by Henry, Jane
My eyes rest on the wicked little whip he left resting on the table, either because he hasn’t bothered to put it away yet or he wants a physical reminder to keep me in check. It’s black and braided, with a stout, sturdy handle. My ass still stings, so I remember the bite of that thing.
He returns with a wad of paper towels and a glass of juice. “Open your mouth,” he orders. I do, wanting so desperately to get this disgusting taste out of my mouth. He swipes at my tongue with the towels, the rough dryness making me gag, then hands me the juice. My arms still feel tired from being drugged. I couldn’t hurt him now if I tried. But if I behave, maybe he won’t drug me again and I can gather my wits. I swallow the juice gratefully.
“Careful,” he says. “Lots of carbs in that.”
“Trying to fatten me up like Hansel and Gretel?” I ask. “Going to make a meal of me?”
His eyes grow molten. He leans in, brushes the backs of his knuckles down my neck, and breathes into my ear. “I fully intend on making a meal out of you.”
God, I walked right into that. Immediately the vision of him spreading my legs and putting his mouth between my thighs assaults me. I try to push it away, but I can’t.
The spanking he pretended turned me on? Not so much. But this? Fuck. My nipples tighten and my pussy throbs. I clench my hands into fists, willing it to stop, but it’s not under my control. He’s strong and powerful and clearly knows the art of seduction. I swallow hard and finish the glass of orange juice. He hands me the toast and I eat it. It’s now cold but at least it’ll help wash the taste of soap out of my mouth.
He goes to the kitchen. Now that I’m awake, and I have to reluctantly admit there’s nothing like a harsh spanking to really wake someone up, I observe my surroundings more closely. There’s a small, brightly lit kitchen that looks clean and well furnished, no kitchen table but bar stools pushed up to a breakfast bar. This basement is like a studio apartment, the windows set deep, but allowing little light in. We’re in the basement, but what’s the house above like? What do they do up there?
The bathroom is off to the side of the room I’m in now that clearly functions as both living room and bedroom, with a large bed and loveseat. There’s no TV and no phone, which doesn’t come as a surprise, since essentially this place he’s taken to me is a well-furnished prison.
Beyond the kitchen is a little doorway that looks like it leads to another room. I try to peer past it, but it’s too dark and shadowed for me to see the other side.
He comes to me with a knife in hand, and at first, I freeze. He doesn’t respond, but with a frown cuts the rope. “Go brush your teeth and do what you need to do,” he says casually. He tucks the knife away and reaches for his phone. “I have some phone calls to make.” I like the idea of cleaning up and using the facilities, so I get out of bed and walk to the bathroom. I wonder if he’ll regret giving me freedom, though.
“Sonya?” I don’t like him using my name. My jaw tightens, and I look over my shoulder at him.
He waits a beat, then scowls. His scowl sends a shiver down my spine. Fuck. The man has had me for less than a day, and thanks to his twisted punishments, I’ve already begun to fear him. “You speak to me when spoken to.”
“Yes, sir?” I say through clenched teeth.
“There’s no way to escape the bathroom. No window,” he says, then his eyes twinkle a bit. “Or vents. So this time, I’ll allow you to shut the door for the illusion of privacy. Do anything stupid, though, and the door comes off its hinges. Got it?”
He crosses his arms and stares me down.
I nod and turn and remember just in time to say, “Yes,” before he marches over and punishes me for not responding or some such shit. It’s like he’s just waiting for me to give him a reason to hurt me. Sick. Fucking. Bastard.
I go into the bathroom but leave the door open at first. I want to hear his conversation. I need to find out where I am and who he is, and I can’t do that if I don’t observe every detail. If I could get his phone, I could find the location setting and somehow send a message for help. If I hurt him, incapacitate him just enough so I can get to the door, I might be able to escape.
Next to the sink lies a brand-new toothbrush still in its packaging, and a travel-size tube of toothpaste. I open them and brush my teeth as quietly as I can, so I can hear his phone conversation.
“Woman’s size extra-small, size two pants,” he says. “Shoes size five. Bra size 32A. Week’s worth of clothing in case we need to run. And bring the good stuff.”
Good stuff? What the fuck does that mean? He mentioned doping me up earlier. Is he asking for more drugs? My stomach churns, but I don’t stop brushing, since I want the minty taste to clean my mouth out. I feel like I’ll be tasting soap forever. Bastard.
I shut the door and then really get to work investigating in here. I let the water in the sink run to drown out any noise, then look under the sink. I freeze. There’s a fucking arsenal of medical supplies here—medications and bandages, irrigation kits and burn kits, even feminine supplies. They’re fully prepared to deal with anything that happens, and it freaks me the fuck out. But I don’t find what I’m looking for—back-up bars of soap I can dispose of. I shut the cabinet as quietly as I can, quickly use the toilet, then wash my hands with a small bottle of body wash I find in the tub.
I jump when a knock sounds at the door. “Time’s up. Move.”
I roll my eyes heavenward and just to be difficult, I flush the clean toilet, turn the tap on, let the water run and flip off the door. It doesn’t make me feel good, though. Instead, I sort of feel like a petulant little toddler, and it’s not a feeling I like very much. I’m letting him get way under my skin, more than I should.
It’s always been my downfall. When I was in school, I was a top-notch student. In high school, I graduated top of my class but by the skin of my teeth since my school was stupid enough to factor in behavioral demerits. I got the gold star on my transcript, but no glowing teacher recommendations, because I was not the well-behaved little moppet they wanted. I talked back in class, challenged the assertion of authority, and if I thought someone was stupid, I told them. My mother punished me, and hard, for my defiance, but it only fueled my desire to rise to the top despite their attempts to subdue me.
I open the door and jump, not expecting him to be standing literally on the other side with his arms crossed and in workout shorts and a tank. “What did I tell you about behaving in there?” he says.
“I didn’t do anything,” I say. He looks over my shoulder and scowls, then makes a disgruntled noise and takes me by the hand.
“Come with me.”
What a stupid thing to say. Like I have a choice?
He takes me back to the bed. I blink in surprise. There’s a stack of neatly-folded clothing in my size, from bras to panties, alongside a thick paper bag with sturdy gold handles. He releases my hand, and gestures to the things on the bed. “Get dressed. Inspect your toiletries and put them away. Then make the bed.”
The people he called must be very close, as he literally just ordered these things. And how did I not even hear the door open? I reason; we’re in the basement of a house, and his partners live just above us. It’s the only explanation.
I pull on a pair of panties and a bra, my cheeks flushing because he’s standing next to me, watching. “I can dress myself without supervision,” I tell him, but my tone isn’t as biting as I intend. He doesn’t bother to respond. I step into black leggings and pull on a purple top. The clothes are well-made and comfortable.
“I won’t always allow you to wear clothes,” he says. “But some of my men will pay a visit soon, and no one lays eyes on you naked but me.”
I remember how he “washed Brava off me” the night before. A possessive captor, then.
Next, I inspect what’s in the bag. I pull out thick bottles with gold caps, body wash and shampoo and conditioner. High-end products, nothing you’d buy at a drugstore, but salon-quality.
Was this the “good stuff
?” Why?
“Put it away, and make the bed,” he instructs. I reason he just wants to test me, to make sure I’ll do what he says. There’s no good reason to defy him now, yet my stomach twists at his commands. He’s watching my every move. I take my toiletries and bring them to the bathroom, then come back and quickly make the bed, smoothing out the sheets and blanket.
“Good girl,” he says, and my cheeks flame when he gives my bottom an affectionate pat, as if to remind me he’ll spank me if I misbehave but approves when I don’t. Like my body belongs to him. And fuck, in here it does.
He takes me by the hand again, and now he’s leading me past the kitchen and into the darkened room. He flicks on a light. I blink at what’s in here. At first, I think it’s just a workout room. One side is completely outfitted in workout equipment—cardio machines, a weight-lifting bench, free weights. But when I swing my eyes to the other side of the room, a cold shiver of fear works its way down my spine. This isn’t…workout equipment. There’s a wooden thing that looks like he could drape me right over it, a post with cuffs attached, and what looks like an exam table in a corner with restraints at both the top and bottom. Fuck. It’s a goddamn torture chamber.
“You guys like to work out and stare at torture devices?” I ask him. “How quaint.”
He actually laughs, but then he walks to the equipment and runs his hands lovingly along the polished wood, smooth leather, and shiny vinyl. “I’ve used these things,” he says. “Quite useful when you need to get information out of someone. It’s hard to maintain an iron will when you’re helpless and in pain.” The vision of me spread over his lap comes to mind, and I swallow. He shrugs and walks back to the workout equipment.
He snaps a finger at a nearby bench. “Sit. Watch. And wait.” I’ve got nothing better to do. So I sit.
Chapter Six
Colt
She’s being very obedient this morning. She got cleaned up, made her bed, got dressed without hardly any resistance at all. I was expecting more of a struggle, but that soap gag seems to have done the trick.
She sits where I told her to and watches me workout with an expression on her face as if she doesn’t want to be watching me, but she can’t quite stop. She looks down at her feet, over at the training devices, and back at me over and over again in a loop.
I know Sonya is trying to figure me out. But she has a lot of figuring to do, and I’m going to make sure she doesn’t get anywhere close to the truth until I see fit. Even now, looking at her sitting there, I have an impulse to abandon the machine and get my workout from spanking her ass. She put herself in serious harm’s way when she sneaked into Brava’s place, and she doesn’t really seem to understand that.
I try to concentrate on my workout, but it’s hard with her sitting there. After a few minutes, she starts to fidget and shift on the bench. Maybe her ass is still somewhat sore. I hope so. It’s going to get even more sore by the time I’m done with her.
“Quit squirming,” I snap.
She shoots me a look and sits still. No smart ass replies. No rebellion.
“Good girl.”
I expect the praise to roll off her indifference, but those two words transform her. She looks down at her feet in a futile attempt to hide the little smile and blush which appear on her face. It’s a momentary lapse before she composes herself again, but I saw that reaction as clear as day. She likes being a good girl. Maybe even craves it. She has to consider me total scum. I’ve kidnapped her, told her I’m going to sell her. I’ve whipped her and gagged her, and yet my approval already means something. She wants to be a good girl, even for me.
I decide to test that theory.
“Why were you at Brava’s?” I ask the question as I start doing pull downs, working my lats.
“I’m a federal investigator.”
She says it with so much pride. It’s almost cute.
“Not down here, you’re not,” I growl. “And you weren’t on any official business, I know that because you had no backup. I picked you up and walked out of there with you and not one agent has come and asked for you back.”
She squirms uncomfortably as I verbally strip away her lies between sets.
“What were you doing, Sonya?”
“Just trying to…” she trails off.
“What?” I let the bar rise up, turn around and put the weight up a little before starting another set of reps. Her eyes are locked on my chest and shoulders, and I’m not sure if her hesitation in answering is more down to wanting to keep her secrets, or if she’s starting to lose herself in feminine fantasy.
I finish my set, wipe my hands and walk over to stand in front of her. This, I actually do want an answer to.
“What were you doing there?”
“I was doing my job.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“I was trying to,” she practically pouts. “We have…”
“Keep talking.”
“Well I saw, well, overheard, well I mean, I came to know that there was a case against Brava being made and I thought I could maybe get in on it if I had some inside information. They treat rookies like idiots. It was all getting coffee and looking at paperwork. I wanted to do something. So I did.”
I grind my teeth to stop my jaw from falling open.
“You decided you were going to try to get assigned to a case by pushing your way into it?”
“Yeah. What do you care? You have some investment in FBI protocol, Mr. Human Trafficker?”
I cut my eyes at her. Now isn’t the time for attitude.
“You can be put over that bench as easily as you can sit on it.”
She looks away from me again. I’m not going to allow that.
“Look at me, Sonya.”
Her eyes snap back to mine.
“I don’t want your attitude. You’re a grown woman, and you put yourself in this situation. So you can stop pouting and sulking. You’re here because you wanted to be here. These are the consequences of your actions. Get used to them.”
“Fuck you.”
Maybe she doesn’t care about being a good girl so much after all. Or maybe I hit a nerve. I see her temper spark as she’s being lectured. Frankly, I have no idea how she managed to get recruited and stay in the agency for as long as she has. Temperaments like hers aren’t exactly FBI material.
I don’t bother correcting her again. I don’t say a word to her. I pick her up under her arms, and I get my workout by carrying her across the room to one of the devices we use to break women who get an attitude.
She starts to kick and struggle, but it doesn’t do anything. I make sure my body is as hard as it has to be to do this job. One bratty little rookie flailing at me doesn’t do a thing, even when her knee finds my midsection and glances off my abdominal plane. She’s panicking because she knows she’s in real trouble now. A little spanking and soap isn’t the least of what I can do to her.
One of the most humiliating pieces of equipment we have are some stocks. Like the olden days. It’s a simple enough device, just open the top plank, push the girl into place, and secure the top over her again. Sonya’s wriggling makes it a little more difficult, but there are cuffs to keep her hands where they need to be, and a leather collar which I slide around her slim neck before closing the top piece, shutting her into position.
“Men have been using these to restrain women for years,” I inform her. She’s absolutely helpless now, her head sticking through the mercifully padded hole, her hands clenched into fists on either side. The stock forces her to stand with her ass out, displayed and vulnerable for the punishment she has coming. “Old fashioned punishments are the most effective, I’ve always found.”
She probably thinks this is overkill for swearing at me, but one thing I know for sure is that every brat needs to be shown that their behavior won’t just be met with the same intensity. It will be overcome entirely. Her capacity for rebellion is nothing compared to my capability to discipline her.
“Now you s
tand there, and you think about your language, and your attitude,” I tell her. “I’m going to do another set.”
She doesn’t say anything. Her face is beet red and I can see her struggling not to curse or cry. I go back to the weights and do a few sets on the leg press. This isn’t how I usually work out, but there’s some merit to it. Go hard on the weights, then go hard on the girl.
By the time I’m done with the leg sets, she’s calmed down a bit. I’m sure she’s uncomfortable standing that way, but it’s fine because I’m going to make the current discomfort she’s in feel like nothing at all.
I walk over and stand in front of her. “What you say next is going to determine how painful the next fifteen minutes are,” I inform her. “You have a choice. Cane, or cock.”
“What?”
“Do you want your ass caned for disrespect? Or do you want me to fuck you?”
Her eyes go wide. “Please… I’m, uhm… sorry. Please don’t do either of those things to me.”
“Oh, one or the other is happening now. Both are happening eventually,” I tell her firmly. “I’m going to take that pussy. I’m going to take that ass. I’m going to have this mouth too.”
I reach out and run my fingertip lightly over her quivering lower lip. My cock is hard as hell. Sometimes I play the bad man. Sometimes I really am the bad man. In this moment, I’m the latter. Having this beautiful little spitfire entirely at my mercy is hot as hell. I’ve given her the illusion of choice, but we both know that really the only person with any choice here is me.
“Please, just… let me go.”
She’s always so brave until the consequences make themselves known. Maybe she’ll actually learn something this time. Somehow, I doubt it. If Sonya was the sort of woman who learned from her mistakes, she wouldn’t be here now.
“Cane. Or Cock.”
I repeat the options.
“C… cane.”
I nod.
We have a full set of disciplinary implements. I choose a lighter cane out of mercy she won’t realize or appreciate. Unbeknownst to her, she is actually being looked after. The hell most girls who come down here go through makes this look like play. They aren’t given choices, even pretend ones.
