by Linnea May
“Naughty girl,” he says, and a smug smile appears on his face. “Too busy leering at me, you almost forgot to be scared.”
My eyes scurry to the darkness of his. I flinch when he leans down, bringing his face close to mine, and removing his marvelous chest from my sight.
“Can you promise me something?” he asks in a low and daunting voice, placing his hands at each side of my face.
I bite on the cloth and let out a pathetic croak as I try to answer. A simple nod will have to do.
“You won’t scream when I take this off,” he continues, yanking at the cloth on both sides, almost choking me. “I’m going to take this off, and you’ll be quiet like a good girl and listen to me. Do you understand?”
Another nod, and just a moment later, I’m freed of that fucking cloth, finally able to close my mouth to relax my face from that painful grimace I was forced to wear. I won’t scream because I know there’s no point. We’re playing a game, all right, but I won’t risk losing my voice or strength through something as silly as screaming.
Besides, I’d much rather hear what he has to tell me. I like this. I like the tension of not knowing what’s next, and I like looking at his handsome face as he threatens me. I know it’s all a game and I have nothing to fear for real, but he sure as hell is making this feel real.
I should try my best to make him feel the same way.
He pulls the cloth down, but leaves it draped around my neck, observing me while I take in a deep breath of relief and press my lips together like I haven’t been able to do for such a long time.
“Good girl.”
This praise. Those words always have the same effect on me. They make my heart flutter with pride and accomplishment, and an arousal that is still so weird to me, even after all those times I’ve felt it.
Our eyes lock onto each other for a moment. He doesn’t look happy. If anything, he looks unsure and doubtful. Is he unhappy with me? Is he regretting buying me already? What am I doing wrong?
“You’re a special one, aren’t you?”
His question baffles me. What am I supposed to say to this? Now that I’m finally here, in his hands, in this cage, as his possession, I finally begin to realize the scope of my commitment. With previous clients, it’s always been simple. We usually met up at a bar or hotel, and as soon as I was alone with them, they started barking commands at me. They never cared much for conversation or tested my skills as an actress. I just reacted to whatever they did to me.
This is harder than I thought it would be.
“Sir, I’m-”
“Don’t call me that,” he snarls, cutting me off. He reaches for my throat and closes his hand around it, choking me just enough to send a rush vibrating through my core. “I’m not your fucking Sir.”
I want to respond, but he’s making it impossible for me to breathe, let alone speak. A croak is all I can produce.
I’ve almost always been told to address my clients as Sir. I don’t know if it gave them a sense of class or legitimacy or if they just lacked the creativity to come up with an alternative, but it was always the one word they wanted, if they chose a title to begin with. And I just went with it.
“Now, you’ll just listen to me for a while, little girl, do you understand?”
He lets go of my throat, leaving me coughing and gasping for air.
“Do you understand?” he repeats his question, and this time I find myself able to give him a proper response.
“Yes, s-” I start, stopping myself just in time. “Yes. I understand.”
“This is how things will go from now on,” he continues. “You’re mine now. You’ll stay in here, in this room, and you’ll do whatever I ask of you. There won’t be any back-talk, and you won’t try to get out of this, because I can guarantee you, you’ll regret it.”
He stops, observing my expression as I listen to him.
I nod. “Yes.”
He furls his eyebrows.
“Yes?” he mirrors my response. “That’s all you have to say?”
He snorts and straightens up. I watch in confusion as he begins pacing up and down the room, rubbing his temples and shaking his head. I lift my head so my eyes can follow his movement, and this time my body doesn’t betray me. The drug he injected is slowly wearing off.
“You really don’t understand, do you?” he asks, adding a snide chuckle. “You really don’t understand your fucking situation, do you?”
He comes back to me, positioning himself right next to my head, again captivating me with his marvelous physique.
“Up here, slut,” he barks, and I yelp when he surprises me with a pinch to my cheek. “You’re too busy lusting after someone you should be afraid of.”
I bite my lower lip.
“I am afraid,” I whimper. “Please... let me go.”
He looks at me with disgust. I can’t even blame him. My words lack conviction. Even I don’t believe them.
I yank at my restraints because I don’t know what else to do, what else to say.
“You’ll understand soon enough,” he says, and before I can even begin to contemplate a response, he turns away from me, switching off the light and leaving me alone and in complete darkness as he leaves the room.
This is when it truly starts to feel real.
7
Loran
I don’t know if she started screaming once I left the room, but I doubt that she did. She’s not a screamer, at least not yet.
Hell, I don’t know what she is. So far, she’s nothing but confusing, not at all acting the way I expected her to. Her extravagant appearance let me believe that she’d be one of those girls. One of the most obnoxious girls at the club, one of the loudest, maybe one of the brattiest. One that’s used to having men lie at their feet, adoring their beauty and craving their bodies, and thus obtaining an attitude to match. Her whole get-up screamed bitch, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if she tried to scratch my eyes out the moment I came close to her. Or if she spit at me, yelled at me, showered me with nasty insults. All of that, I would have accepted as a natural response to what I’m doing to her.
But she’s done none of it. In stead, she just lays there, nodding and saying ‘okay’, as if I’d just asked a simple favor of her.
I hate it. I hate that she’s not fearing me the way I want her to. I hate that she’s not acting the way I expected her to. If she’s not going along with my expectations, how am I supposed to feel in control, to be in control? Instead, I feel like she’s the one playing tricks on me. It’s as if she has something up her sleeve, something that can potentially turn the tables on me at any moment. Her calm demeanor unsettles me more than I’d like to admit.
I had to leave her in there by herself. I needed room to think, room to consider my next steps. I haven’t thought this through, none of it, and it shows, now that she’s here with me. It’s one thing to consider kidnapping a woman, but it’s another thing entirely to come up with an elaborate plan and then go through with it - but it’s a completely different thing to act on impulse and find yourself in the position I’m in now.
After all, I don’t even have a proper cage for her. Sure, I have the dungeon in the basement with a bathroom connected to it that’s shielded from the outside. I’ve never had to put it to the test, but I’m sure there is no way for her to escape, even if she wasn’t tied to the rack.
I have to check, though. I never had to worry about my slaves trying to escape because it was never part of the deal. They were told to act scared and fend me off to a degree, but any attempts of escaping were strictly forbidden by the contract they signed.
A lot of things were laid out in those contracts, and I feel oddly lost now that I lack having one signed with my slave.
I poured myself a scotch after I left her, wandering up and down my living room, twirling the liquid in the glass in my hand as I ponder my next move.
Frankly, I feel like an idiot. This is so unlike me. I’ve never done anything this reckless
before. I didn’t even check if anyone saw us when I led her to my car. It’s unlikely anyone paid attention, as the streets were completely empty and no one was leaving or entering the bar at the time, but it can’t be put out of the question. Besides, we didn’t do anything suspicious. She came with me on her own free will. I didn’t grab her and drag her with me as I originally intended, and even as we were driving, she didn’t act out in any way. By the time she was unconscious, we had long left the bright city lights and were driving on an almost empty freeway, unlikely to be seen by anyone.
It’s very, very unlikely that anyone noticed me taking her... but it’s not impossible.
Minutes pass and turn into hours, as I continue my contemplations without getting anywhere. I keep telling myself that I’m putting this distance between her and myself because I want her to calm down and get used to her situation, but who am I kidding? From what I can tell, she’s more comfortable with this than I am.
I need a plan, but I can’t come up with it here, not like this. I empty my scotch and leave the glass on the kitchen counter before making my way to the stairs, only pausing for a second before heading upstairs to the second floor. A few hours of sleep will do the trick, I’m sure.
But sleep is unattainable for me. Every time I close my eyes, I see her in front of me. Her green eyes that are too dark in contrast to her light blond hair and her pale skin, her calm acceptance of her situation, her apathetic response to everything. She might be nothing but a ticking time bomb, and the chances of her exploding are getting greater with every minute that she’s left alone down there.
Or so I hope.
I toss and turn in bed, unwilling to give up the fight against insomnia, while I know that she must be doing the same downstairs, albeit in a less comfortable condition. It will be a while until I can let her be comfortable again.
By the time I see the first beam of warm sunrays casting through my window, I acknowledge defeat and get out of bed. I never close the curtains because I’m used to getting up with the sun, but I definitely prefer getting at least a few hours of sleep in beforehand.
I forego my usual morning workout and take a quick shower, trying to calm my nerves just as much as my body. Every time I think of her, the beautiful little lamb that’s tied to my rack in the basement, I’m fueled with a toxic mix of rage and desire. Her body, her face, her slutty outfit, all of it is driving me insane, but not as much as her naive and calm conduct is. She has been alone in the dark for hours, incapable of moving and scared to death. She must be in a lot of pain by now, and I know I can’t leave her there much longer.
I put on a pair of navy blue jeans and a white shirt that hugs tightly around the muscles I’ve worked so hard to build. I noticed her leering and lusting after me. While I enjoy such compliments as any man would, I’m sure it also fooled her into believing that I am indeed some kind of knight in shining armor and not the beast she should fear.
My heart is racing nervously when I reach for the handle of the door leading downstairs. I have to take a deep breath before I find myself able to open it and face the mess I left behind.
I hold my breath, slowly opening the door, watching as light streams into the room. The curtains have been closed, and she’s been surrounded by complete darkness, unlike me, oblivious to the fact that the sun has risen and it’s the dawn of a new day.
I hear her before I see her, and the sounds she’s making are music to my ears.
She’s sobbing. Sweet, little, desperate sobs that speak of her desperation. It’s the sweetest sound.
She falls silent when she notices me entering the room. I let the door close behind me and switch on the light. The ceiling lights are terribly bright and unforgiving, immediately reminding me why I usually refrain from ever using them. I squint just as much as she does when I approach the rack.
She hasn’t moved an inch from the last time I saw her. Of course she hasn’t, because she can’t. But it doesn’t even look like she tried to move. Her dress is still hiked up just the way I left it, exposing her bare pussy, only protected by a sheer thong and framed by laced suspenders holding up matching stockings. The only thing she got rid of were her heels. I can see them lying on the ground at the foot end of the stretching bench.
It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Nothing but her face matters.
Her face. It almost stops my heart.
She’s not moving an inch, barely breathing, as I position myself next to the rack. Dried up streams of smeared make-up are gracing her pale cheeks and her eyes are framed in deep black crusts. Her quivering lips only show remnants of the bright red lipstick she wore last night, as she moves them in a silent plea for help.
“Please,” she whimpers. “Untie me.”
“Now why would I do that?”
She suppresses another sob, closing her eyes in agony as another tear rolls down her cheek. “Please. It hurts.”
“What hurts?”
She opens her eyes and seeks my gaze.
“Please. I need to pee.”
I chuckle. “So? Do you honestly think that concerns me?”
It does concern me, but she doesn’t need to know that. However, this is a good opportunity for her to learn her first lesson.
Her horrified expression quickly changes to annoyance.
“Just tell me what to do,” she presses. “And I’ll do it. Just, please...”
She bites her lower lip. “How am I supposed to be a good girl if you don’t tell me what to do?”
She flinches when I place a hand on her forehead, softly brushing a strand of hair away. It’s easy to tell that this isn’t her real hair color. I wonder who she dyed it for? I don’t like it. It doesn’t suit her.
She whimpers and shifts on the rack. “Please.”
“I will untie you,” I promise. “Under two conditions. First, no fighting, no screaming, no insulting, no kicking, no biting, no-”
“For God’s sake,” she cuts me off. “Yes, yes, yes. I won’t do an-”
She stops when she sees me raising my hand. I don’t like hitting women in the face, but she just rubs me the wrong way. Luckily, a simple threat suffices. She freezes, terror coating her beautifully fucked-up face as she stares at me.
“No face hitting,” she whispers. “No face hitting.”
I don’t know why, but her words cut right through me. She speaks them like a reminder, as if there was such a thing as a contract between us - as if I was about to overstep one of her hard limits.
I get sick at the thought of not knowing her hard limits. How the fuck did I ever think I could do this?
I clear my throat.
“No face hitting,” I agree, trying to play it cool. “And no interrupting.”
She nods.
“Second,” I add. “I’m coming with you. You’re not going anywhere without me, not even to the bathroom.”
She looks horrified, but only for a split second, before she nods eagerly. “Yes, whatever you wish.”
Whatever I wish? Fuck, she must be desperate.
I begin by unfastening her ankles, holding her in place at first because she might use the first chance she gets to kick me. But, of course, she doesn’t. My little lamb barely moves, even when all of her limbs are untied. She groans in relief when I release her wrists and slowly, very slowly, lowers her arms, gently rubbing her wrists as she places them on top of her ample chest.
She jerks away when I lean forward to remove the cloth from around her neck and help her sit up. Her dark green eyes dart up, searching mine, but I don’t reciprocate her look. She’s trembling and barely able to keep her balance, soon seeking my support as I help her down from the rack. There’s a bathroom connected to the dungeon that offers all the luxuries one could ask for - including a hot tub. The smile that appears on her face when I help her inside the room tells me that she appreciates the white marble room as much as any other girl did before, if not more.
“Are you sure you want to see this?” she asks, shyly turnin
g to me as I close the door behind us and let go of her. I position myself next to the door, crossing my arms in front of my chest and beckoning her to move on.
“I decide what’s shared between us,” I say. “Not you.”
She furls her eyebrows but refrains from protesting. I take no particular joy in watching her do this, but it’s not about the act itself, it’s not even about the humiliation that comes with it. It’s just about the fact that I can do this, and that she’s not in the position to stop me from watching her. If anything, this is a convenient shortcut to intimacy between us, and evoking much needed humility on her part.
She hides her face from me the entire time, and I can tell that she tries to be as elegant as one possibly can be in such a situation. It’s flattering that she’s trying to impress me. She fixes her skirt when she’s done, but when she walks over to the sink to wash her hands, I stop her by grabbing her forearm. She flinches, looking at me with an alert expression.
“You’re going to take a bath,” I tell her.
“With you?” she asks.
I huff. “Get undressed.”
I let go of her and turn toward the hot tub to begin drawing her a bath. She’s still standing in the same spot, frozen like a statue, after I turned on the hot water.
“Get undressed,” I repeat. “I’m not going to say it again.”
“You don’t... want me like this?” she asks, pointing at herself. She looks utterly confused.
“No,” I say. “Not right now. Get undressed.”
She hesitates, casting me a look as if to question my sanity. Is she really that shy? No, that can’t be it. She’s merely confused by my command, and I can’t blame her. She looks like a fucking sex toy, so sinful, so ready to be fucked, everything about her carefully selected outfit screams for her to be fucked senseless. Any man who’d prefer her naked over this must be out of his senses, right?
