Blue Velvet

by Linnea May

  “No,” I object, shaking my head. “You’re lying.”

  “Am I?” he asks, and I shiver when he places a kiss behind my ear.

  He squeezes the sensitive flesh around my core, reviving the subtle throbs that continue to hold me in a state of exhausted vertigo.

  “Well, I’m sure I can think of ways to prove it to you, my toy.”

  His words are laced with a dark undertone, and the threat it conveys feels so real that I’m inclined to believe him.

  “Thirty-nine days,” I whisper. “You have thirty-nine days with me.”

  I’m saying those words like a mantra, as if repeating the terms of my contract will make this real, prove that he’s lying, and prove that I haven’t fallen into the hands of a real kidnapper. He can’t be lying. He’s too good of a person to be a criminal.

  “I have as many days with you as I please, toy,” he breathes, as he begins rubbing my sore nub. My legs part on instinct, and I’m appalled at myself when I realize that I’m dripping wet again.

  “No face hitting, no blood, no lasting damage to my body,” I continue. “No names, full discretion, no safe word.”

  He growls into my ear.

  “Keep going, my little toy,” he growls. “I want to hear all about your little contract.”

  I moan when he parts my lips with his fingertips, still massaging my swollen clit with his thumb.

  “There was a window, a time frame of five days,” I continue, gasping for air when he stretches me with two fingers, then three. “I had to look pretty, I was told to wear stockings, heels, and a dress that barely covers my ass. You like dolls, you like fake. I had my nails done, my lashes enhanced, and my fake tits on display every time I stepped outside, parading down the street, just for you, waiting for you, not knowing when you’d grab me, but knowing that you would eventually.”

  His pressure on my most sensitive spot intensifies, and I squirm in his embrace when a rush of bliss spreads throughout my core. How can I still be this responsive to his touch? When he unfastened my restraints on the stretching bench, I felt like I’d never be able to come again, like I’d never let anyone touch me there again. And now, he’s doing just that, only minutes after I recovered from his previous treatment.

  And I’m enjoying it. My pleasure is fueled by his threats, by the possibility of him speaking the truth, by the sheer prospect of being in actual danger. I loathe myself for being this fucked-up, but I can’t help it.

  “Wrong,” he hisses, his lips close to my ear. “You’re wrong, my toy. I don’t like fake. I like you just like this, bare and natural. If your face was painted like it was yesterday, I’d never be able to see the blush on your cheeks when you’re aroused like this. And the fake lashes only cast a shadow on the vibrant sparks in your eyes when you climax. I don’t care for any of that.”

  Despite my lustful agitation, I can’t help but chuckle at his words.

  “You’re such a charmer,” I breathe, parting my legs farther to give his skillful hand more leeway to toy with me as he pleases.

  “Not at all,” he objects. “I’m just honest, in everything I do and say to you.”

  I tilt my head back and our eyes lock onto each other, mine searching his for the truth behind his words, but the deep black of his remains full of secrets. My heart is hammering against my ribcage, my mind ready to spawn into another rapture while my body tries to catch up.

  “Want to hear something else that is nothing but the truth, but not at all charming?” he asks. The smile that graces his handsome face is dark and ominous, almost devilish.

  “Always,” I utter, my reply almost choked by another hiking upsurge of bliss as his finger finds just the right spot.

  He shifts on the mattress, almost burying my body under his without ever retreating from my core. I’m sprawled out below him, parting my legs as far as I can. I can feel his hardness through the fabric of his jeans, caressing the soft skin on my belly.

  “You’re scared, aren’t you?” he says under heavy breaths.

  “Yes,” I breathe.

  My heart jumps when he retreats from my center, quickly unbuckling his belt and unzipping those damn jeans. Finally.

  He frees his hard cock within seconds, and I pant for breath when he rams his thick, full length inside me in one brute motion. I figured that he was ample size, but the way he’s stretching my channel now feels like so much more than I ever imagined.

  “My fucking little toy,” he pants, as he begins fucking me with violent thrusts. “Such a tight little cunt, and so wet for me.”

  I cast him a smug smile. “I thought you were going to share an uncharming truth with me?”

  He reciprocates my smile, still plunging his massive cock inside of me when he reveals the words that will unleash true terror on the naive little girl he’s fucking.

  “Your hair,” he utters between thrusts. “I hate that fucking bleach, I hate blonde, and I especially hate it on you, because it’s not who you are, my toy.”

  I tense up in horror, my widening eyes clearly telltale that his words finally got through to my very core. I didn’t think there was anything he could say that would convince me of the truth behind his earlier words, but these are it.

  “I. Fucking. Hate. It!”

  He underlines every word with an extra deep shove, stretching my insides and blowing my mind apart.

  My climax comes with the realization that I truly am his captive.

  This is no game.

  I’m coming, clenching around the cock of a real kidnapper.

  16

  Loran

  It’s been three days. Three days since I proved to her that I know how to break her. Three days since I pushed her to overstep any limitations she may have thought she had.

  We’ve barely spoken since then, and I have barely touched her. Taking her up to one of my bedrooms was a mistake, and it made her believe that she was free to roam through the house as she pleases. She struggled when I forced her back to her cell downstairs. I used more violence than I’d usually be comfortable with, and it was not only due to her defiant struggle. I resent myself for what I did. Not for the tears I caused her, but for the weakness I showed in front of her.

  I’m falling for her. She’s like a succubus. It’s impossible to resist her seductive charm. She’s a professional, I must never forget that, never. She knows how to play men like me, because she’s been paid to do so for years.

  I can’t afford to lose myself in her. It’s far too dangerous. And I have to make sure that her disappearance didn’t cause an uproar. If her client was unable to find her when he was expecting to, won’t he be looking for her by now?

  I had to find out, and the only way I could do that was to leave my house. I left her in the basement dungeon, locked up but unchained. She has a mattress to sleep on, not a very elegant solution, but it beats taking her up to my bed, an option that I found myself considering against my better judgment.

  There’s no way for her to escape from that basement, and no way to draw anyone’s attention. I don’t have to worry, but yet I do. I worry, not so much about her getting away from me, but about her, her safety, her sanity. The look on her face has changed ever since that fateful day when I unleashed the monster inside both of us.

  The image of her face haunts me even now. I’m standing in front of a public pay phone, something I wasn’t even sure still existed until now. I’m dialing the number that was printed on her business card, a number I’ve called before, but for a different purpose.

  The woman who picks up doesn’t sound familiar. Thank God.

  “Violent Delights,” she pipes. “How can we serve you?”

  I skip pleasantries and get straight to the point.

  “I’m calling about one of your girls,” I say, noticing that I disguise my voice even though there’s no apparent need to. “I just came across her file and she really caught my attention. Her name is Ruby Red.”

  “Yes, of course,” the woman replies. “You�
�re interested in booking her?”

  I clear my throat. “Yes. As soon as possible.”

  “For a night, sir?”

  “Yes,” I hurry to reply, rolling my eyes. This is taking forever. “Is she available? When can I have her?”

  “Please give me a moment to look up her file, sir,” she replies, unable to hide the fact that her politeness is pure show.

  “Of course,” I growl, frantically checking my surroundings, as if there was any chance that I was being watched.

  “Sir?” she asks after so much time has passed in silence that I’m startled by her voice.

  “Yes, I’m listening.”

  “I’m sorry, but Miss Ruby Red won’t be available any time this month,” the woman says. “Could I suggest one of our other-”

  “Why is she not available?”

  She clears her throat. “I’m not at liberty to divulge that information.”

  “Is she with a client? For that long?”

  I hear a sigh at the other end. “Sir, I can’t tell you.”

  I roll my eyes. Of course I know that. Discretion is one of the main benefits of doing business with this agency, and one of the main reasons I became their client in the first place.

  “Look, I just want to know whether she’s okay,” I say. “She’s not sick or anything? Because... you know, that would affect my interest in her.”

  “Oh no, sir, she’s perfectly fine,” the woman assures me. “She’s indeed busy with a client.”

  I huff. “For that long, huh?”

  I can hear her fidgeting on the other end of the line. She’s already said too much, and she knows it. Nevertheless, she gives me the piece of information that I need.

  “Yes,” she says. “She has been booked for the entire month and is currently unavailable.”

  It doesn’t sound like there’s anything wrong with Ruby. No missing person report, either at the agency or in the news during the past few days. I don’t know how this is possible, but whoever booked her certainly doesn’t seem to miss her.

  “So, she’s definitely with the client now?”

  “As I’ve told you already, sir, yes, she is,” she says anew. “It’s an exclusive contract that went into effect a few days ago.”

  She coughs slightly.

  “Sir, if you are a client with us, I could-”

  “Lucky guy,” I say, before hanging up, interrupting her mid-sentence.

  I walk away from the phone booth as quickly as possible, my head buzzing with unanswered questions.

  How is it possible that no one is looking for her? Is it just a matter of time until I’ll see her face on the news? I’ve done extensive research, even checked out police reports, but there’s nothing about a blonde woman her age missing anywhere. Maybe not enough time has passed yet for her client to report her missing? She said her client had a five-day window during which he could seize her, but I never asked when during that time frame I kidnapped her.

  I had to fight a painful surge of jealousy when she talked about him, the man she was supposed to be with right now. There was no real affection in her voice, but a certain fondness for him and the contract between them. I know she didn’t agree to this simply because she felt like she had to. She signed up for this because it’s what she wanted.

  A girl like her gets to choose. She’s not an uncommon type for this agency. They claim to deliver nothing but the best of the best, and they really do. All the girls in their files are not only astonishingly pretty and sexy, they also have a mind of their own, they’re smart, and stronger than the prejudice existing about escorts usually dictates.

  Nevertheless, they’re all actresses, and that includes her, my Ruby Red. I can’t trust her, and I have to remember that.

  But I also can’t stop thinking about her. I’ve been away from the house long enough, longer than I ever have since taking her.

  My mind is still racing, matched by the speed of my heart rate, as I walk back to my car. I’ve been away too long.

  17

  Ruby

  I feel lost and scared. I’ve been feeling like this for days, seeking comfort in the lavish bedding he provided me. When he took me upstairs that day, holding me like a baby while I sobbed in his arms, processing the things he had done to me, I honestly believed we’d move on. I thought I had earned myself some kind of promotion. I thought I could be with him, in that bed, in that room, in his arms whenever I needed the comfort and aftercare a submissive needs after a session.

  He gave me that comfort, but only that one time. He let me remain there with him merely an hour, and a significant part of that time was spent with me wrapped around his cock, moaning and fighting off a new wave of tears, because it was all too overwhelming.

  I’m not one to weep easily, but once those gates are opened, it’s hard for me to stop. I cried when he carried me back downstairs, and I cried when he closed the door, leaving me all by myself. I ran to the door and begged for him to let me out. I was more convinced than ever that what he said was true, and it scared me to death.

  He listened to my pleas, and then showed up a few minutes later to provide me with food and a silk robe, so I had something to wrap my naked body in. His face was sinister and he barely spoke, only saying the very minimum.

  And it’s all he has done since, providing me with the necessities. My heart skipped a beat every time I heard the door open, hoping to get more answers, hoping to see the man who did these cruel and wonderful things to me, but my hopes never materialized. He only came downstairs to provide for my needs. He gave me clothes, but not the kind I expected. I thought he’d want to see me parading around in sinfully delicious and sexy lingerie for him, but instead he gave me a t-shirt and sweatpants to wear. There’s absolutely nothing sexy about these items, but I still wear them because it beats running around naked.

  He also brought a mattress for me to sleep on. He placed it right in front of the St. Andrew’s Cross, because it was the only space where it would fit. He showered me with fluffy pillows and exquisite silk bedding that I actually looked forward to sleeping on, despite being by myself. Every single item he provided me was of the highest quality, even the embellished cotton t-shirts wore a Valentino tag. I couldn’t help but chuckle when I pulled one of them over my head. They don’t look special, but I’ve been surrounded by wealthy men long enough to know that their price might come close to my monthly rent.

  I’ve been given gifts by clients before, but never like this. They usually bought lingerie for me, or jewelry, sometimes a dress. Sometimes I was allowed to keep the items, and when I first started this job, I couldn’t think of anything else to do with the gifts except to sell them so I could pay off my student loans faster. The money one can spend on an everyday item such as earrings or a dress still baffles me. It seems ludicrous.

  In any case, it didn’t really help ease my suspicions about him. He’s adamant that he’s not my client, but it appears he enjoys a similar level of wealth as the man who bought me. I was promised a generous sum for agreeing to this job, a sum that I’m sure he’d be able to come up with just as easily.

  I wish I could believe that I wasn’t truly in trouble, and just fulfilling the job I signed up for. But there was one thing he said that eliminated that hope for me.

  He said he hated my hair.

  He said he hates blondes.

  The client who purchased me specifically said he wanted a blond woman. He was the reason I dyed my hair because he wouldn’t even look at my file if I remained a redhead.

  And this man, this man who grabbed me off the street and did everything exactly as I expected the client to do, this man now says that he hates my blonde hair color.

  I can’t wrap my head around it. Could it really be true? And if it is, why is he treating me this way? If he’s nothing but a criminal, a kidnapper, a rapist even, why is he not doing whatever he wants to me? Why did he refrain from slapping my face when I reminded him that face hitting was one of my hard limits? Why did he n
ever fuck me?

  I’m curled up on my mattress, as I always seem to be, wrapped in the luxurious silk sheets, protecting me against the cold. It’s always chilly in here, another reason why I was grateful for the clothes and the blanket.

  It’s the middle of the day, but I can’t see the sun from down here. I can only imagine what it must look like outside because the windows are so small, just above ground-level, and made from frosted glass. Gray is all I’ve seen the past few days, and it only changes from a lighter gray to a darker gray, depending on the time of day and - presumably - the weather.

  I straighten up when I hear the lock of the door turn, announcing his arrival. He steps inside then, wearing a dark polo shirt and dark jeans, sexy as fuck. Sometimes I wish he wasn’t this goddamn beautiful, and I wish my body wouldn’t react to him the way it does. My core is trembling with anticipation, and my heart flutters every time he shows up. It has only gotten worse since he fucked me. I want him to do it again, and I feel silly for wishing these things, because there should be more urgent issues on my mind.

  Concern for my safety, for example.

  “Get up,” he says, approaching me and motioning for me to rise from the mattress.

  I hurry to obey, presenting myself in front of him. I’m wearing a gray cotton t-shirt and black shorts, with nothing underneath. I have no make-up, but he was kind enough to provide me with a brush and hair products, so I don’t have to look like a bum. Yet, I feel inferior and underdressed next to him.

  “No one is looking for you,” he announces, stepping closer and - to my surprise - wrapping his arms around me to grab my ass.

  I sigh, resisting the desire to lean into his touch.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, bewildered.

  “I called the agency-”

  “You what?”

  He casts me a warning look, and I bite my lip to stop myself from talking. How the hell does he know about the agency if he claims not to be my client?

  “I called them to check on you, little Miss Ruby Red,” he says. “And they said you were with a client right now.”