Uncover Me

by Linda Barlow

  Blindfolded.

  The slightest mistake, hesitation or confusion was punished with a smack from the belt. Once I turned right when he’d told me to turn left. My circle, he said, wasn’t a circle. My square wasn’t perfectly square. When he twirled me around four times before he told me to find the port bulkhead, I got disoriented and went starboard instead. I crawled five feet, not four. When I objected that it was impossible to know how many feet I'd crawled while wearing a fucking blindfold, he whipped me twice–once for the complaint and the second for failing to address him correctly.

  His voice as he commanded me was unfailingly calm and even. He sounded in control of me, of the situation, and of himself.

  There seemed to be no order to the locations on my body where he struck me, but soon I felt the stinging all over–my thighs, arms, upper back and buttocks. It was mildly painful. He wasn't hitting me hard, but it was a bitter reminder that he now had access to my entire body.

  "Why are you doing this?" I shouted at one point. "It's stupid and pointless."

  "I want you conditioned to respond to my voice." He said this in a different tone from the one he was using to harass me. "It might save your life."

  What the fuck did that mean? I wanted to call bullshit on that claim, but he kept me too busy as the orders came fast and furiously:

  "Head down!"

  "Kneel."

  "Crawl."

  "Don't speak."

  "Don't make a sound."

  "Don't shed a tear."

  "Stand up."

  "Bow your head."

  "Kneel down."

  "Kiss my foot." Eew, I thought, but it was fine. He smelled clean and kinda good.

  "Don't cry out when I hurt you."

  "Don't say a word unless I give you permission to speak."

  I lost track of how many orders he'd given me or how many times he'd punished me. So, of course, he asked me how many instructions I'd received and ordered me to answer. When I guessed wrong, he whipped my ass harder than usual and told me I had to keep count from then on.

  At some point, I began to balk. I just couldn't take it anymore. He punished me for resisting and gave more orders, demanding things that were harder all the time. I couldn’t remember which was the port side, and because he spun me around after every attempt to locate it, I got more and more confused. Just as I was about to collapse from stress and exhaustion, he knelt beside me and stroked my hair. “You’re doing very well. Don't give up now, Ellie.” It was the first time he’d called me by my name since he’d told me I no longer had a name. “Just a little longer. A little more practice and I'll let you stop.”

  Being told that I was doing well helped to calm and center me. I recognized what he was doing–this was a trick, a way to control me, a way to make me want to please him. But I could feel it working on my emotions anyway.

  The next time I came to the edge of my endurance, he caressed my shoulders and told me to breathe slowly and deeply. To focus on the sound of his voice. I could get through this, he encouraged me. I was strong, and I was doing well.

  He gave me water, and held my head while I drank it.

  Then he told me to find the port bulkhead.

  At last, unexpectedly, he interrupted me in the middle of a ridiculous task where I was supposed to build several levels of plastic mugs into a tower without allowing any of them to fall. My hands were shaking as I tried to concentrate. The weather must have deteriorated because the boat was bobbing merrily on the waves. This wave action kept toppling my pathetic tower.

  "I’ll make it easier,” the sadist offered. He untied the blindfold and unwrapped it from my eyes. The sudden light dazzled me, but he gave me time to adjust. He allowed me complete the task with the help of my vision, making me feel so absurdly grateful that I actually thanked him.

  This time the punishment for speaking without permission was only a light pat on the top of my head. Good puppy. But he soon started giving commands again. It should have been easier without the blindfold, but I was so weary that I couldn't concentrate.

  At some point, tired, thirsty, hungry, and emotionally overcome, I curled up in a ball and stopped responding to him. I heard him move and felt the bottle of water applied to my lips. I drank. When some dribbled over my trembling chin, he wiped it away.

  "We'll take a break." He picked me up off the floor and carried me back into the stateroom, where he bathed my face and neck with water from the sink. Confused and trembling, I didn’t raise a protest, lest he change his mind.

  He didn't, though. "Lie on the bed and try to calm down."

  I complied, curling up in his bed. He tossed the blanket over me and left the cabin, locking the door behind him.

  Once again, I cried.

  Chapter 9

  ELLIE

  Thinking it over while I was alone, I was thankful for one thing: Despite my nakedness, I hadn't been forced to do anything sexual. Maybe being forced to obey commands and being whipped on my bare ass when I failed was erotic in some context, but it didn't feel as if he was sexually abusing me. He didn't touch me any more than absolutely necessary. He didn't make any humiliating comments about my body. If he was aroused by anything he was doing, he didn't give any hint of it. He was wearing loose trousers, so I couldn't see if he was erect. Anyway, I was supposed to keep my gaze on the floor.

  So even though I had accused him of enjoying this whole thing, I wasn't sure I really believed that. He did not give off many emotional signals. He continued to seem frosty and mechanical. I wasn't sure if that meant he really was cold or if he was just extremely good at keeping his feelings hidden. I suspected the latter.

  I had examined my skin anxiously, after he left, expecting to see welts and bruises. But the damage was superficial—there were only a few red blotches, and those were fading rapidly. He hadn't touched any vital areas. He hadn't struck my breasts or ribs or belly or kidney area, nor anywhere on my head or neck. He knew how to cause pain without causing injury. He was, I realized, a master at this.

  He left me alone for maybe a couple of hours. It was hard to judge how much time was passing. The day was windy and cloudy, so even though I had a porthole to look through, I could only estimate that it was now afternoon.

  When he returned, he brought another tray. This time I was docile, saying nothing and keeping my head bowed. Having eaten nothing all day, I was famished. He placed the tray on the end of the bed. "Thank you, Master," I said, playing his game. Or was that a mistake? Was I not supposed to speak?

  "You may eat."

  He wanted me dependent upon him for my most fundamental needs. If he was pleased with me, I'd have food, water, sleep, relief from pain. If he was not pleased, I'd probably have none of these things.

  Still, I didn't waste any time in grabbing a peach and biting into it. I almost wept at the divine juicy flavor. Turkish peaches are the best.

  There was ample bread, cheese, fruit, yogurt and a large mug of strong, black coffee. It tasted fresh-brewed. I gulped it down as I ate.

  "At least you haven't lost your appetite," Nicholas said.

  "It's delicious. Ellerinize saglik," I said automatically, then panicked. I wasn't supposed to speak Turkish.

  "How much Turkish do you know?" he instantly demanded.

  "Just a few polite phrases. I have a traveler's phrase book somewhere."

  "You said that accurately. Can you translate it?"

  "Um..." It had already become difficult to lie to him. Was that related to the "training"? "Something about hands? I know it's what you say when the food tastes good."

  "Health to your hands. It's something you say to the cook. Or to someone else who creates something by hand."

  "I know el means hand," I volunteered. "But the extent of my Turkish vocabulary is pathetic. It seems like a difficult language. I studied French in school, but Turkish isn't a romance language, right? I rarely hear words that sound at all familiar." Desperate to get the focus off my knowledge of Turkish, I added, "How
did you learn Turkish?"

  "My mother was half Turkish, and we lived there when I was a child. It was my first language."

  "Your English is perfect."

  "I'm bilingual."

  "That's cool." The food was reviving my spirits. "I've always envied people who were raised to speak more than one language." I remembered the Greek and Latin tomes. "Do you speak other languages, too?"

  "Yes. Several. Bana bak."

  Shit. He had just ordered me in Turkish to look at him, and it had almost worked. I happened to be looking down at my food when he said it, and my inner alarm bell was still stronger than my "conditioning." "Huh?" I said, keeping my eyes averted. He was fucking testing me.

  "I told you to look at me."

  I screwed up my face. "How am I supposed to obey an order if I don't understand it? Is it a trick? May I look at you or not, Master?"

  "You may."

  So I did. I couldn't make out what his expression meant, though. He seemed puzzled, and possibly amused.

  "You're doing well," he said some time later, after he had once again gone through the drill from this morning. "You learn fast."

  Again, his praise made me feel good. I tried to suppress the feeling. All he deserved from me was hatred and revulsion. His freaking assessment of how obedient I was learning to be couldn't be allowed to affect me.

  "It's not exactly hard," I snapped. "Repulsive, but not difficult."

  I waited to be struck with his belt for disrespecting him. Instead he put his hand under my chin, lifting my face up to look at him. I was kneeling naked on the floor of the cabin, as usual. He was standing over me, also as usual. He was wearing loose pants made of some light, synthetic fabric that had lot of pockets and would be convenient for hiking or trekking. No doubt they dried extra fast and protected against the wind. On top was a black T-shirt with a smoky picture of some rock band I'd never heard of. His feet were bare.

  Since I hadn't been permitted to look at his face for some time, it had been easy to forget how attractive he was. It seemed wrong to me that such a beautiful face could mask such a cruel heart. His eyes were an unusual pale green, with thick lashes. His mouth was sinfully tempting. Unlike his pants, his shirt was tight, and I could see the ridges of his chest and shoulder muscles beneath it, and even a hint of abs.

  "You have a beautiful body," he said. I'd been thinking the same about him. "Is it really repulsive to show it to me?"

  The question startled me. I'd never thought of my body as beautiful. For about two seconds I was pleased by the compliment. Then I remembered that this was all acting, lies and manipulation.

  "It's repulsive to be forced to strip and to parade around in front of you naked, yes. Plus, you let Metin in. You let him look at me."

  "He didn't see much. But where we're going tomorrow, there will be lots of unpleasant men looking at you, so get used to the idea."

  My mouth went dry. "You're not going to drag me around naked on a leash in front of them, are you?"

  "Not if you behave yourself. But I want you to keep that image in your mind. Act as if I were dragging you around naked on a leash. I want you to respond instantly to any commands I give you. Basically, I need you remain in a very submissive state of mind." He added wryly, "If that's possible."

  "It's not my fault that the word 'submission' is alien to my personality."

  He stroked his thumb over my lips and a flash of heat shot through me. I hadn't felt much of that today, for which I was grateful. Some women might be turned on by being humiliated and roughly treated by dominant males, but I didn't think I was one of them. I had felt more pulses of attraction for this man before he'd started ruthlessly training me.

  "Look," he said. "Most of the men we'll meet tomorrow haven't seen a woman for weeks. You're young, pretty, desirable. You're a stranger, an outsider, a woman they can't trust. What we are trying to do is reduce the threat factor associated with you. You get that, right?"

  "Can't I just stay on the boat? Hide? Can't you make sure nobody sees me?" Even as I suggested this, though, I shivered a little. What if he locked me up alone here for hours? I would go mad in such a small, enclosed space.

  "We're going to be there for at least a week, and the boat won't be secure. Metin and I will have to go ashore. Anyone could investigate the boat, find you, and…" he allowed his voice to trail off.

  "Who are these people?"

  "Art thieves and antiquities smugglers." His beautiful mouth twisted. "Unless it's plain that I can control you, they're going to demand your blood." He paused. "Only you and I will know that you're a free human spirit."

  I bristled, but there was no mockery in his repetition of the words I'd used yesterday. "I don't want to break you. That's really not my style."

  "You could have fooled me."

  He said nothing. His expression had closed down again, and his hand had fallen away from my face.

  "Tell me about this island we're going to. Is it your headquarters, your smugglers' den?"

  He moved away from me, and began pacing back and forth across the small cabin. "It's a barren Aegean island. The Turks claim it as part of Turkey, but there are no settlements there currently. Except for my family, it's uninhabited."

  "Your family? You mean your cousin?"

  "My cousin and my grandfather." His tone had stiffened. "Granddad's old now and not in good health, but he's the despot of Altinyunush Adasi—Golden Dolphin Island. He owns some land there and an old villa that was once a vacation spot for some 20th century tycoon. After an earthquake decimated the island, the place went unoccupied until Granddad turned it into his compound."

  "Your grandfather is a smuggler?" I pictured an aging Bluebeard in a cave full of booty, grinning diabolically as he defied society by raising his sons and grandsons to follow in his piratical footsteps.

  "He's an archaeologist. Have you heard of Sir Avery Lindstrom?"

  "Sure. He was one of the great archaeologists of the last century. You don't mean that he's your grandfather?"

  "Yeah."

  Holy shit. "Didn't he die a couple of years ago? I thought he'd been killed in an accident trying to excavate some tombs in South America. There was a cave-in, wasn't there?" I didn't follow the careers of all archeologists, but Lindstrom's story had stuck in my mind because it called up my own terror of being trapped in a dark, airless place.

  "He was injured, but he didn't die. Granddad's legs are crippled now, but he's still alive. How much do you know about his work?"

  "My mother would know more than I. She's probably met him. What I remember is that he was interested in the Mycenaean Greeks and the Minoan culture of Crete. Didn't he write about the excavations at the royal palace of Knossos?"

  "Yes." He raised an eyebrow at me. "I'm surprised you know that. How much archaeology did you study?"

  I shrugged. "I'm interested in the history of archaeology. And I learned a lot from hanging out with my mom."

  "Well, like your mother, Granddad is fascinated by the Trojan War. He believes there are still some undiscovered artifacts from the destruction of Troy."

  "Wasn't the site of Troy fully excavated in the 19th century?"

  "It's not that site he's interested in. You've read Homer, right?"

  I nodded.

  "Remember the legend of the great storm after the fall of Troy? It resulted in the dispersal of the Greek armada."

  "It took Odysseus another ten years to get home."

  "Right. Our local legend is that one of these ships, complete with its plunder, ran aground on a small Aegean island. No one knew which island, and no one's ever found the site." He paused. "Until now."

  "Oh, please. You're not suggesting—"

  "Yes. At least, my grandfather thinks so. He believes that Golden Dolphin is the island."

  "But the legends of Troy are just that—legends. I mean, we know the city existed and all that, but archaeology has never proved that its destruction occurred on the massive scale suggested by Homeric epic. In
fact—"

  "I know the historical problems involved," he interrupted. "It's a dream, of course. But many of the greatest discoveries of archaeology have been inspired by people's dreams. If Schliemann hadn't pursued the legends of Troy so ardently, we'd still be thinking it was a fictional city."

  His face had become unusually animated. I blinked at him, recognizing that I was catching a glimpse of the human side of Nicholas Gabriel at last. It made me all the more curious about him. "Are you an archaeologist, too?"

  His eyes looked full into mine for a long moment before those golden lashes came down and curtained them off. "I'm a vagabond."

  "Do you own this yacht?"

  "No. My friend Max owns it. But I live onboard. I sail around, smuggling art objects, ripping people off, kidnapping women and generally wreaking havoc wherever I go."

  "A vagabond and a pirate."

  "Right," he said, and sat down on the bed, stretching his long legs out in front of him and leaning his back against the wall.

  "Has your grandfather actually recovered any Trojan artifacts?"

  "I don't think so. But he's still looking. He closes down the dig for the summer, though. Too many tourist boats sailing around as the weather gets warmer."

  "Why does that matter?"

  He just looked at me.

  "The dig is illegal? The Turkish government doesn't know about your grandfather's theories?"

  He nodded. "They would lay claim to the site if they had any idea what we were seeking."

  "If this island is part of Turkey, the excavations belong to the Turkish people."

  "My grandfather doesn't see it that way."

  "They intend to suppress the discoveries if they find anything?"

  Nick inclined his bronze head.

  Wow. Sir Avery was a crooked archaeologist. Who would have thought it?

  Schooled by my mother in the ethics of modern archaeology, I had nothing but contempt for the avaricious few who viewed the science as nothing more than a means of unearthing coins, plate, pottery and precious stones. That Sir Avery Lindstrom should be one of these thieves appalled me. "You're keeping the stolen objects on this island?"