “What do you dream about at night, Tamara?”

  I stare at him in confusion. “Nothing. I mean, I don’t think I do. I never remember any dreams, Master.”

  He’s staring at me intently as I say that, as if searching for something. He considers my answer, then just nods. I wonder why he asked me that.

  He drops his hand. “Here’s your schedule for today. Eleven a.m., ex
ercise. Noon, lunch. Two p.m., you will meet me in the playroom, where I will punish you for trying to escape. Six p.m., dinner.”

  My jaw drops in shock.

  “You tried to open a window in the parlor,” he says mildly. “I told you what would happen.”

  What the hell? “But that was yesterday, Master.”

  I see the snap of anger in his eyes, and flinch.

  “Did I give you permission to speak?” he asks.

  I dare an answer that won’t make him happy. “You said that I could only speak when spoken to, Master.” And you’re not my fucking master.

  This may cost me an extra beating, but it’s also part of my plan. Respectful, but showing that I still have my own mind, that I’m still willing to fight for myself. It’s too soon for me to pretend that I’ve completely given up. That’s probably weeks away.

  He cups my chin in his hand. “Very nice, Tamara. New rule. You only speak if I ask you a question or explicitly give you permission. If I give you an order, you respond with ‘Yes, Master.’ Is that clear enough for you?”

  I nod. “Yes, Master.” And you’re not my fucking master.

  “Aren’t I, though?” he says. I stare at him, startled. What is it with these answers to things I haven’t said?

  The morning and afternoon drag by in utter misery—exactly as he’s planned, I’m sure. He’s forcing me to anticipate what he’s going to do to me. At lunch, knowing what’s coming, I have no appetite at all, and the thick collar doesn’t help. My stomach curdles in fear of the inevitable pain he’ll inflict on me, but he sits there and glares at me until I eat half of a melted brie sandwich on thick crusty bread.

  We go through the same exercise routine, this time with me stripping for him as fast as I can as soon as he hands me my workout clothes. He doesn’t talk to me, just points at the treadmill, and when it turns off, he points at the free weights.

  Afterward, he puts my collar and ankle chains back on and leaves me without a word. I shuffle to the parlor and sit down on a couch, and I watch the clock on the wall as minute by minute ticks by.