Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series)

by Spain, Shirley

  “Ah, yes. That’s what we were doing before we were so rudely interrupted,” Tank said with a villainous grin, drawing another length of rope from his back pocket to purposely dangle at her.

  Spitting in his face, “Pervert!”

  Leering, “Got to get ya some manners, Bitch. Shoulda fucked ya and maybe that mutt of yours, too, when I had the chance at your house,” he said, turning around to coil and knot the rope around her right ankle.

  “Marshall! Wake up! Marshall!”

  “Wake up, Marshall,” Tank mocked in high-pitched, sniveling singsong as he drew the remaining piece of rope from his pocket to wrap it around her left ankle.

  “Help! Marshall! Help,” she wailed.

  Using the weight of his body to keep her legs in check, he forced her bunched up legs to straighten to bind them to the bottom of the bed. Once her legs were secure, he rolled off her, stood up and parked his hands on his hips.

  Fighting the ropes, she madly kicked, jerked her arms, and twisted her body, struggling to break free. But her energy was wasted. The rope was strong. Knots unforgiving. Bed solid.

  “You’re one spunky bitch,” Tank commented admiringly as he jumped on top of her, his knees straddling her waist. “So is it true... ,” Tank quizzed, loosening his belt to unzip his pants, “you’re a bitch with old fashioned values ... never fucked another man except your husband?”

  A rhetorical asinine question, she thought, though it was true. A virgin when she married, Robert really was the only man she had ever made love with, yet Tank’s tone implied her lack of premarital sex was shameful. Sucking in air hard from the battle she had waged against the ropes and lost, she turned her head toward the wall, staring blankly in silence.

  “Damn! Lucky me. So I’ll be only the second man you’ve ever had,” he reveled. “You know what they say, once you’ve had black you’ll never go back,” he bragged with a sinister laugh, violently ripping her muumuu-sized T-shirt in half.

  “Stop it,” Jewels ordered, tussling in the restraint of the ropes and squirming under the mass of his body.

  “Hmm. Just got this far the other night at your place,” Tank recalled as he caressed her tan breasts spilling out of the black lace bra.

  “Get off me! Leave me alone,” Jewels shouted, her limbs constricted as far as the ropes would permit.

  Tank squeezed her pumping breasts.

  “Marshall! Wake Up! Marshall! Pleeeeeease—”

  “Shut the fuck up. You’re givin’ me a headache with this Marshall bullshit,” Tank barked, pinching her breasts harder.

  “Stop it! Marshall! Marshallllll!”

  Digging a handkerchief out of his pocket, he wadded it into a ball. “I fuckin’ told you to shut the fuck up, you stubborn bitch,” he said, stuffing the balled-up hanky in her mouth.

  Coughing, nearly gagging, she saved herself by pushing the wad of cloth out of her mouth with her tongue. “Marshall! Help me!”

  “For crissakes, woman,” Tank growled, grinding out the words between clenched teeth. Stripping the leather belt off his pants, he scooped up the wadded hanky she had spit out.

  Jewels continued to plea for Marshall’s help.

  “Let’s see you spit this out, you feisty little bitch,” Tank fumed, jamming it into her mouth to create a stuff gag then adding an over-the-mouth gag by wrapping the belt across her mouth, behind the back of her head and around to her face harshly buckling it over her mouth. He had created a classic layered gag: a series of gags placed over each other to very effectively quiet the victim, but not without the high risk of choking to death.

  The taste of blood filled Jewels’ mouth; blood from the force of the wide leather belt crushing her tender lips against her teeth. Tank was right, she would never spit out this gag. Sobbing, she closed her eyes in dread.

  “Eyes open, Bitch,” Tank demanded, rapidly thumping her cheek with the tips of his fingers.

  In numbed horror she watched as he drew the Leatherman multipurpose tool from the sheath on the side of his belt, configuring it into scissors. “Gonna have a titty-twistin’ blast,” he announced, slicing open the front of her bra and peeling it away to reveal her naked breasts.

  Tank was crazed. Jewels’ muscles tightened. “God, please don’t make me go through this,” she begged beneath the makeshift layered gag.

  Re-configuring the multi-tool into pliers, Tank rapidly clicked them open and closed in anxious anticipation. Gazing at her perfect round breasts, his eyes crinkled mirthfully. “Like I said, ‘titty-twistin’ time.”Pinching her eyelids shut, she attempted to mentally prepare for the kind of pain and suffering she could never fully comprehend until the torturing began. “Marshall, please wake up. Please,” she softly begged.

  THUMP! It was a sickening, gruesome sound like sledgehammer pulverizing a fresh turkey carcass.

  Reflexively her eyes flew open, body flinched. Marshall’s fist had pounded into the side of Tank’s ear hitting the mastoid bone; a classic boxing knockout blow. A nanosecond later, Tank crashed on top of her, his eyes shut, body motionless. A shrill shriek escaped the brutal gag.

  Milliseconds later, she felt Tank being pulled off by his legs. His limp body landed on the stone floor with a hard thud. Stretching her neck forward, she strained to see what was happening on the floor next to the bed.

  “Julia. Jewels, are you okay?” an exhausted-sounding Marshall Watters called from the floor near the foot of the bed where he had dragged Tank.

  Perking up, “I’m okay. I’m okay,” she muttered, enthusiastically nodding her head up and down. Tears of relief showered her smiling cheeks.

  Still hazy-minded and blurry-visioned from the knockout Tank had delivered earlier, Marshall crawled on his hands and knees to Jewels’ side. At the sight of her bare breasts, he immediately peeled off his T-shirt, covered her with it.

  “Thank you,” Jewels mumbled, the hanky stuffed in her mouth and leather belt buckled over her mouth still effectively impeding her words.

  Kneeling at her bedside, Marshall gazed at Jewels, his body slightly weaving back and forth, like a carefree feather in a wisp of wind. The spaced out look on his face warned he was not fully recovered from the fight with Tank. Afraid he’d pass out before she was free, she gently tugged on the ropes to get his attention, motioning to her bound wrists with her head: “The ropes. Please, untie me.”

  Marshall’s face compressed. Stared at her for a moment. “Oh. Got it. Untie you,” he said with a fleeting smile while oddly nodding his head. “I’ll have you through ... by ... uh, out of those in a jiffy,” he said, clumsily retrieving the switch blade from his pocket.

  Speech slow and choppy, he sounded like a drunk. Jewels worried he had suffered a concussion and may pass out any second.

  Still on his knees, he leaned against the bed and propped himself up on the mattress with his elbows. Carefully, and as if in slow motion, he began sawing the rope binding Jewels’ left hand making about as much progress as one would using a butter knife to cut steel wire.

  Preoccupied with images of freedom, Jewels didn’t pay much attention to Marshall’s lack of progress. Once liberated of the ropes, she planned to throw her arms around Marshall Watters’ neck to thank him for rescuing her in the nick of time ... maybe even add a kiss or two figuring, given the circumstances, that was about all she dared do to express gratitude to her hero.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Tank pushing to his feet. Rising like a devil from the depths of hell.

  Eyes popping to half-dollar size, “Behind you! Behind you,” she frantically screamed, her words a jumble of unintelligible gasps and shrieks due to the layered gag still doing an excellent job of inhibiting her voice.

  Marshall ceased sawing the rope, quickly examined her wrist, apparently thinking by her reaction he had accidentally cut her flesh.

  Realizing Marshall wasn’t getting it, she wildly gestured with her head toward the bottom of the bed, thrashing her body against the mattress while continuing to
grunt and squeak garbled incomprehensible noises and madly point with her fingers—as best as she could with her hands still bound to the headboard—at Tank who was creeping toward Marshall.

  Finally, Marshall got it. Glancing over his shoulder, he pushed himself to his feet and turned.

  Tank bulldozed a steely fist into his gut.

  Marshall buckled in half, dropping to his knees. Tank finished him off with a violent kick to his jaw with the toe of his boot, hitting boxing’s coveted sweet spot.

  Marshall’s head whipped to the side. Letting out a long deep groan, he crashed to the floor on his side. Once again, knocked out.

  Victorious, Tank stumbled to Jewels, pliers still in hand. Showing teeth covered in crimson film, he snarled, “Time for payback, Bitch.”

  In frenzied desperation, she battled to escape her bonds, focusing her efforts on the rope around her left arm Marshall had started to cut. Her eyes crimped as she tightened her fist, stiffened her muscles and pitched her entire body weight behind each powerful jerk of her arm. But Marshall’s knife hadn’t weakened the rope enough to relent its hold and the gag was suffocating. Her nostrils flared. Rapidly she sucked air in and out. A mixture of saliva and blood oozed from under the brutal muzzle.

  A demented look glazed Tank’s face. Ripping Marshall’s T-shirt off her chest, “Fucking boy scout,” he snarled, disgustedly tossing the shirt on the floor. “Now, I’m gonna really give you fuckin’ pain,” he promised, shooting a vindictive eye at Jewels.

  Despite her never-give-up combat mindset, lack of oxygen and zapped muscle strength forced her surrender.

  Crawling on top of her, again Tank straddled her hips between his knees. “Maybe I should gouge out your eyes, like you tried to do to me,” he threatened.

  Wide-eyed, Jewels vigorously wagged her head back and forth, begging him not to hurt her, but, of course, her pleas were unintelligible ... not that it would have mattered even if he could have understood her.

  Lowering the pliers toward her left breast, “Maybe I’ll twist off your nipples first, then—”

  “Don’t think so,” Marshall snarled, delivering a double-fisted rabbit punch to the base of Tank’s skull, instantly dropping him to the floor like a boulder over a cliff. “Illegal in boxing, but fair play with you,” he said, regarding the wicked blow.

  Still a bit unstable, he stepped over the fallen Tank and scooped up his T-shirt Tank had discarded onto the floor. “I promise, I’ll take care of him this time for good,” he said, once again covering Jewels’ exposed breasts.

  Rolling Tank over on his stomach with his foot, he cuffed his hands behind him and dragged him out the door by his feet. Scrambling back to Jewels’ side, he knelt next to the bed. “First things first,” he said, smiling reassuringly as he unbuckled the belt gag, removing it.

  Spitting out the bloody handkerchief, she sighed with relief, “Thank you, Marshall. Thank you so much.”

  Picking up the corner of the shirt covering her breasts, he gently dabbed the bloody saliva from her cheeks and around her mouth.

  Jewels smiled gratefully. Her heart soared. Marshall Watters was her hero. Her savior.

  Quickly slicing through the rope binding her left hand, he smiled, “Sorry, I wasn’t quite on my game the first time Tank knocked me out.”

  “You did seem a little woozy.”

  “Second time’s the charm,” he said, liberating her right hand.

  Holding Marshall’s black shirt over her bare breasts, she sat up, eyeing her hero as he freed her right foot. Unable to help herself, she ogled his naked upper body. Lean and muscular chest. Broad V-shaped back. Ripped abs. Small, firm waist. Ballooning biceps. Chiseled triceps....

  “Jewels, I’m—”

  “What?” she said, blinking rapidly and swallowing hard. Realizing she just got busted, her face heated up. How embarrassing, he had caught her leering at him!

  Grinning, he continued, “I’m going to have to leave for a while to take care of Tank,” he said, cutting through the last rope binding her to the bed.

  “Leave? Now?” A mixture of fear and disappointment swept her face.

  “You’ll be fine. Trust me, Jewels,” he said reassuringly, rising to his feet. Padding to the prison cell door, he paused, turned back to face her. “Don’t worry. I will be back,” he said, thrusting his arms in front of his body to flex his chest and arms in the classic bodybuilder most muscular pose and winking at her, before closing and locking the door behind him.

  Blowing air through pursed lips, “Oh boy,” she whispered with a silly giggle, letting her body fall backward onto the bed. Bunching up Marshall’s shirt, she covered her face with it and inhaled deeply, relishing his scent that acted like an aphrodisiac, spontaneously moistening her panties.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  RECOVERED FROM MARSHALL’S muscle show which had nearly given her an instant orgasm, she slid out of the bra Tank mutilated, slipped Marshall’s shirt over her head and jogged to the sink, gulping water from cupped hands.

  The cool refreshment snaked its way down to her stomach, soothing her parched innards. “Ick,” she said, clucking her tongue to the roof of her mouth and distorting her face at the taste of blood while fighting the compulsion to throw up. “A toothbrush and toothpaste is what I really need,” she mumbled ruefully, mentally noting such items were taken for granted on the outside, while those seemingly basic necessities were deemed prison luxuries requiring approval and supervision by powers that be. In the absence of rudimentary oral hygiene products, she opted to gargle a few times to quell the urge to vomit.

  After quenching her thirst and gargling one last time, she splashed cool water on her face. Immediately, she gasped in pain. The water burned her cheeks like cayenne pepper on a sensitive tongue. Up to this point she had purposely avoided looking in the reflecting square. However, the pain on her cheeks drew an imagined vision of the likely appearance of her face as a result of Tank’s slaps. Maybe swollen. Probably black and blue. Likely a battered mess. Swallowing hard, fearing the reflection that might stare back at her, she stood in front of the shiny metal square, pinching her eyes shut, building the nerve to assess the damage. Sucking in a deep breath for courage, she exhaled forcefully, finally opening her eyes.

  Gasping at the sight, she gently touched her cheeks with the tips of her fingers. The image staring back at her was not at all the one she had expected. To the contrary. Her face wasn’t bruised. How was it possible? A second time? No marks. No cuts. Lips weren’t even swollen. Closing her eyes in gratitude, she silently thanked God for her good fortune and Marshall Watters for coming to her rescue when he did.

  With her thirst and curiosity satisfied, she traipsed back to the bed, sat on the edge, and picked at the knots on the pieces of rope still attached at her wrists and ankles. As she worked on loosening the gnarl, her mind wondered about Tank. Just thinking about his demented plan of revenge set off an involuntary shock through her spine, jolting her entire body. Instantly, she shifted her thoughts to a more pleasing vision: studly Marshall Watters, whom she owed a lot, perhaps even her life.

  Tank’s rape attempt must have been one of those really important times he spoke of ... one of those times when he could be trusted; one of those times when she could like him ... a lot.

  Taking a break from picking the knots for a moment, she scooted her body to lean against the stone wall and closed her eyes, allowing her mind to wander. Mere thoughts of Marshall Watters circulated those clichéd warm fuzzies inside, unleashing her sensual goddess within that purred like a house cat and roared like a tiger. Her nipples constricted. Femininity moistened. Erotic tingles electrified her body.

  Stockholm Syndrome suddenly lit up across her mind like flashing red lights warning of an oncoming locomotive. “Oh my gawd,” Jewels blurted out, eyes wide as guilt and shame demolished her lustfulness. Crossing her arms over her chest as if in embarrassment, she wondered aloud, “Could I be falling into the psychological trap of bonding with one of my
captors?”

  About six months ago she had researched a story involving three women held hostage in a bank during a botched robbery. After an intense police standoff lasting about six hours, one of the three women ended up siding with the robber and actually tried to help him elude law enforcement. Unaware of the potential danger, the poor woman had succumb to the phenomenon where kidnap and hostage victims acquire an emotional attachment to their captor ... and it happened to that woman in less than six hours. “That’s not going to be me,” Jewels declared, thrusting her fists into the mattress at her sides and sitting up tall.

  Recalling certain conditions, about four of them, had to be present for a victim to become susceptible to Stockholm Syndrome, she had to know whether or not she was a viable candidate.

  Scanning her memory, “Kidnapper must have his victim in some sort of life-threatening situation.” Rolling her eyes and shrugging, “Well, gee, that’s a no-brainer. Have that one for sure,” she said, raising her index finger to signify one.

  “Victim must not be able to escape; life depends on captor,” she recited. Surveying the dreary jail cell, she raised a second finger. “Not that I haven’t tried to escape, or that I won’t continue to try to escape, but as it stands right now, that’s definitely my situation. Two for two so far.

  “Captor shows kindness as well as violence, increasing victim’s sense of being totally dependent on captor.” Jewels thought of Marshall Watters. He had shown his willingness to manhandle her, hold her down, strap her down, gag her. Yet, he had also shown kindness and goodness, like when he let her shower and brought her fresh clothing and, of course, when he rescued her from Tank. Then there was his promise to help her when the situation was really important. Shaking her head, she sighed. “That, too.” Finger number three went up.