by Henry, Jane
Chapter Four
Colt
Sonya. It’s a perfect name. Strong and feminine at the same time. If this were a date, I’d tell her I liked it. It’s not a date, so I don’t bother. I make sure she isn’t feigning sleep, two fingers on her pulse to check that she doesn’t go too deep. After a few minutes, I’m satisfied she’s out, and she’s going to stay out for a while.
Now I have time to really inspect my prize.
Her hair cascades in dark waves around her head, her lips are pink and bow-shaped. They sit in a little pout even in sleep. Her eyes, when they’re open, spit dark fire. Now closed, her curled lashes add to the illusion of a little angel. It’s hard to take my eyes off her, and I don’t have to. I have all night with her. I have as long as I want. This little girl won’t be going anywhere until she’s learned her lesson.
Drugging her was about the most merciful thing I could do. It gives us both a chance to get some sleep, and it gives me a chance to deal with some things that will need to be dealt with if I’m going to give her my full attention for the next little while—and I plan to give her all the attention a brash little rookie needs. She was way off the reservation by being in Brava’s place. That means what I do to her can be as well. You can’t touch an FBI agent when they come in wearing their glossy windbreakers, guns drawn, part of a team. But alone? She’s as vulnerable as any other woman would be. An FBI badge isn’t a magical talisman protecting the bearer from harm, though right now she looks small enough to actually believe something like that.
Over the years, even I’ve noticed what’s been happening with the rookies. They’re coming in younger, more female than ever. Add to that, the fact that the FBI only takes people with excellent character and you have a perfect storm of wide-eyed little girls who have no idea how vile and filthy the world really is. People of excellent character aren’t really equipped to deal with the worlds they find themselves in. These innocent little pups are corrupted and broken by the work they do, and it never ends well. It remains to be seen how it’s going to end for Sonya.
This isn’t my house, and it’s not my basement. This is a place women are taken to be prepped for sale. A thousand horrors have been perpetrated here, but that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that it’s clean and it’s secure.
Finding her in Brava’s office was a hell of a shock. I saw her the moment I walked in the door, and it’s sheer dumb luck that he didn’t. Her hiding place was shit. Then, instead of even trying to bluff her way out of things, she told me she was FBI, right off the bat. The training really is slipping. Telling a criminal you’re a federal agent is just a quicker way of requesting a bullet to the back of the head.
If Brava had found her, she’d be dead now. I wonder if she realizes that, or if she’s still too young to know that she’s not actually bulletproof. Some FBI agents come out of Quantico thinking they’re Neo, Chuck Norris, and Sherlock Holmes all wrapped up in one. I get the strong sense she’s that sort of rookie.
Here, I’ll have time to do what I need to do—break her completely. She’s not going to know me, but I’m going to know every inch of her, inside and out. By the time I’m done with her, I’m going to know what makes her come and what makes her cry. I’m going to know the name of her first pet, where she went to school, and what she’s most frightened of—though that one is easy. The answer to that is going to be me.
I’ve already found one thing she doesn’t like: pain. That little whipping was the least of what I could do to her, and she was practically ready to throw the towel in then and there. Maybe she’s not as strong as she makes herself out to be. Maybe I better be careful just how hard I break her.
I pour myself a couple fingers of whiskey and sit next to the bed, watching her sleep. What I’m going to do to her isn’t right. But it’s going to save her life one day. If she wants to play with bad men, she’s going to learn what that really means.
* * *
“Wake up.”
Six hours later, I bark those words down at her still sleeping form. She blinks her eyes and looks around.
She’s groggy.
She looks down to discover that she is tied up once more. But not with cable ties. This time it’s rope. I’ve woven it around her slim body, created a halter for her chest, each of her breasts presented to me like a perfect little prize. The rope runs down between her thighs, right over her sex, and then up her back and over her shoulders. Her arms are pinned by her side. She can’t move them, but I showed her the mercy of putting them in a neutral position. I could have just as easily put them behind her back.
“What the…” she lets out a little squeal.
“This is what happens to women who put themselves in Brava’s way,” I tell her. “They wake up in a place like this, on a heavy dose of heroin.”
She blinks, more or less instantly forgetting about the rope. “You shot me up with heroin?”
A flash of impatience and annoyance runs through me. Where the hell are they recruiting these days? Straight out of nursery school? This girl doesn’t know a thing about anything, as far as I can tell. There’s an innocence in her gaze which practically begs to be defiled.
“Do you feel high?”
“Uhm. No?”
“Then you can be assured I haven’t turned you into a junkie overnight,” I snap. “I let you sleep. That’s not what usually happens here.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Why are you telling me this? You want me to be grateful you didn’t pump me full of drugs?”
“You should be grateful, little girl,” I growl. “You should be grateful you’re alive and you still have your senses. You should be grateful you didn’t wake up with every single one of your holes dripping cum from men you don’t know, and you should be glad that the next week won’t be full of a string of men coming through that door, using you as you beg and scream and cry, giving you more and more drugs until you’re so addicted you don’t care what they do to you, just as long as you get your fix.”
“Jesus,” she whispers under her breath. She’s gone more than a little pale, which makes me wonder if this is news to her. If it is, she wasn’t paying attention in class. Men who sell flesh have a pretty standard way of doing things. It doesn’t take long to break a woman who has no means of escape except into a dope haze.
“He won’t save you,” I growl. “Down here there’s no Jesus. No God. There’s only me.”
I watch her carefully. See her lower lip quiver ever so slightly. Is she going to cry? I wouldn’t blame her if she did. I want her to. I want her to feel the full misery of her situation. To realize just how misguided she was to ever set foot in Brava’s place unsupervised. I want her to know that I’m her captor, but I’m also the only friend she has in this world. Everything she wants. Everything she needs is going to come from me.
“Sit up.”
She does as she’s told. It’s awkward for her because she’s still bound, but I didn’t tie her up so tightly she can’t change positions—another mercy she’s probably not grateful for. The wince as her bottom contacts the sheets is kind of cute. She’s still feeling the effects of the whip, I see.
“I’m a federal agent,” she says in that snotty tone. “You have to let me go.”
“Federal agents sink just as well as anybody else.”
“Sink, what?”
She must be a smart girl, but she still seems to need everything spelled out for her.
“You can disappear,” I tell her. “You can never be found again. There are hundreds of ways to dispose of a hundred or so pounds of flesh. Being an agent doesn’t make any difference.”
“You’re going to kill me?” She asks the question in a rough whisper.
I don’t answer that. One, I already told her I don’t plan to kill her. Two, she doesn’t need to know what my plan for her is. She just needs to know that she’s mine, and she needs to drop the snotty special agent act right now.
“Are you hungry?”
“Are you going to drug me
again?”
“Answer my question directly,” I chide her.
“No. I’m not hungry.”
I’d believe her if her stomach wasn’t growling.
I leave her sitting there and go and get some food for her. I don’t want her fainting on me later on. She needs nourishment. Something simple and light. Toast with butter. She screws her nose up at it the moment she sees it. Brat.
“I don’t eat carbs.”
“Today you do.”
I sit in a chair in front of her and hold the toast to her mouth. “Eat. This is the only chance you’re going to get.”
“No, thanks.”
I feel my temper spark. She’s being treated so much better than her actions have warranted, and she doesn’t see it. Doesn’t appreciate a damn thing. She’s spoiled. She’s reckless. She’s undisciplined.
“Eat. Now. Or you won’t like what happens.” I offer her the toast again.
It’s not so much like having a captive as it is trying to feed a fussy toddler. She closes her mouth and turns her head to the side, and I know this isn’t about the food. She’s fighting me the only way she can. This is a battle of wills. One she is going to lose.
I push the plate of toast away, pick her up by the harness and sling her body over my knee. Having her tied up makes this so much easier. The rope around her hips and knees isn’t as tight as the rest of it. That’s deliberate. It allows her to move a little, and it gives me access to what’s between those thighs if I need it.
“Stop!”
She has to know that telling me to stop won’t stop this. She doesn’t want to surrender, even to toast. She has too much pride. That’s going to be the key with her. Toy with that sense of pride, bring her down, make her see that what she really is, is a small female in a world of much larger, much more dangerous men.
My hand meets her ass, and it’s satisfying as hell. I could spank this girl all day. She deserves it. She needs it. Even putting the circumstances of our situation aside, if she were my girlfriend, I’d still be spanking her insolent little butt for how she’s acting. Refusing food isn’t smart. Pissing off your captor just to try to save face also isn’t smart.
Last night I used the whip because I needed quick compliance. This morning I have a lot more time.
“You’d probably be waking up to go to work right now, if you were home,” I observe casually, my palm slapping her butt over and over again. “Probably be taking a shower, wondering what protocol you’re going to break today.”
“Ow! What?! Asshole!” Her responses come in a sore staccato. “What do you care?”
That’s more of a profound question than she realizes, and I am absolutely not going to answer it. I will remain a secret to her. Giving nothing away. This is going to be all about Sonya. I am going to give her a very sore bottom, but more than that, I am going to make her think about and regret most of the choices which led her to this point.
“Stop it!” She gasps as my palm strikes lower, finding the spot where her ass meets her thighs. It’s not a hard slap, but I know what it can do to a woman to be spanked there. I know I’m not just making her ass sore. I’m sending hot, stinging sensation right through her nervous system. If she’s the sort of girl I think she is, that’s going to have an effect sooner rather than later.
“Bad little girls get spanked,” I smirk down at her. “Wish you’d eaten your toast now? You’d be nice and comfortable, not getting progressively more and more sore.”
“Fuck you,” she swears. I respond by spanking her harder, focusing on the lower parts of her cheeks, jolting her rope clad body over my thighs time and time again until she shrieks and gasps and almost begs for mercy—but she’s too proud for that, and I’m not going to push her all the way there. Not yet anyway.
You can break anyone through pain, but it’s far more satisfying to have a woman yield for other reasons. I stop spanking her for a moment and pull her thighs apart as far as the rope will allow—about two inches at the apex of her thighs in this position.
A glimmer of dew is clearly visible between her lower lips. She has a cute pussy. She doesn’t shave, but she does trim. She couldn’t be presented to me more perfectly if she tried.
“What are you doing you sick fuck!?”
“Looking at your wet pussy.”
“I’m not wet!”
I smirk and run the tip of my finger ever so lightly between her lips, capturing a dew of that traitorous arousal on it. Keeping her firmly in place, I bring that finger to her face. “What does this look like?”
“I don’t kno—”
Before she can finish her lie, I push my finger into her mouth, smearing her desire over her tongue. I make her taste herself. I show her that what she is feeling isn’t what she wants to feel.
“Usually you’d have to break a girl with drugs and beatings to make her this willing.” It’s not completely true, but I say it to shame her. I want her to feel every inch the little slut I’m going to make her.
Sharp teeth come down on my finger and a burst of pain flashes through my hand.
She goddamn well bit me.
I shouldn’t be surprised, and I’m not, but those little teeth hurt even if they don’t do real damage. My fault for sticking a finger in her mouth. Her fault for thinking she could get away with biting.
I pull my finger out with a grunt, pick her up off my lap and toss her down on the bed.
“There’s consequences for biting, little girl.”
“I don’t give a fuck, you sick fucking…”
“There’s consequences for swearing too. I think I told you that.”
It doesn’t stop her from swearing. She’s throwing a full-blown tantrum now. Calling me every name under the sun, writhing and cursing and acting up like the brat she is.
I was going to gag her anyway, but the torrent of profanity gives me another idea. Most of the gags here are rubber. This little girl needs her mouth washed out. I go to the bathroom, grab some soap and a knife and get to work, leaving her to scream herself out on the bed.
The time it takes to fashion what I want is useful. She can’t keep up that intensity forever, and she doesn’t. Soon the shouts turn to grumbles and the curses die down. It’s too late for forgiveness though. She’s going to be disciplined for acting out whether she apologizes or not. I suspect that’s not going to be a problem. I don’t think she’s ever been sorry for anything a day in her life.
By the time I’m finished, I’ve modified one of the leather gags. Instead of a rubber ball in the middle, it now has a nice big ball of soap in it.
I go back to the bedroom where she is lying sulkily on the mattress, pouting up a storm. For a second, I almost forget the circumstances we’re in. It almost feels like she’s just mine. No strings. No federal anything. No crime. Just a naughty girl and the man who is going to teach her a lesson.
Now I’m more glad than ever that I thought to tie her up before she woke. I flip her onto her back, pinch her nose, and she has to open her mouth. I watch her eyes as the soap touches her teeth and tongue, the look of shock and surprise is priceless as I fasten the leather straps behind her head, then pull her back off the bed and over my knee.
She’s spluttering now, whimpering and whining. She doesn’t like this one little bit. Good.
“Now,” I say, patting her bright red bottom. “Where were we?”
Chapter Five
Sonya
I was ready to be attacked. Ready to be hurt and even killed. But this? This is utter humiliation. He must get off on shaming people, especially women, and I want to berate him with a litany of insults, but I can’t because he’s got a fucking gag in my fucking mouth that tastes like soap. I’m over his knee with my ass on fire, foam dripping from my mouth, and I can’t speak. If I move my tongue, I taste soap, so I have to keep it to the side.
“Don’t have much to say now, do you, little girl?” I’m sick of him patronizing me, but what choice do I have but to submit to him? I hate that he call
s me little. My diminutive size was a constant thorn in my side when I was younger, and I never really did get over it. Kids at school made fun of me when I had to wear little girl clothes because the trendier ones didn’t fit me. My mother never cared. She scoffed at my protests and would snap at me, reminding me I was there to learn, not make friends. I learned not to protest to avoid her biting tongue. She was a strict disciplinarian and demanded nothing short of perfection.
I’m never going to cave to him. He can make me submit physically, because he’s stronger and he has more power here. But I’ll get away. I’ll keep my mind intact and my wits about me. I’ll find out where I am, and I’ll find a means to escape.
I let myself go limp. I want this fucking gag out of my mouth and I want off his lap.
The worst of it was when he touched me, though. Put his hands right between my thighs and pretended my body’s innate defensive response to domination was arousal. I’m no idiot, and he’s a fucking bastard. I don’t regret biting him even if he did punish me for it. Good. I want him afraid of putting anything in my mouth. He might think he’s trained me better with a gag and a spanking, but I’ve made him a little afraid.
He rights me and sits me on the bed, then gives me a stern, patronizing look. His hair is all bed-tousled, and he’s wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. I wonder if he’s even had coffee. He just wakes up ready to dominate. Maybe he dreamed of it and woke up with a hard-on. Fucking great.
“Ready to get that gag out of your mouth?” he asks, tilting his head to the side and stroking his chin. I narrow my eyes but nod. He reaches for me and I flinch involuntarily. I hate that I do, so much that tears blur my vision and I have to hastily blink them away before he sees. But he’s only reaching for the straps holding the gag on. He unbuckles it and tosses it on the bedside table. I gather my saliva and spit. I won’t swallow that shit. He frowns but doesn’t say anything. I wonder if he’ll punish me again. He doesn’t, though, just walks to the kitchen.
