by Linnea May
I was intrigued. Very intrigued.
I’ve done a lot of objectionable stuff. I’ve sold myself to men who tied me up for hours, forcing spellbinding orgasm after orgasm out of me, or denying me the same as a punishment. I’ve served, pleased, submitted to the darkest desires - but I’ve always wanted more. With each new client, I hoped for something deeper, so strong and powerful that it could destroy me. I need the challenge. I want to be scared, to be at someone’s mercy. I want to give myself, all of myself, to a man without knowing what will eventually happen. I want to know what it feels like to surrender completely.
And what better way to discover this than in a safe setting protected by the agency’s agreement with its clients? This setup is perfect. It seems so close to the real thing, but without the danger of it really, truly being real.
But when I asked Miss Barry to share my file with the client, she rejected me.
“He doesn’t want a redhead, he wants a blonde.”
My heart sank. My bright red hair has always been my big selling point. So many men nearly go out of their mind when faced with landing a true redhead. We are rare and special, and we have a reputation for being fiery and hard to tame.
And he won’t even consider me because of my hair color?
Fuck that.
I dyed my hair without thinking twice, and when I showed up at the agency, parading my new do in front of Miss Barry, she laughed, but agreed to include my file with the others.
And that was that.
He picked me. I signed a contract for him to kidnap me as the first step in the agreement to become his for thirty-nine days, no matter what. The instructions were specific and strict for the kidnapping: I must cover my face with a black mask every time I leave the house, which I’m obligated to do during the same couple-hour time frame every single day over the next week to give him time to learn my routine. The kidnapping is to appear as real as possible - for both him and me. I know he’s been watching me the past few days, and he’s going to grab me very soon, but I don’t know exactly when.
The window is closing. Five days, the contract said. Today is day four.
I’ve been a nervous wreck since the countdown began, not sure when, where, or how I will be snatched away. I’ve followed the rules, spending the allotted time outside every single day, but never a minute longer than agreed upon in the contract. He’s not allowed to break into my home, but that didn’t stop me from laying awake at night, my heart pounding senseless in my chest with fear and anticipation. I haven’t slept properly in days, I can barely eat, and I’ve started drinking more to ease my nerves.
This isn’t my part of town, exactly the reason why I picked this questionable drinking hole to spend my evening. I toss back one cheap bourbon after another, until I start feeling relaxed, calmed down enough to head back outside, too numb to drive myself crazy from the fear of being grabbed. I’ve always been a night owl, so it’s not unusual for me to be out and about late at night. I’d be far more scared if I was nabbed during the bright daylight, as crazy as that may sound.
It’s nearly midnight. The buzz of the alcohol fuzzes my senses as I slip off the bar stool to pay a quick visit to the restroom before heading out into the night. I intentionally ignore the frosty-faced girl still sitting across the bar, but I can feel her eyes on me as I head towards the short hallway leading to the restroom. If she continues with those hateful stares when I come back, I may just have to tell her off for my own self-esteem.
My legs are shaky and my head feels like it’s spinning. Steadying myself against the counter as I wash my hands, I study my reflection in the mirror. I still look good, good enough. I will never get used to the bleached blond strands framing my painted face, but the color will fade soon enough.
“Thirty-nine days,” I whisper to my reflection. The girl looking back at me in the mirror is strong, determined - and scared shitless. I don’t regret my decision. Yet. And once he takes me, there will be no time for regret.
Just a few more hours. The anticipation is the worst part, the uneasy feeling about what’s to come, the uncertainty of it all...
I take in a deep breath, and holding my head high, my posture straight, I stride out of the restroom.
The first thing I notice is that the judgmental woman is gone.
And so is my red fur coat.
2
Loran
I’m going too far this time.
I know I shouldn’t want what I want, I know I shouldn’t think what I think. I know I shouldn’t act on this vile idea.
And I know that I shouldn’t follow her.
She caught my eye a few days ago, inadvertently leading me on a hunt that I didn’t foresee.
But that woman. She left me no choice.
I want her. I want all of her all to myself.
I’ve never seen a woman execute the streets like she did these past few days. Her face is always covered by a black mask, only her eyes and lips evident. Those luscious lips, they’re always painted a bright red that matches the weirdly extravagant fur coat she always wears. She stands out in so many ways: that mask, the coat, the fuck-me heels, and the sinfully short skirt that peeks out seductively from under the hem of her coat. She radiates sex, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that she’s a call girl, a high-class escort. A unique one, though.
Who walks the streets looking like that? And how come I’ve never seen her with anyone? She’s always alone, hastily scurrying the streets, throwing backwards glances as if she knew she was being followed. It’s a miracle she hasn’t noticed me, considering I’ve been on her heels for three days.
I didn’t plan this, not really. I’ve toyed with the idea for a while, yes, and I knew I would do it eventually. The urge has been growing stronger and stronger over the past few months.
The compulsion to kidnap a woman and truly make her mine, only mine. The urge to prove my family right, to become the criminal they always believed me to be.
I’ve done some pretty loathsome things to women. I’ve broken hearts left and right, skin but never bones, wills, and even crushed one’s entire personality, identity. I’ve hurt them both physically and emotionally, never once caring what happened to them once they were gone. Some of them were happy to be freed, but then others were fucked up enough to hang on shamelessly to my legs when I pushed them away. Some were paid to spend time with me, while others were not. My wealth allows me the luxury to make and break the rules, and I was able to pick the best of the best, one beautiful, brave woman after another.
But there’s one thing money can’t buy: the real thing. No matter how good they act, or how pretty they are, no amount of money can make it real. Truly taking a woman against her will can’t be faked, no matter how hard you try. It could be said that I’m lowering myself to the lowest level of scum, but I believe the opposite. I feel liberated, flying on an endorphin high, one I haven’t experienced in a long time.
I’m sitting behind the wheel of my black Cadillac, staring at the same fucked-up shed disguised as a rundown bar that I’ve been staring at, at the same time every day for the past few days. She comes here every night, always around the same time, always made up to look like the perfect fuck doll, dressed to the nines, her face hidden behind the mask, but only until she steps inside. She always removes it as soon as she takes her seat at the counter, putting it back on right before she leaves. She has followed the same ritual every single evening. I know because I’ve watcher her, always from the outside, because I know that - just like her - I’d stand out from the crowd inside, and I don’t want to draw any attention.
No one can know that I’m here. No one. Especially not her.
What the hell is her story? Why does she parade around looking like this? Why is she hiding behind a mask? Why does she dress like a high-class call girl only to hang out here, of all places? Who is she?
So many questions, and every single one of them is driving me crazy with curiosity.
My heart literally
skipped a beat the first time I saw her. It was purely by coincidence, and I’m almost inclined to call it fate. On the spur of the moment, I decided to break with routine. I turned down a different street on my way home, because I needed to see something new, something different, to clear my head and gather my bearings before heading out to my usual club and fucking some random girl’s brain out.
And there she was. She looked hot as hell, her bleach blond hair blowing in the wind as she hurried down the street, meandering through the evening crowd and ignoring the numerous looks she was drawing. Her head was either lowered to the ground, or she was looking anxiously behind her shoulder, keeping an eye out for something - or someone.
My eyes were instantly glued to her, my mind zoning out the angry honking behind me. I didn’t care about that damn green traffic light, I didn’t care about blocking traffic, I didn’t care about his road rage.
All I cared about was that hot as hell mystery woman hurrying down the street. I knew right then and there that I had to have her. I knew she was the one I had to make mine. My toy, my victim, mine to break.
This is why I’m still here. This is why I’m sitting outside this fucking dive bar, my eyes locked on the entrance, waiting for her to come out. It’s been three days, and I’ve been watching her long enough to know her routine. I know everything I need to know. She’s going to put her face mask back on in about forty-five minutes, and then she’s going to slip on that red fur coat, grab her fancy little bag and clutch it tightly to her side, and march out through the front door onto the poorly lit street. She will furtively look left and right, quickly scanning her surroundings before turning left and hurrying down the street, checking over her shoulder like she always does.
This is why I have to be careful, prepared. She’s going to turn down an alley that’s too small for cars, and that’s where I’ll be waiting for her, the injection in hand, hoping it hits quickly. She’s a lightweight, so this dosage should work, at least well enough so I can drag her to my car before she’s able to call out for help.
I’ve parked across the street. The spot provides me with the perfect angle of the bar but it’s too far away from the alley where I plan to grab her. If I want this plan to go off without a hitch, I have to do it right, which means moving the car before she leaves the bar.
Just as I’m about to turn the key over in the ignition, the bar door flings open and there she is, darting out. She’s moving faster than I’ve ever seen her move. I’m frozen, my hand still poised on the key in the ignition, trying to absorb the change in her routine. Something must have happened. I fixate my stunned gaze on her red fur coat, watching her flee in the opposite direction of where she usually heads.
And that’s when I notice it.
It’s not her! It’s her coat, but some other woman is wearing it. She’s not wearing the face mask either, and this woman’s hair is darker and she’s not wearing stiletto heels. She only turns around once, throwing a quick glance back at the door of the bar, as if to check whether or not she was being followed.
“What the fuck,” I hiss. A car passes by mine, moving in the same direction in which the mystery woman is headed. I notice the car doesn’t have its headlights on, raising my suspicion that whoever is behind the wheel is up to no good - just like me.
My attention is drawn away from the suspicious car when the door of the bar slams open again. This time I see the familiar bleach blonde rushing out onto the pavement. It’s the first time I see her outside without that black mask covering her face. She stops, her eyes flitting from left to right as she tries to figure out what to do.
Here’s my chance.
Before I can change my mind, I burst out of my car and charge across the street.
3
Ruby
“Fuck!” I exclaim, my heart surging in my chest. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
That bitch stole my coat! What the hell is wrong with her?
I can’t prove it, but I doubt it’s a coincidence that both are gone.
I’m standing outside the bar, clutching my little purse to my chest, while frantically looking up and down the street, but she’s nowhere to be seen. I’m engulfed with rage and desperation. That coat has been a part of me for years. Next to my red hair, it’s my signature, it makes me stand out.
The thing that makes me recognizable to him.
I inhale with shock when I realize that I’m standing outside on the street without my mask. I’m not supposed to do that! Under no circumstances am I allowed to let him see my face! It was risky enough to remove the mask every time I entered the bar. Even that could be considered breaking his rules.
Instinctively, I cover my face with my hands before turning to run back inside the bar to fetch my mask.
But just as I’m about to reach for the door handle, a large hand closes around my upper arm. It’s a strong, masculine hand, and it’s squeezing me so hard that it hurts.
It’s him. It must be.
That’s the first thought running through my head as I flinch under the crushing pain of his forceful grip. It has to be him. He’s taking me right now!
I turn around to see the owner of the masculine hand that’s holding me hostage - and freeze.
“It’s you,” I breathe out helplessly, biting my tongue when I remember that I’m not supposed to respond like that.
He frowns at my reaction. I let out a little sigh when he pulls me closer.
I had no idea before now what he looks like. I hadn’t been shown a picture, only told his age and the first letter of his first name. Clients usually prefer to remain anonymous.
I knew he was rather young, younger than a lot of my former clients. It was rare for me to be bought by someone only a few years older than me. Most clients are wealthy businessmen in their late forties to mid-fifties, well-dressed, well-groomed, and respected gentlemen seeking a woman with whom they can live out their dirtiest fantasies. They can leave their gentleman facade outside the hotel room door—the version that everyone else but me gets to see—before turning into who they really are.
It’s rare for them to be this young—he’s not even thirty years old.
And it’s even more rare for them to look like this. The man who’s holding me in a tight grip is probably the most beautiful man I’ve ever come across in my entire life. He’s towers over me as he leans in closer, his face too close to mine. The agency told me that he’s twenty-nine years old, but he looks even younger than that. Even in the dim evening light, I can tell that his eyes are black and a lot darker than his brown hair, which is cut short, tight to the scalp, in a military style. His rectangular-cut jaw is spotted with dark five o’clock stubble, and when he narrows his eyes to study me, I notice a jagged scar right next to his left eye.
I’m too dumbfounded to speak, and anything resembling flight instinct is failing me at the moment. But why would I try to fight him off, anyway? I knew this was going to happen. I waited for him to come for me, and here he is.
He stares me down, the intensity of his gaze sending shivers coursing like cold blasts through my entire body. Why is he not saying anything? Why is he not dragging me off?
Why is he not acting like a kidnapper?
“It’s me?” he mimics my careless words.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, I-”
“I saw where she ran off to,” he interrupts me.
I look up at him, startled. “Huh?”
What is he talking about?
“The girl who has your coat,” he elaborates. “I saw where she ran off to.”
“Oh,” I say. “Right. My coat. I’m sorry, I-”
“Stop saying that,” he cuts me off again. “Come. I’ll help you.”
Help me? Okay, if this is the game he wants to play. Maybe he staged all of this? Did he pay off the girl to steal my coat so he could appear to be some kind of knight in shining armor, who then turns bad? No details of the kidnapping were ever confided to me. All I was told was to act and dress in a certain way f
or a few days and wait for him to come and take me.
I notice that he gives me a once-over before turning around to pull me along behind him. I feel pretty exposed in my racy get-up, especially without my coat to cover up most of it, but I can tell that he likes what I’m wearing. After all, this is what he ordered, a perfect slut.
I can barely keep up with him as he drags me across the street toward an expensive looking black car, the lights flashing as he unlocks it. He pulls up on the handle of the door for the front seat passenger side and beckons me to get in. This must be the most polite kidnapper in the history of mankind.
I cast him a puzzled look before slipping into the car.
My heart is racing when he takes his seat and starts up the engine. He locks the doors before we pull out from the curb.
“She ran that way,” he says, pointing ahead of us. “I think we have a better chance of catching her if we drive.”
“Sure,” I agree, still bewildered at all of this.
This is not at all how I expected things to go down. I thought he’d grab me off the street, maybe even strike me unconscious somehow. I was told to struggle, at least a little bit.
But what am I supposed to struggle against if this is how he’s playing the game? He may have appeared out of the blue and grabbed me roughly, but now he’s acting like a hero helping out a girl in need, not like a kidnapper.
At least so far.
Maybe the struggle is yet to come. Maybe he’ll become sinister any moment now, turn the car down a dark alley, tie me down and tell me to shut up, as I realize that his alleged help only masks his true violent intentions.
I take a deep sigh, preparing myself for whatever is to come. Acting is an essential part of my job, but I’ve never done role-play like this. I feel like I should have practiced lines or something.
He seems nervous, too. I notice him casting me quick glances from the side, as if to make sure that I’m not trying to jump out of the car. Is he expecting me to do something like that? Should I?
