Island Captive: A Dark Romance

by Jane Henry

  “Sit up,” he barks. It’s tricky, but I manage to scramble up to a sitting position. My stomach churns with hunger, my head fuzzy. It’s hard to complete a thought. He holds two bottles of water and two packages of some type of bar that look incongruous in the wild like this, as if he’s just come back from a trip to the store.

  When he reaches me, he kneels, looking me over to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid or reckless in his absence. My mouth waters, knowing food is imminent. He takes one bottle of water and twists the top off, his huge hands dwarfing the small lid, and the little circle of plastic bounces on the floor. Placing one finger under my chin to steady me, he holds the bottle to my lips. I drink eagerly, welcoming the cool liquid as it washes down my parched throat. Too soon, he pulls it away. I whimper.

  “More,” I say.

  “Say that again,” he says with a frown.

  I stifle a groan. “Please may I have more?”

  He raises a brow expectantly. God.

  “Please, sir.”

  “A little at a time,” he says with a frown, not even acknowledging my concession to him. “You could get sick if you go too fast.”

  He tears open a package next. I try to see what it is. It’s some sort of fruit and grain bar. He must have found the emergency food stores we had on the plane. I try to see the flavor he opens for me and frown when I see a picture of figs on the front. Gross. I hate those things.

  He must notice the look of disdain, since he chuckles, opens the package further, and rips off a large portion. “Sadly, no time or space to be picky, sweetheart. Open.”

  I hate that he feeds me like a dog, from his own hand, and I’m tempted to bite his fingers when they come near my mouth. That would get me punished, though, and what’s the point, anyway? I need food.

  He places the food in my mouth. My mouth waters when the food hits my taste buds. The taste of figs is still gross but wrapped up in the nuttiness of the grains and sweetness, it’s tolerable. And now that I’m a bit fortified, I need to throw him off kilter.

  When he places the second bite on my tongue, I close my lips around his fingers while meeting his eyes. I begin suckling his finger. His eyes widen a bit in surprise, then darken when he withdraws his hand. Reaching for my bound wrists, he turns over my hand and places the remains of the bar. “Feed yourself, then,” he says, as he pushes himself to standing. He watches me struggle with bringing the food to my mouth, clumsily and stubbornly, like a toddler, then opens a bottle of water for himself. I realize he’s waited for me, to see my needs met first.

  Why?

  Finally, after a time, we’ve both finished our water and bars. My stomach still gnaws with hunger, but after a few minutes, as the food swells and fills me, I’m more satisfied.

  Without a word, he leaves me on the bed and exits again, coming back a few minutes later with a large metal box.

  “Emergency food stores,” he says. “It floated to the shore, and I took what I could. It’s only enough for a few days, though, so we’ll have to find alternative sources.”

  I nod, not giving him the satisfaction of speaking.

  “Let’s get cleaned up,” he says, a hard glint in his eyes giving me pause. To my surprise, he holds a yellow package in his hand. It takes me a few seconds to realize he’s got my bath soap in his hands.

  “Where did you find that?” I breathe. It belongs to me. And if he found that…

  He shrugs. “Seems it washed up to shore,” he says. But the box is still intact, not disintegrated from water. It didn’t wash up to the shore alone.

  “And nothing else?”

  His face remains impassive. He shrugs a shoulder. “I guess time will tell, now, won’t it?”

  I’ve let him hurt me, tie me up, cuff me when I sleep and hand feed me like I’m an animal. But now, the realization that he has my things and isn’t giving them to me infuriates me. I want my clothes. If he has my bag, then he might have my other possessions as well.

  I get to my feet, oblivious to the fact that my wrists are still bound. “You asshole,” I grit out. “You have my things. I want them! Give me my fucking possessions.”

  He shakes his head, my only warning before he crosses the room so fast it’s a blur. I don’t even have time to take a breath. He easily bends me over the bed and holds me belly down. I hear a jingle when he reaches to the floor for where his belt lies. I should’ve kicked the fucking thing under the bed while he was gone.

  “No!” I cry, writhing under him to get away, but he holds me fast by pushing his hand on my lower back, then drawing my panties down my ass. They fall to my ankles. I squirm and kick to no avail.

  “I told you your training begins today,” he begins in a low, firm tone before snapping folded leather across my ass. Pain blossoms on my skin. I can’t get away as he holds me in place, belting me again and again. I cry out and try to wriggle, but it’s no use. His hand on me is strong, and he knows how to hold someone down for this.

  Of course, he does. This is, after all, what he did to his last victim before he murdered her. The vision of her bruised and battered body assaults my memory. I close my eyes, squirming under the lashes of his belt, each excruciating smack building on the next.

  “You will learn your place,” he grits out, delivering another solid lash. “You will not tell me what to do, speak rudely, or defy me. You will obey me.”

  “No,” I cry out, hoarser than before, less resistant. It needs to stop. The pain needs to stop.

  He whips me again, just as firm as before.

  “Apologize,” he says. “Say ‘I’m sorry, sir.’”

  “Is this—” I gasp out, refusing to humor him, “some twisted scene you’d do at your club? Whip a girl who begs for mercy?” He lashes me lower still, across both thighs, the burning pain unbearable. Tears clog my vision and my throat tightens but I don’t cry.

  I never cry. I will not cry now.

  The pain is nearly unbearable, but I will survive this.

  I must.

  “This is no scene,” he says. “You can scream a safeword ‘til you’re hoarse. This doesn’t stop until you cave.”

  The strokes of his belt slow, yet they still fall, one after another, the swish through the air and the thump of leather against naked skin.

  “I can wait all...”

  Thump.

  “Fucking...”

  Thump.

  “Day.”

  “Ok, I’m sorry!” I wail, thinking I’m going to die. No one can withstand pain like this that doesn’t let up.

  “I’m sorry what?”

  No.

  A cut of the belt lands on the underside of my ass, a more tender spot than before, and I howl in pain.

  “I’m sorry, sir!” I finally say, my voice choking on a sob that he broke out of me.

  But still, I will not cry, even if I just forfeited my dignity to this monster. I grit my teeth and ignore my blurry vision. I learned years ago in training that tears are a response to emotion, not pain. I didn’t even cry when I buried my mother, her frail frame withered down to skin stretched over bones. If she didn’t get my tears, I will not allow this man the gratification of making me cry.

  He drops the belt to the floor but keeps me pinned in place.

  “You will obey me, Nadine,” he says with conviction, the use of my name making me feel ill. He isn’t someone I’m close to. He’s my tormentor.

  I nod, chastened and little, the pain nearly breaking me.

  “Get on your knees.”

  He releases me and lifts me from the bed. My panties are still around my ankles, my bare ass throbbing. My stomach clenches and I wonder what he’ll do next.

  My knees hit the wooden floor, the pain in my injured leg throbbing. He stands in front of me, his hands on his hips. When my eyes skate down the length of him, I grimace. His cock is rock hard at attention, a bulge in his pants.

  “Have you ever given a blow job?” he asks conversationally, sitting on the edge of the bed.


  My stomach rolls with nausea. He doesn’t know I’ve never let a man lay a finger on me and up until now, my plan was that I never would.

  “No.”

  He leans in and fists my hair. “You owe me for saving your life,” he says. I eye the bulge in his pants. There’s no way around this. If he wants me to blow him, he can force me.

  Then for some reason he seems to change his mind. Adjusting his hard on, he stands.

  “The next time you decide to mouth off to me, I’ll find a creative way to use that tongue of yours,” he promises. “But for now, you’ll come with me.”

  As if I have a choice.

  Of course, he keeps the binding on my wrists. But I won’t do anything crazy if he takes them off. Not here. Not now.

  I’m well aware what happens if I do.

  Chapter Six

  Adrian

  I don’t trust her enough—or, for that matter, where we are—to leave her alone. The terrain is rough and bringing her with me cuffed makes more work for me. If she stumbles, I’ll have to catch her. But I watch her carefully. After the spanking I gave her, I suspect she’ll be at least momentarily humbled.

  I’m not wrong. She’s quieter and subdued now.

  I check her injured leg to see if she can walk, and though she’s still in pain, it’s not bleeding. We’ll move slowly, but we can investigate the island.

  I don’t regret spanking her. I don’t. She doesn’t deserve aftercare like a submissive. I don’t need to hold her and tell her she’ll be a good girl now.

  That isn’t my purpose with her.

  But I used to be a good man. Long, long ago, before I lost my faith in humanity, before I gave into my wicked cravings, I used to be a good man.

  I blame the dehydration and lack of food for my weak-ass thoughts.

  We need to explore this island. We also need to somehow dispose of the bodies on the washed-up shore. but there are other pressing needs first.

  The sun beats down, hot and dry. When I planned my escape, I researched the islands in the Pacific, but there are so many I only have a rough idea of where we are now. A part of me fears that there were rescue crews sent to get us, but there is no way to tell if our communication cut out too soon.

  I’m not going back to civilized life.

  I’ll deal with a rescue crew if the problem arises.

  I have a second chance. I’ll never give that up.

  Though there are literally thousands of uninhabited islands where we were flying, there are some allocated to America with the specific intent of doing scientific research. It’s not uncommon for research teams to travel to distant islands to study volcanic eruptions and patterns, or the flora and fauna.

  I put a few facts together and have come up with a basic idea. Scientists were sent here for research. They were fine dealing with the rudimentary living conditions for the sake of their mission. While here, they were given water, electricity, food, and communication options. But when they completed their mission, the necessary supplies were cut off until another scientific expedition returns. There may never be another one.

  I suspect I know how to turn the water on. Out back, I even found a small lean-to that looks like a kitchen camp: rustic but suitable with a propane stove and a rudimentary table, next to the generator. The people who were here before us were no fucking carpenters. Once our basic needs are supplied, I’ll have to fashion a few things better than what we have. But before we get used to more refined amenities, we need a food source and more importantly, water.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asks, a nervous lilt in her voice.

  I stifle a smile.

  She’s with me. I’m not sure she truly comprehends how much danger that puts her in.

  “We’re looking for food and water sources,” I explain. “The shit from the plane won’t last long, so we need to see what our options are.”

  “They’ll find us,” she says, staring at me defiantly, as if daring me to contradict her.

  “If they do, l’ll bind you and gag you, hiding both of us and any evidence of our life here, until they leave here convinced there were no survivors,” I say. She winces. I mean what I say, though. I’m not fucking leaving, and neither is she.

  She’s either right or wrong about rescuers, and what I think about that won’t impact what will actually happen.

  For a moment, I wonder if I didn’t punish her well enough. But as a dominant I know better. Control isn’t about brute force. She needs to know I’m someone who can be trusted. Will she be more compliant if she feels more than pain from my hand?

  I stand and cross my arms on my chest, looking at her thoughtfully so long that finally, her gaze comes back to me. Her eyes are pained, shielded from me.

  “Come here.”

  I will not soften. I’m not going to be anything but her tormentor. She’s nothing to me but my captive.

  But she captured me because of what she believes me to be. Who she believes me to be…

  No. She can’t be trusted, so she remains my captive.

  I shove the weak thoughts from my mind.

  I’m not really going to comfort her. I am curious, however, if she’s more compliant when she’s given both the carrot and the stick.

  “Nadine,” I say, warningly. “I gave you an instruction. Come here.”

  She clenches her jaw defiantly, but her gaze wanders quickly away.

  She doesn’t want to be punished again.

  When she nears me, I put my arm around her shoulders and hold her close, then place a finger under her chin tipping her head back so I can look her in the eye. “Are you in pain?”

  She blinks in confusion. “Of course I am,” she says. “You whipped me.”

  “And you deserved it. And honestly, sweetheart, that wasn’t a whipping. I spanked you with my belt. You’re lucky I don’t have a real whip with me.” I’m so fucked up, the idea of curling my hand around the handle of a bullwhip and wielding it on her gorgeous ass makes my dick hard.

  She turns away with a grimace, but I bring her gaze back to me with my finger on her chin.

  “Is there anything else that hurts?” I ask. “How’s your leg?”

  “Of course it hurts,” she says, her body wavering. Back in the shelter, in our supplies, I have some pain relievers I could give her.

  No. I push the thought from my mind.

  Those will be for a real need, not for a cut on the leg and a spanking. Hell, I’ve spanked submissives at the club harder than I punished her.

  I reach my hand to her ass, feeling the heat straight through her panties, throbbing against my palm. I knead, and she hisses, her fingers clinging onto me, but when she realizes what she’s doing she releases me, trying to take a step back. She moves so quickly, and is likely distracted by her injuries, that she loses her footing and stumbles. I grab her as she falls, holding her so close it’s almost intimate.

  We’re panting from the near fall. “You alright?” I ask her, looking at her eyes, and fuck me if I don’t really want to know.

  It’s part of how I’m conditioned, I tell myself.

  I’m a dominant. When I administer punishment, it’s in my blood to see to the aftercare of my submissive, to check on their emotional and physical wellbeing. I spent the last year of my life in various clubs. I was never satisfied in any relationship unless I had a full-time sub.

  But she isn’t your submissive.

  It’s a constant fucking refrain in my head.

  Who we are is a goddamn synthesis of our pasts and experiences, what we’ve done and what we hope to do. I can no more ignore the dominant training in my blood than I can ignore the fact that I’m a white male. That my father was a ringleader in organized crime. That the blood of an innocent woman will stain my hands until the day I die.

  So when I hold her to me, it isn’t a conscious thought.

  Her eyes look at me, wide and frightened, and I don’t know if the fear I see is because of what I’ve done to her, what I plan on doing, or th
at she knows where this can take us if we aren’t careful.

  I release her, holding onto her arm to make sure she doesn’t stumble again.

  “Be careful,” I say, rougher than I intended. I don’t want her to see weakness. She needs to fear me.

  She needs to fucking fear me.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  She walks as far from me as I’ll allow, her head held high and body tight with the effort of showing me she’s not going to give up her dignity. I can whip her, touch her, strip her naked and cuff her, and she won’t cave. Hell, she likely wishes she’d died in the crash, with nothing to hope for.

  When the thought comes to me, I shove it away. I’m supposed to hate this woman. Exact revenge.

  “What exactly do we have back at our shelter?” she asks. Perspiration dots her brow when she looks at me, and it’s only then I realize how fucking hot it really is. The sun beats down mercilessly, the humidity like a wet blanket, permeating the air around us. We need to be careful not to exert ourselves too much in this heat, especially since we still need to make the walk back and our water is so limited.

  “Slow down, Nadine,” I instruct. Obediently, she does what I say. “I don’t want you falling when you’re cuffed, and it’s getting hot here.”

  “Easy solution for that,” she murmurs. “Could just fu—” she catches herself. “Could just uncuff me.”

  “I’ll uncuff you when you earn it,” I tell her, but the truth is it’s more than that. When she earns it, and when I can fucking trust her, which may be never.

  Me, I’ll stay here until the day I fucking die. There’s nothing for me back in the states but vengeance and hatred. And nothing for me anywhere else in the world. I had what I needed when I’d hidden myself away but living under an assumed identity is no way to live.

  Here on this island, with the sun beating down and waves crashing on a sandy white beach? Here, I can spend the rest of my life in peace.