Camille, Claimed

by Ginger Talbot

  Speaking of guards, I haven’t seen any of his men on patrol. Do they stay inside at night? It’s been half an hour.

  The minutes drag by, and I enjoy the cool night air and the feeling of calm inside me.

  Killing Robert’s man the other day was a balm to my turbulent soul. I realize I won’t be able to stop. This is something I need to do. I have to kill. I’ve needed it my whole life, and denying it was slow poison, eating away at me like acid. I felt beautiful relief after I killed him, and I’m going to do it again, and free myself from the torment of my unslaked urges.

  Camille is still a sharp shard digging into my heart, though. She’s what stands between me and true happiness.

  She’s haunted me since the day she betrayed me. I’ve never been able to stop thinking about her. I’ve never moved past it. I can only think of one way to end this obsession, and now I have broken free from the shackles of false morality that my family tried to wrap me in… I’ve decided. Her days are numbered. And I’ll make the rest of her short life hell.

  The front door bangs open and four men, dressed all in black, rush out of the house. It looks as if they’re wearing body armor, which means my best chance is a head shot. Very difficult to make at this distance, even with my night vision scope.

  Good. I love a challenge.

  I shoot the first man, watching the top of his head explode. The others dive for cover, and I line up my sights again, lightning-fast, and my finger hugs the trigger and the bullet finds its target. Two down.

  The other two try to crawl off into the bushes, but I dispatch them quickly—much too quickly. I’m only half satisfied, like a man forced to wolf down a luscious filet mignon without enough time to savor it.

  A fast kill doesn’t do it for me. Every day I learn more about my needs. Someday soon, I promise myself, I will find someone and will open them up like a present, unwrapping them very slowly.

  I wait a few minutes, scanning the area, listening intently.

  When nothing happens, I go into the house. The door gapes open.

  I am heading into a complete unknown. Crouching killers might be waiting for me, or a hailstorm of bullets.

  Joy sings through my veins.

  Crumpled bodies in the foyer show me what happened to Robert’s guards.

  I creep slowly and silently through the house, craning for any sound. I hear nothing, but I smell the coppery reek of blood, and it calls to me, stirring up a predator’s hunger.

  When I enter the kitchen, I’m greeted by the sight of Robert’s head on an ornate silver platter in the middle of the table. His eyes are wide open in horror, his mouth sagging. There’s a letter in front of the bowl.

  MAYbe he should have been a little more careful.

  A headless body, which I’m assuming is his, is sitting in a chair with its hands nailed to the table.

  The word May in capital letters…why? It’s April; next month is May…

  I dismiss it from my head and hurry downstairs into the basement. The door gapes open, and the air smells of pennies. Robert’s prisoners are sprawled on the floor in the middle of the room. Someone has carved a red smile into each of their throats. The smiles clash with their terror-twisted faces.

  Their nightmare is over now.

  Pity.

  Waste of good orifices.

  I hurry through the house. The country-casual furniture is spotless and new. He didn’t live here full time. A quick search through cabinets and dresser drawers confirms this; there’s no personal papers or memorabilia.

  I snap a picture of Robert’s fingers with my cell phone, and leave quickly through the back door.

  After I’ve left the area, I run Robert’s fingerprints through a special database of my own, and come up with Robert Franklin of Virginia.

  Some research shows me that the Franklins are an old and vastly wealthy family. There is a senator Mitchell Franklin. He’s related to Robert Franklin’s father, Augustus Franklin, who is the CEO of Franklin Timber. There is also an Appeals Court judge in their family. The first record of the Franklins is in the 1700s. They made their money with tobacco farms, timber, and in more recent years, commodities trading.

  And the men all look like Robert—and me. Or at least the way that I used to look.

  It’s a good possibility that whoever killed Robert was also the person who sent the man to kill me with a sniper rifle. That makes more sense than Robert inviting me to America, showing me his kinky little secrets, then trying to murder me via sneak-attack.

  I place a call to Franklin Timber from my burner phone. It’s the only number of the Franklin family’s I’ve been able to find, other than the numbers of the senator and the Appeals Court judge, and I don’t think it’s a good idea to try to reach out to such public figures.

  I leave a message. “This is Robert’s cousin Bastien. We need to talk about Robert. I’ll call again tomorrow at nine a.m.” Then I drive back to the city and book a room in a different hotel, using another of my fake identities.

  I don’t remember falling asleep. I don’t remember anything until morning, when I wake up feeling slightly woozy in a strange bed, in a strange room. Sunlight floods through the window.

  I sit bolt upright, instantly alert. Physically, I feel fine. I pat myself down; I’m wearing my slacks and T-shirt. I don’t see my phone anywhere. My wallet is resting on the night table. I normally carry a knife and a pistol; those are gone.

  My mouth feels thick and cottony, so I head to an open door that leads to a bathroom. After I drink water and use the toilet, I grab the bathroom window and slide it up. It opens easily, and outside I see low, manicured green hedges.

  The bedroom door swings open. Somebody must have been watching me on a hidden camera to see when I’d wake up. A woman in an hilariously obscene French maid’s outfit walks in hesitantly, her gaze downcast.

  There are two holes in the top part of the frilly white apron, exposing her perfect, perky breasts tipped with dark, dusky nipples. I prefer the rose pink of Camille’s nipples, an unwelcome memory that forces its way into my consciousness.

  I can’t even fucking look at a woman without thinking of Camille. Every woman I’ve ever fucked, every woman I’ve ever beaten, is Camille in my head. I swallow the taste of bitterness and let my eyes rove over her body.

  The flared-out skirt of the maid’s outfit is so short that it exposes her shaved pussy. She’s stunningly beautiful. Big brown doe eyes, high cheekbones. Looks to be in her early twenties. She’s wearing a thin silver collar with blinking lights on it. I can’t see any kind of hinge or latch on it.

  My cock hardens. I’m sure it’s some kind of shock collar. I love the idea of putting a shock collar on a woman. God, that’s fucking hot.

  Camille in a shock collar, naked, crawling to me…screaming as I push the button again and again.

  She walks up to me and bows her head submissively, then sinks to her knees. “Good morning, Sir. Welcome. Breakfast will be served in half an hour. May I help you shower, or serve your needs in any way?”

  That’s an interesting way to be greeted after a kidnapping. “No, thanks,” I say.

  She flicks me a fearful glance. “Have I displeased you in any way, Sir?” she asks me, and I see the sheer terror in her eyes.

  I shake my head. Yes, she’s being served up to me on a platter and her fear is an enormous turn-on, but it doesn’t feel right somehow. Maybe because it’s too easy. Maybe because it’s not Camille. Perhaps a little bit of both. “Nope, I just prefer selecting my own women.”

  “Of course, Sir.” Her eyes flash with relief. Then she climbs to her feet and stands there awkwardly, staring at the ground.

  “What?” I snap.

  “Am I dismissed, Sir?” she asks fearfully.

  “Yes, you are dismissed.”

  She scurries out, eyes on the ground.

  Someone has done an admirable job of training her, I’ll say that.

  There are fresh clothes lying across the back of a chair
, in my size. Ballin Manchester khaki slacks with cuffed ankles, white polo shirt and socks, and Sid Mashburn tan suede Italian penny loafers on the floor.

  I take a quick shower, then dress. When I leave my room, she’s waiting for me just outside the doorway, hands clasped together, eyes still downcast. She leads me down a long hallway lined with framed oil portraits of men who look just like the old me. The portraits go back at least a couple of hundred years, if the style is any indication. The men all have a mean gleam in their eyes, and a twist of cruelty to their mouths.

  We come to a room that’s flooded with sunlight. There is a long mahogany table that could easily seat a dozen, and it’s set with silver bowls resting on a white lace tablecloth. Floor-to-ceiling glass doors open out onto a patio and reveal an endless spread of magnificent gardens beyond it.

  The man sitting at the head of the table watches me as I come in. He’s burly and broad-shouldered, in his fifties. His wavy dark hair is shot through with silver. I imagine that if my father hadn’t erased his natural features, he’d look very much like this man. There are two other men in their twenties, and their facial features, like the older man’s, reveal them to be related to me. They’re all dressed like country gentlemen. Augustus has a blue and red bowtie—very Southern. The man sitting to his right wears pale pastel blue slacks and a blue Oxford shirt with wide blue stripes. The man to his left is wearing a red, yellow and blue checked chambray shirt and ochre trousers.

  Like my family, they’re very conscious of quality and appearances.

  The smell of coffee and sizzling bacon greets me as I enter the room. The woman sneaks one desperate glance at the platters of food on the table in a way that tells me she’s very hungry but she won’t be allowed to eat until she’s given permission. Then she hurries over and kneels by the older man’s feet on the floor under the table, and he props his feet up on her back. I’ve got a perfect view of her exposed ass and pussy.

  “Sit,” the older man says in a deep, booming voice. He’s got the air of a man who is used to having his orders obeyed instantly and fearfully. He points at an empty seat, and I take it, moving at a deliberate pace—not so slowly that I’m being openly disrespectful, but not jumping at his orders either.

  Two other women, also wearing slutty maids’ outfits and the same kind of blinking silver collars, hurry to serve us food. The misery in their eyes tells me they’re not there by choice. A redhead serves the man on his right, and the blonde attends to me. It’s a little distracting having someone’s tits dangle in my face as they serve me, but I’ve got to admit, her wretched expression adds a sweet flavor to the coffee as I sip it.

  There’s a moment of silence as their gazes wander over my face, and I feel that angry clench in my chest again. My face, my birthright, has been stolen from me.

  “I’d like the name of his plastic surgeon,” the man in the chambray shirt says with mild amusement. He has the same honeyed Southern accent as Robert.

  “Barbaric,” the man in the blue slacks says, as if I weren’t sitting a few feet away from him. “To look like a Franklin is an honor. He’s been carved up like a suckling pig.”

  The man nods at me. “Good morning. Welcome to Eternal Glory. This is our family estate. My name is Augustus. Your grandfather Lenin was my uncle. This is my son Paxton,” he nods at the man who just called me barbaric, whose expression is sullen and suspicious, “and this is my nephew, Solomon.” His voice, like Robert’s, has the soft tones of a native Southerner, but there’s something harder underneath.

  “You could have just called me on the phone and invited me here without all the dramatics,” I say with mild annoyance. I wanted to get to know my family, but ever since I was dragged off to that psychiatric facility when I was fifteen, I bristle at the idea of being taken anywhere without my consent.

  “I wanted to make a point.” He smiles coldly. The point being, he can find me anywhere and have me whisked to his estate, so I’d better play nice and not speak out of school. “We’ll talk after breakfast and…the entertainment.”

  There’s no point in arguing, so I dig into the pancakes that the redhead sets in front of me. Then I help myself to bacon from a silver tray. I also try some grits, which I know are classic southern fare, but I find them disgusting. We’re silent for a couple of minutes as we eat, then Augustus wipes his mouth with a napkin and looks at me.

  “Tell me about yourself,” he says imperiously.

  I give him a bored look. “Anything you haven’t been able to dig up on your own, you can ask me about after breakfast and…the entertainment.”

  There’s a snap of anger in Augustus’ eyes, and Paxton glares at me. Solomon looks more amused than anything.

  “Father! Are we going to tolerate that from an outsider?” Paxton demands of Augustus. The redheaded girl pours him some orange juice and quickly moves back.

  Augustus freezes Paxton with a look. “I’m still in charge here. If I want him dealt with, he’ll be dealt with.”

  I’ve never done well with threats. I push my plate away and straighten up. “I’m ready to go.”

  Augustus turns the cold look on me. I meet his gaze unflinchingly. It’s fascinating staring into the eyes of a man who’s just like me. There’s not a single glimmer of humanity to be seen.

  “I like a good dick-measuring contest as much as the next man, but at the appropriate time,” he says in measured tones. “I own this house. I still rule this family.” He puts a peculiar emphasis on the word “still”. Has there been some challenge to his position? Maybe that’s why he’s so intent on establishing his authority. “You are part of this family. Settle down and have some manners.”

  I shove a piece of toast in my mouth and chew it without dropping my gaze. “With all due respect, Mr. Franklin, I did not ask to come here, and I rule myself. And this is an unusual way to treat a long-lost family member.”

  He sits ramrod straight, eyes glittering. “If you want to be part of…all this,” he waves at the women, at the grounds outside, “there are rules to be followed. Protocols. Family traditions.”

  Family traditions?

  That intrigues me. The yearning to know more is like a burning hunger, so I nod in agreement. “I do want to learn my family traditions,” I say, forcing myself to sound appeasing.

  Camille would approve; she always used to try to help me seem a little warmer and more human.

  Fuck Camille. Why am I even thinking about her?

  “Excuse me if I’m a little impatient. I’ve been waiting for this my entire life, without even realizing it.”

  Augustus relaxes a little, and Paxton settles back in his seat with a sullen glower.

  We return to our meal, and Paxton and Solomon start chatting about some thoroughbred that Paxton is thinking of buying. Finally, Augustus pushes his plate back, which apparently is the signal for everyone to stop eating, because his son and nephew set their silverware down immediately.

  “Sinner Sarah, get over here,” Paxton barks at the redhead, and she hurries over to him, her eyes wide with fear.

  Paxton bares his teeth in a fierce grin. “I’ve had her for two months now,” he says to me. “I’ve got a little property close to town. She and her boyfriend were doing some work for me there. They thought they could take my Ferrari for a ride. They had a man at a chop shop all ready to go. Granted, I left the keys in the ignition to tempt them, but nobody forced them to do it.” He reaches up under her short, flared skirt and twists his hand around. Whatever he’s doing makes her cry out in pain, but she stands there, grimacing, eyes bright with tears. “Took me about two weeks to get her fully trained. Her boyfriend…we trained him much faster. Less than a day. I’m not gay or anything, but he does suck dick like a vacuum cleaner turned on high.”

  The redhead’s face puckers in misery as he says that.

  With his free hand, he pours hot, steaming coffee into his empty cup. Then he smiles up at her. “Sinner Sarah, dip your tit into that coffee.”

  She
sobs as she bends down toward the coffee, her eyes panicked. She flinches away when her nipple dips in the boiling liquid, screaming, “I can’t, I can’t! Please!”

  He leaps to his feet, twists her arm up behind her back, and forces her down until her breast is half buried in the burning coffee. She shrieks in agony, free hand clawing uselessly at him, legs kicking up, and he holds her still as howls of pain tear from her throat. I can see his erection clearly against his pants.

  I chew on a slice of salty bacon and watch with interest. The redhead’s eyes roll up in her head as she faints from the pain. He drops her, and she slides down to the ground. Her breast is bright red, and I can see blisters popping up.

  The blonde is standing as stiff as a pole, up against the wall, staring down at the floor. Her face is pale with fear.

  “What do you think?” Paxton asks me, his lips twisting up in a semblance of a grin.

  I’m really tired of this family testing me to see if I’ll piss my pants or cry every time they do something naughty. “What do I think about out how hard you’re trying to impress me?” I ask him. “Or about your choice of punishment methods?”

  “You disapprove of the punishment?” Paxton sneers.

  Solomon scrapes butter onto his toast with a silver knife and watches us, looking bored.

  I just shrug. “My personal choice is to punish in a way that doesn’t maim. I’m a man of refined tastes. I don’t like screwing deformed bitches,” I say.

  Augustus gives me a calculating look. “I’m not quite sure what to think of you. If anyone else spoke to us with such disrespect, they’d be dead. But you’re new to us and our traditions, so I’ll bide my time for now. Speaking of traditions, you turned down Sinner Maria. It is a tradition for us to share our women among family members.” He glances at her, still kneeling at his feet. I’d actually forgotten she was down there. “Did she offend you in some way?”

  I shake my head, with mild annoyance. “I already told her. I choose who I fuck. Someone else’s slave holds no interest for me. Did I capture her, did I break her? No. I don’t take what I haven’t earned by right of conquest.” Something tells me he’ll like that kind of thinking.