Blue Velvet

by Linnea May

  “Which I am,” I insist, even though I’m still having trouble believing it.

  “Which you aren’t,” he corrects me. “But whoever your real client is, he’s clearly not missing you. Yet.”

  Our eyes lock. His grip on my ass tightens, and I almost moan when he massages my ass cheeks like this, so demanding, so possessive. I fucking love being touched like this, and I’ve missed having his hands on my body more than I’m happy to admit.

  “Now, you have to tell me something, toy,” he continues. “You said there was a window of time during which you were to be taken.”

  I nod, eager to find out where he’s going with this.

  “How long did you say that was? Five days?”

  “Yes, five days.”

  “I had been watching you for three,” he claims. “So that time window must definitely be over by now?”

  I nod again. “Yes. It was day four when you... took me.”

  He moves his lips as if he’s tasting my words. Something concerns him, and if he really is who he claims to be, then it’s easy to tell what it is. He’s worried that someone might be looking for me, that the client, who apparently didn’t show up in time before I followed him to his car, would now be calling the agency to ask about my whereabouts.

  “You really aren’t him,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “You really aren’t, are you?”

  It’s not a question but a statement. I’m finally giving voice to a thought that’s been creeping up on me again and again over the past few days. I already knew it. I knew since he commented on my hair.

  But I couldn’t let myself believe it, not truly.

  Now I can. I have to.

  He looks at me, and his eyes darken, but it doesn’t stop him from squeezing my ass once again.

  “Took you long enough to realize the truth, toy.”

  18

  Loran

  There it is. That sweet, sweet terror I’ve been craving.

  I’ve seen a glimpse of it before, three days ago right before I fucked her upstairs. At first I thought she just felt insulted because I said I didn’t like her blond hair, but I soon realized that it was more than that. She was surprised, shocked actually, to hear me say that I didn’t like blondes. I didn’t think much of it, but now that I think back to that day, I realize that her client probably had specifically requested a blonde.

  She dyed her hair for him, and when I said that I didn’t like it, it only proved to her that my words were true.

  But if she already realized it then, why hasn’t she been freaking out until now? Why is she screaming at me now? Why is she trying to fight her way out of my grip now?

  She stared at me for a few moments, and I could almost see the gears working behind the scenes as understanding set in. Heavy silence was followed by panicked screams. She lashed out at me, spilling tears, and using all her strength to coil within my embrace, fighting so hard to get out of my grip that it almost hurt.

  I tried to keep her in place and control the little manic she’d turned into. It wasn’t too difficult, that is until she finally had the sense to do something smart. She realized that hitting and kicking didn’t do much, so she decided to try something different. I didn’t even see it coming until I felt her teeth digging into the flesh of my upper arm. She didn’t use full force at first, but once she did, the pain was strong enough for me to let go of her and shove her away from me.

  “You fucking bitch!”

  She glared at me, her face smeared with tears and her cheeks glowing from screaming.

  “You monster!” she yells, slowly backing away from me. “You fucking monster! Let me go! You didn’t pay for me! I don’t belong to you!”

  “Yes, you fucking do, toy!”

  “NO!” she insists, crying out so loud that it chills me to the bone. “No! You’re not fucking paying for me! I’m not yours to keep! You stole me! You’re a fucking criminal!”

  I take a step toward her, causing my little toy to run away from me. It’s a futile attempt because all she can do is run around in circles through the room, banging from one wall to the next, and she knows that. Nevertheless, she continues moving frantically, even if it doesn’t get her anywhere. I watch as she circles through the room in panic, her eyes frantically scurrying around, searching for a way out. Eventually she runs to the door, half-heartedly tries to open it, only to discover that it’s locked, like it always is, whether I’m in the room with her or not.

  “Let me go!” she yells at me again, accusingly pointing her finger at me. “You have no right to keep me here! You didn’t pay for this!”

  I smile at her, relishing the terror painted across her pretty face. Things didn’t go as planned with her, nothing did. It was pure coincidence that I found her in the first place, and it was another coincidence that I was able to take her when I did, without making any arrangements for her confinement, and it was another incredible coincidence that she works for the agency that I refused to contract with this time.

  It all led to a few very confusing days, for both her and me, but now she’s finally acting the way I expected my victim to act from the beginning. My plan might be spoiled because I’ve already tasted her, but I know I will still enjoy her, nonetheless.

  “Help!” she shrieks. “Help! Heeelp!”

  “No one will hear you, my toy,” I remind her, speaking calmly as I continue moving toward her.

  She jerks away from me when I try to grab hold of her arm, but it only works for so long. I close in on her with two big steps, getting a hold of her and pulling her toward me with little effort.

  She cries out again, trying to lash out at me, but I keep her arms held in place. This time, I’m making sure she won’t be able to bite me by keeping her at a distance.

  “Do I have to tie you up?” I ask, trying to catch her eyes with mine. She tries to evade eye contact, but not for long.

  “You will fucking have to, you sick bastard!” she yells at me.

  I’m probably the only person in the world who can see the beauty in this, the only man who savors her terror, the only man who gets hard just by looking at her terrified face when I pick her up. She continues to squirm in my arms and cry out for help that won’t come, but I still manage to take control of her by bending her arm behind her back and immobilizing most of her body with just one hand. I drag her over to the glass cabinet, using my free hand to open one of the drawers underneath the main display.

  She wails in protest when I produce a rope bundle from the drawer, quickly unfurling it as I move on, carrying her over to the mattress she’s been sleeping on. I get down on my knees with her still wrapped in my arm. She’s still trying to fight me, but her efforts lack the conviction from earlier. It’s almost as if she has decided to surrender. Almost.

  She howls into the cushions when I push her down on her stomach, crossing her wrists at her back and tying them together in the wink of an eye. The piece of rope I grabbed is pretty long, and it allows me to tie her up in a very simple version of a hogtie, connecting her ankles and wrists behind her back, completely immobilizing her.

  Her struggle grows weaker by the moment, as she’s not only losing the will but the power to fight me. I roll her onto the side, making sure she doesn’t hurt herself when she falls over. She’s lying on her side, her arms and legs bent and tied behind her back, her gaze not fearful, but repulsed.

  “Why didn’t you just buy me?” she hisses, fighting back another wave of tears. “Or someone like me? Why didn’t you just pay for this? It’s clear that you have the money for it.”

  She pauses, considering her words before she continues.

  “Or is this not your house? Is this not your stuff? Did you steal all of this, too?”

  I shake my head, ignoring the fact that she tries to flinch away from me when I reach for her to gently stroke along the side of her face, moving away a strand of blond hair.

  “No, this is my house, my stuff,” I say. “And you’re right, I could afford to buy you
. I’ve actually contracted with the agency before.”

  She inhales audibly, suggesting that this revelation gets to her.

  “Which is why I’m familiar with the agency you work for,” I add.

  “How do you know-”

  “Because I found your business card, toy,” I cut her off. “Violent Delights. I’ve actually been one of their clients.”

  “But not this time.”

  “Not this time,” I confirm.

  “Why not?” Her lower lip is quivering, and her question is laced with desperation. “Why the hell did you not buy me or someone like me?”

  “Because I grew tired of acting,” I tell her. “I’m tired of fancy whores pretending to be someone they’re not, pretending to like something they don’t like for the sake of the client, pretending to be scared or helpless, when in reality they know they’re perfectly safe because of a contract. I’ve grown to hate this fakeness, people who show anxiety when they have nothing to fear.”

  She looks at me with a contemplative expression on her face. It actually looks like she understands me, like she can relate to what I’m sharing with her.

  “You wanted the real thing,” she concludes in a hoarse whisper. “But all you got was another whore who thought she was hired to do this.”

  I’m startled when she begins laughing. It’s not a happy laugh. It’s the creepy kind of laugh from someone who’s about to lose their mind, the kind you hear coming from the evil villain’s throat in a movie, just before he blows up an entire city. The kind of mad laughter of a lunatic.

  I stare at her with narrowed eyes and can’t help but worry for a moment, but she recovers soon enough. She’s shaking her head as if trying to cast the urge to laugh away.

  “I can’t believe this is fucking happening,” she breathes without looking at me. “This cannot be fucking real.”

  I huff. “You’re telling me, toy.”

  “Stop calling me that,” she demands.

  “I can call you whatever the fuck I want,” I remind her, grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulling her head back so she’s forced to look at me. “Do you understand?”

  She glares at me through glassy eyes.

  “You must’ve been so disappointed,” she says in a voice so low that I can barely hear her. “Here you are, out to get yourself a pretty little victim to fuck, something real, someone who’s actually afraid of you, someone who does what... succumbs to your dominant charm eventually? And all you get is the same old thing, a whore, ready to bend way too easily at your will.”

  I let go of her hair, feeling oddly defeated by her words. Everything she says is true, but it makes me feel terrible to hear her say it.

  “You know, I’m not doing this job because I have no other choice,” she goes on. “I’m doing it because I fucking enjoy it. You say what we provide is merely an act, but it’s not, not with me.”

  Our eyes meet. Her lips are pressing into a thin line, trembling as she pushes them together, unable to prevent another set of tears from streaming down her cheeks.

  “I admit, I started doing this job out of necessity, but if I wanted to, I could’ve stopped a long time ago,” she adds. “But I didn’t. I need this. I enjoy it, and what I’m giving my clients is way more than just an act. I crave the things they do to me just as much as they crave doing it. There’s barely anything fake about me.”

  She stops, smiling to herself. “Except for my tits, I give you that. They’re as fake as they come.”

  I can’t help but join her little chuckle. Her eyes flicker when she sees me laughing with her, silently telling me to stop.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  I clear my throat, throwing her an earnest look. “I have no reason to doubt your words, toy.”

  She sighs.

  “This could’ve been nice, you know,” she laments. “If you had just paid for me, if you had indeed been my client. I think I would’ve enjoyed that.”

  She adds another pause, sniffles, and visibly fights off another impending wave of tears. But her sad desperation soon wins over, shaking her body with violent sobs. Seeing her like this doesn’t give me anything. It doesn’t please me, it doesn’t arouse me. It fucking hurts to see her like this - and I hate myself for feeling this way. This is not how it’s supposed to be, not at all.

  “You know, I was actually looking forward to this job,” she whines. “I was scared, too. This is bigger than anything I ever signed up for before, so much bigger, but also so much more exciting. I wanted this to happen. I wanted to be kidnapped. I wanted to be someone’s possession. I wanted to be treated like fucking property. I wanted to be fucked like there’s no tomorrow, trained, and chained.”

  Her watery eyes seek mine. “I wanted to see how much I could take. I wanted to be tested, really be tested. But I wanted it to be safe. And now...”

  Her voice breaks as she succumbs to another crying fit. I hate the goddamn daggers that she’s throwing at my heart with this. She’s a fucking witch, and she’s killing me.

  It’s as if my arm is moving on its own. I’m surprised that she doesn’t try to fight me off. Instead, she not only accepts the comfort I’m willing to offer her, but she actively seeks it. I pick her up in her awkward state, making use of the fact that my ragged hogtie allows her to kneel with her back only slightly bent backwards, and wrapping my arms around her as she sobs like a hurt child.

  “Why didn’t you just buy me?” she utters tearfully. “You could’ve been my client. You didn’t have to kidnap me.”

  I tighten my embrace around her, closing my eyes as I press her closer against my body.

  “No, my toy,” I object in a low voice. “I had to.”

  19

  Ruby

  I don’t understand why this is happening to me. And I don’t understand him.

  Why is he doing this? Why is he being so gentle with me now? Is it my vulnerability that turns him on? Is this part of the thrill for him?

  I don’t know what he has in store for me. Now that I know who he is - or rather who he isn’t - there’s nothing I can hope to expect from him, there’s nothing I can rely on. He could hurt me, abuse me all day long - he could kill me.

  He could actually kill me.

  Is that what he had in mind when he took me? True fear, true terror - followed by a true end so his deed never gets discovered?

  “Are you going to kill me?” I ask him. My words are muffled as my face is pressed against his firm chest. His strong, muscular chest that I adored just a few days ago, when I refused to believe this is not what I thought it was.

  “Not if I don’t have to,” he says. His words make my heart stutter with fear.

  “How will you know if you have to?”

  He doesn’t give me a reply, but instead he carefully pushes me away from him, making sure that I’m stable, kneeling next to him, before he brings his hands behind my back, looking over my shoulder as he fiddles with the knots around my wrists.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Using you,” he replies. “That’s what you’re here for after all.”

  I take in a big gulp of air, scolding myself when I notice a subtle wave of arousal washing over me, warming my core and making my heart turn in somersaults. This is sick. Even I should know that this is the absolute worst moment, the absolute worst circumstance to be aroused by.

  “What are you going to do?” I elaborate. “What’s going to happen?”

  “Shut up, toy,” he hisses, finally loosening the knots pinching around my wrists.

  He holds my arms in place, his hands replacing the rope, yet immobilizing me just as effectively.

  “You don’t want to fight me, toy,” he warns hoarsely. “You’ll regret it.”

  I’m paralyzed, unsure what to make of the thrilling heat that’s spreading throughout my body. Holy shit, I’m fucked-up.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I hurry to reply.

  His grip around my wrists tigh
tens, and he bends my arms, causing me to groan in pain.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, master.”

  The pressure on my arms eases immediately, and I sigh in relief, the rush still accelerating my heart rate. To my surprise, he unfastens the ropes completely. I don’t even think to fight him, letting my limbs relax when he lets go of me. I feel like a fool when I breathe in his scent as he bends over me, reaching for the hem of my shirt and slowly pulling it up and over my head, while I obediently raise my arms to help him.

  I even moan when he touches my exposed breasts, cupping them almost lovingly before he squeezes them forcefully, with need. His eyes hungrily travel along my upper body, a focused expression on his face as he contemplates his next move.

  His hands leave my body, and I watch as he fiddles with the rope, calmly rolling it up in his hands.

  “Stretch out your arms and cross your wrists,” he commands.

  My hands are visibly shaking when I oblige and hold out my arms toward him. I cross my wrists and observe his skillful dexterity as he closes the rope around them, quickly fastening expert knots to tie my hands together.

  He gets up from the mattress and pulls at the rope, beckoning me to follow him. “Get up.”

  I get to my feet and stumble behind him, and he leads me over to that damn stretching bench. My heart sinks at the idea of being tied up on that thing again, but as it turns out, that’s not his plan at all. Instead, we circle the bench, leaving me wondering what our actual destination could be. He turns around to look at me, visibly enjoying the view of me walking behind him, my tits exposed and my wrists tied. I’m wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, and I’m pretty sure that I’m about to lose those, as well.

  He pulls me away from the stretching bench and finally shows me where we’re headed. We have never used the leathery bondage horse before, and despite everything, I can’t help but feel excited when he tells me to climb on it.