Now that she was in this beautiful city, she had no intension of leaving. Being the kind of woman who refused to shy away from a challenge, she made up her mind to stay a week. If nothing happened in that time, she’d give up and go home, have the bracelet cut from her wrist and forget the damn Marquis. She’d burn his books and be done with him.
In the meantime, those two amazing books would give her hope. They were tangible proof that the Marquis existed. They also turned her on. Every time she read from those gripping pages, the words stirred her imagination and she melted into fantasies of self-abnegation, scenes of masochistic revelry, moments of extreme bliss. Her mood became diffident and fawning…she wanted with her whole heart what she’d had before with Erik—with the promise Erik gave her until he reneged on it in death. She wished him back, fruitless as that was. Without him, the Marquis was her only savior.
If after a week there was no sign of the Marquis, she’d gladly give up her search. She would not tear herself apart any longer, pining for a man who would have proven to be no more than a phantom fueled by her ripe imagination. Either that, or he simply did not want her.
Laney spent two days sightseeing through Prague, taking in some of its main historic sights: Old Town Square, The Charles Bridge, St. Vitus Cathedral, St. Nicholas Church. In a number of small cafés, she sipped coffee, ate pastries and dined on local cuisine. She bought trinkets for her family, and for Sandra and Elise. Elise really did need to come here to check out the music scene—she would love it! Laney had been urging her to extend her musical aspirations to Europe for a long time, although Elise had proven to be too provincial to make that kind of rash move. Of course, now Elise had her conductor and Laney sensed that Cabral Icaboni would be prominent in Elise’s life for a long time. While Laney searched the markets for pretty things to take home and drank her coffee in small cafés and spent hours in awe of the thrilling architecture, her wanting sexual need grew from an inkling of a flame, to a flame that burned constantly, enlivening her loins and sending her on, filled with expectation.
She was in a small café on the third morning, finishing a British newspaper she’d picked up at a newsstand, when a particularly ticklish chill raced up her spine. She looked around, seeing nothing out of the ordinary; no one was staring at her—which was something she regularly checked with one stray eye. She finally rose to leave and started off down the street with the idea of spending her morning at Prague Castle. Something about its unusual architecture intrigued her, but more than that, she’d actually found herself resisting going there.
She’d dreamt about Prague Castle before she left Paris, after she’d picked up a tourist guide that explained the castle’s history. She had a hard time believing that she hadn’t been there before—maybe lived there in another lifetime—although it wasn’t common for her to think that romantically. If that were not the case, if she had no real prior association with this castle, then something about the place inspired her imagination…a premonition, perhaps? She didn’t normally believe in premonitions either, not normally.
Laney took a bus bound for Prague Castle, which let off several blocks away and took the rest of the journey on foot. The air stirred around her. It had been still all morning, but now a breeze picked up on this sunny, cloudless day. Goosebumps broke out across Laney’s skin and the very hairs on her arms seemed to stand on end. She tried to shake it off with a laugh; she’d been spooked by her dream—and it wasn’t very much of a dream, just pieces, a few fragments, and nothing essentially foreboding. She kept on determinedly, until she was inside the castle and wandering around, letting her eyes move from place to place with almost reverent interest. Every few minutes she caught sight of a stiff looking man in uniform, a guard, who seemed to have his eye on her, and the foreboding chill crept up her back again. After nearly twenty minutes, he approached and motioned her his way.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
He motioned her again, apparently not understanding English.
She shrugged and shook her head to indicate that she had no idea what he wanted. Suddenly, he moved forward and grabbed her by the arm, holding it very tightly as he pulled her along beside him.
“Sir, please,” she tried to shake him off. He paid no attention to her protests. She frantically looked around for other tourists, but there were none close by. Her heart raced, and her arm began to throb, as she was shoved into a small guardhouse.
“What’s the problem?” she turned toward the man who had spoken. The fellow was dressed in street clothes, in all black, with his blond hair falling in his face so it was difficult to see his eyes.
“Zeet down!” he snapped so loudly that she shriveled and backed into the chair behind her. The guard then grabbed both of her arms and handcuffed them behind her.
“Please! Tell me what’s going on!” she cried desperately.
There were no answers forthcoming; although a wide band of duck tape slapped over her mouth prevented her from asking another question. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she bucked uselessly against the chair. With her fury and fear at such a high pitch, she wrenched herself from the chair and landed on the floor.
The guard was about to pull her up, but the blond man waved him off.
As Laney stared up in frightened wonder, he moved to his knee beside her and pressed to her nose a cloth doused with a strange smelling substance. Her conscious waned slowly as she breathed in, even her panic eased, but oddly enough the drug didn’t put her completely out. Her limbs felt like lead, her head as if it were underwater, and her brain responded sluggishly to any movement or stimulation. She felt her body still struggling but it was barely able to move.
One of the young man’s hands reached under her blouse and found her breasts bare. He reached under her paisley skirt and found her pussy wet. Then he barked something in Czech to the guard who nodded.
Laney tried to look for the distinguishing mark of the Marquis on his wrists, but there was none. In a panic again, she wrenched hard against the ropes, but again, her body barely responded to the order of her failed mind. She became drowsy and weak as though nothing mattered but falling asleep—if she’d only fall asleep.
Time was slipping from her grasp and the world spun around her, then suddenly she felt herself lifted by a pair of strong arms, cocooned by them, and carried out the back door of the guard house, into an alley, then to a car—a small foreign car—where she was shoved in behind the seat. Her wrists had been handcuffed, her mouth covered in duck tape, and then some time in the last minutes, her feet were bound with rope. To make her position even more uncomfortable, a rope from her bound feet was drawn up to the handcuffs and tied off there, forcing her body into an awkward arch.
Time slipped away from her again…they were traveling through city streets, weaving sometimes, careening around corners, going too fast. Horns honked all around them. She gazed up seeing the buildings of Prague float by then disappear, until they were beyond the buildings where there was blue sky above and sometimes trees overhead, sometime a blinding sun. When she wasn’t smelling diesel fuel, she caught the scent of the countryside, mown hay and grasses and cow manure and the clear unencumbered air of the out-of-doors. She drank it in, thinking that would revive her and make her less woozy and she could clear her muddled head. But that didn’t happen. As soon as the recognition dawned that she was being taken from the city, she passed out briefly, remembering nothing until the car finally started down a bumpy road.
Quickly awakened, Laney bounced about in the small nook behind the seat of the car, her hip coming down again and again on something hard. Since she couldn’t shift her body of her own accord, she could only hope that she would finally change positions the next time the vehicle landed in another pothole.
Finally, the car came to a halt—the first merciful thing that had happened since the guard led her away.
The man who’d been driving the car—the same who’d bound her in the guard house, the one in the black clothes with t
he blond hair falling in his face—pulled her from the vehicle and lifted her again, carrying her into a rundown cottage made of stucco and stone, and half-covered with a thick growth of ivy. The ceiling was low in the windowless room where Laney was taken, the walls crowding together and damp. The door soon closed behind the retreating figure of her captor, and she was left on a mattress to suffer in the dark alone. She heard a lock click, and the sound of muffled voices on the other side. She could taste fear on her tongue, and smell the scent of her scared and sweating body waft toward her nose. Her arms ached, her head was still groggy, although now she truly felt as if the drug was wearing off. Maybe she shouldn’t want that. Maybe she should will her body to go to sleep so she could forget this terrible nightmare.
Laney woke to the sound of shouting in the room beyond her dark space, although the sound seemed hallow and distant, as if it were miles away. She sensed that she’d been taken underground into a cellar. No windows, the low ceiling, the musty smell all around her—it all made sense. She wished she understood the language her captors spoke, maybe she’d fear less—or maybe she’d have more to fear.
Her head was clearer now, which seemed to make her panic more acute. Her discomfort couldn’t have been more real. Her bound body ached so much that she was practically numb, and when she tried to call out, she realized that her mouth was still covered with duct tape, silencing her distress. Tears formed in her eyes as the reality of the situation challenged her sanity. There was no recourse but hope, blind, determined hope that the men who’d taken her meant her no real harm.
If this was the Marquis’ doing, then she’d made an enormous mistake to have pursued him. All the warnings from friends and from Alex Greenwood came back to her haunt. But if this weren’t the Marquis’ doing, then she had even more to fear. Terrorists. Madmen. Rapists. Was she being held for ransom? Would they kill her rather than let her go?
Suddenly, as if she’d actually willed it to happen, the door opened and light poured in on her tiny mattress. She had to squint to see, though she was practically blinded by the piercing brilliance.
“She’ll need her feet released to walk.” This was the first English she’d heard since she’d been in the guardhouse at the castle. “Ivana!” the man roared out and a blonde woman came scurrying into the room, hovering over Laney’s body. Dangling before her eyes was a huge pair of tits pulling against a white cotton shirt, the voluptuous flesh spilling out over the top of the tiny brassiere meant to contain them. The blonde worked with the rope attached to her handcuffs, then the one around her ankles until they were loose. As fresh blood poured into Laney’s constricted ankles, she breathed a little more easily, although she was still too numb to walk.
“I help you,” the woman with the huge tits said, as she carefully moved Laney into a sitting position, then leaned down to put an arm around her waist. She lifted her up with her strong body, while Laney willed herself to walk.
“You should let her crawl,” the man at the door barked.
“She do good enough,” the blonde female came right back.
The faltering Laney was led from her tiny prison into a room that was much larger, and very bright. The place was obviously old and showed its wear, but the kitchen into which she was taken to was big and cheerful, with thick oak around its doors and red and white checked curtains fluttering at the windows. The breeze was sweet, the air filled with all the country scents Laney recalled during her trip from Prague.
She was set on a kitchen chair, while the blonde female, the man from the guard house and another, taller man shifted around the room, and looked her over with grim and curious expressions.
“Undo the hands!” A man’s voice rang out from behind her, sounding as if he were in charge. A moment later, he strode in from out of nowhere, and stood in front of Laney looking down at her with his perceptive eyes searching her closely.
He was the kind of man that make her heart beat quickly and her loins come back to life after a brief respite while under the influence of their drugs and her fear. Short facial hair gave his handsome face a fierce look, and his blue eyes were so penetrating that she feared he could see how much he immediately aroused her. Everything about him bred her lust, not just because he had such a virile look to him, but because she felt his authority—whether it was earned didn’t particularly matter.
Obeying his order, the blonde woman released Laney’s hands.
“You have lots to tell us, Mrs. Priestly, so it would be better if you could speak,” —as if this was a joke, he smiled mockingly. Lifting the edge of the silvery tape that trapped her mouth, he ripped it away from her skin. Her entire mouth stung miserably, “Ohhhhh!” and she grabbed her face with her hand to comfort it with her palm.
“Some things are best done quickly,” he said.
While the others in the room appeared to speak little or very broken English, this man’s English was flawless, although executed with a Czech accent that sounded just a little British.
“You spend your time like a tourist, but you are not a tourist, are you?” The intensity of his piercing eyes had not faltered.
Laney gazed around at the others in the room, the two men, the blonde female. All their eyes were like cameras focused on her face to record everything she said, and on her body to note every movement.
“Look at me. Kafka.” He thumped his chest. “Who is it you seek here in Prague?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answered evasively. She would reveal nothing about herself until they revealed something about who they were.
“No?” He grabbed her left arm and held up the bracelet. “Property of the Marquis. Is that who you seek, this Marquis?”
“Who are you?”
He grimaced. “That is not an answer.” He took her trembling chin in his hand and held it fiercely.
“Maybe not, Kafka,” she spit out, boldly, “but it is all I’ll say until you tell me who you are. Are you agents of the Marquis’?”
A ripple of laughter carried through the room. Even the stern Kafka briefly smiled.
“I think not,” he answered. “But who we are is not the issue here.” He let go of her chin, and with his hands on his hips, he turned around, shaking his head at his friends. As he was turned slightly to the side, she could just make out the glimmer of mocking amusement in his expression. “Tell me why you’re in Prague,” he said.
She waited as long as she dared in defiance, then finally blurted out: “Yes, I am here to see the Marquis.” Since they knew about the bracelet, there was no point in lying.
“That’s very good, very good.” Kafka turned back to her. “We can see that you are the man’s property, which is all we need to know to make you our captive.” He smirked triumphantly. “The Marquis brings you here then stupidly lets you fall into the hands of his enemies. If he wants you, Mrs. Priestly, he’ll have to pay our price. Until he does, we’ll amuse ourselves with you. Before you leave here, if you leave here, we will leave a mark on your psyche that will never go away.”
A shudder of despair tore through Laney’s body as she choked back tears, although she knew that tears were no way to defy these people, this man, this ruthless, taunting man. She hated the way her body responded like a trained animal to his ferocity and his good looks, and she dreaded the thought of him discovering how wet she’d become while under his painstaking scrutiny.
“Bare her tits for me,” he ordered, then he stepped back to view what was revealed to him when Ivana moved in behind the chair and pulled Laney’s blouse up off her torso.
Her pale brown skin seemed to glow in the sunny room, while the roundness of her breasts was accentuated by the bright light. A breeze from the nearby window brushed past her and tickled her skin with the effect of raising the hairs on her arms and tightening her nipples just slightly. The critical observation of her captors made her even more aroused and her nipples tightened further as proof.
“Take off her skirt,” Kafka ordered next.
Laney was forced to rise to her feet, while the blonde pushed her skirt down her hips. Her smooth belly heaved from the exposure. As often as she had bared herself on the command of a dominant man, she never ceased to find the experience humiliating and degrading, and she never ceased to be aroused by those potent feelings.
“Now sit,” Kafka scowled and Laney sat again. “Legs apart, your hands behind you. We want to see what the Marquis’ slut looks like and how she responds to stimulation.” He turned toward the men behind him. “Bring out my little torture machine; I think we’ll hook her up, eh?”
Laney’s eyes got wide and scared, a fact that seemed to amuse the author of this daring plot. Kafka’s aides made quick work of revealing a small suitcase in which Laney could plainly see a number of electrodes attached to a panel of dials. An electrical cord from the suitcase hooked into a nearby light socket.
“Oh, no! Please! Don’t to this to me!” Laney screamed.
Kafka whipped around, incensed that she would cry out that way…”I’ll do anything I want to you, slut. You have no choice but to suffer.” He spoke without malice, but coldly tendered his words so that they cut through her like the blade of a knife through butter.
She could feel the panic at her throat as one of her silent attendants placed electrodes on her nipples. Her legs were then spread wider than was comfortable in order to have access to her cunt where another pair of electrodes were attached to her labia. Her labia where then pulled wide apart with clamps, and her pussy was anchored open with chains from those clamps tied off at the sides of the chair. Her hands had already been handcuffed behind her, which thrust her chest forward as her back arched awkwardly.
Tears streamed from her eyes as a small probe was inserted into her pussy, and she gasped aloud when she felt another probe worked into her anus. “You can’t do this! You’ll kill me!”
“Oh, my poor slut,” Kafka mocked her, “killing you is the last thing we want to do. Don’t be such a baby. You might actually discover that a little electrical stimulation just sends you over that sweet edge of bliss you masochists love so much.”
The Marquis' Book of Pleasure & Property of the Marquis Page 27
