Tamara, Taken (The Blue-eyed Monsters Book 1)

by Ginger Talbot

  But the tactic doesn’t work, because I recognize it for what it is, which pleases me. I have to figure Joshua out if I’m to have any hope of escape, and any insight that I can glean into his twisted mind will be helpful.

  Elizabeth chains me to the floor again before she removes the hood and handcuffs. She’s carrying a bottle of water and a cup with two more pills in it, which she sets down on the floor.

  As she leaves, I call after her. “I’m sorry for whatever he did to you, but it’s really fucked up that you’re helping him keep me prisoner. He has no right to do this to me. It’s monstrous, pure evil, and you’re just as evil as he is to help him get away with it.”

  She twists around to glare at me, and shakes her head. What? She’s saying it’s not fucked up?

  Whatever. Bitch. If I ever get the chance to take Joshua out, I’ll take her out too. I turn my back on her, dismissing her from my existence.

  My back aches, and I lie face down on the bed. My breasts hurt too, but they’re the least painful, and also in this position, I’m hiding my face from the camera and snatching back just the tiniest bit of privacy for myself. The overhead light winks out, plunging me into darkness. I feel woozy from whatever was in the pills he gave me, but the pain’s keeping me awake.

  Alone like this, with nothing to distract me, the full horror of my situation comes crashing back down. I’m locked in a serial killer’s basement.

  No. No. Don’t do that to yourself, Tamara.

  I try to think comforting thoughts so I don’t spiral into hysteria.

  Heather will notice the mail piling up on my doorstep and report me missing. If she doesn’t, if she’s so mad at me because of what I said a couple of days ago that she’d let me vanish and not even try to help, then the landlord will. He lives down the hall from me, so he’ll notice the mail too. And my rent is due in a few days. I’m always compulsively on time with the rent.

  Heather wouldn’t be that petty, though, would she? I don’t know if I’m being paranoid because of my wretched situation. Still, there was something about the way that she flipped out on me out of nowhere. It was so extreme. It made me realize that I didn’t know her anywhere near as well as I thought I did. The funny, loud-mouthed party girl can also be a mean bitch.

  Never mind. My landlord will report me missing. And they’ll notice at the shelter when I miss my volunteer day, but that’s not for another few days yet.

  Where will the police look for me, though? How can they go up against an influential, obscenely wealthy businessman like Joshua Smith? Would they even dare question him? And if they do, will they be able to see past his lies? He can be sickeningly charming when he chooses to be.

  I push those thoughts aside. I have to think that I’ll be able to escape somehow. I don’t know how, but I must tell myself that this isn’t my life, that someday, some miracle will set me free.

  The thought of the homeless shelter makes my throat swell with sorrow. I loved working there so much. I really felt like I was making a difference in people’s lives. Even just talking to women, lending them a sympathetic ear, letting them know that it wasn’t their fault, it was never their fault. I was making friends there, and I’m afraid they’ll think I’ve walked out on them. I can’t believe I may never set foot in there again.

  I can’t even let the thought of school enter my head without wanting to scream. I worked so hard, for so long, to get that scholarship. Even if I were to escape, would I ever have such a wonderful opportunity again?

  “Eat ground glass and die, Joshua Smith, and your little bitch Elizabeth, too,” I mouth into the mattress.

  I start to do the tapping ritual on the mattress, and then I start laughing hysterically and crying at the same time, great hiccupping sobs rolling out of me. The tapping won’t work; it was for protection. It’s much too late for that.

  I’m growing woozier and woozier, and I drift off despite the pain. When I wake up, at God knows what time of the night, my ass and thighs and boobs are throbbing. It feels like someone branded me by wrapping red-hot barbed wire around me. I feel around for the pills and wash them down with the bottle of the water. A little while later, I’m asleep again.

  I wake up to someone yanking on my wrist. It takes me almost an entire second to remember where I am, which somehow makes it a million times worse. There’s that brief, glorious moment of confusion, and then I’m back in hell.

  The dim light is back on in my cell, and I sit up too fast and cry out in pain. Elizabeth is standing there, hatred and contempt stamped on her face, which I decide is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.

  It’s not bad enough that I’m here; I also wake up to the clenching of my usual first-thing-in-the-morning anxiety attack. Now, though, there’s a reason for that panic.

  What fresh torture does Joshua have planned for me today? Tears prick my eyes, and I blink hard. I pray he won’t whip me again. My flesh is so tender, I’m terrified it would split and gush blood if he struck me on my bruised spots.

  I stumble painfully to my feet and submit to the ritual of handcuffs being clicked onto my wrists, and then the hood being pulled over my head. I hate the fact that I’m naked. I feel raw and vulnerable as she marches me upstairs. Pain from yesterday’s beating flares with every single step, and I bite back my whimpers because I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she’s hurting me.

  This time, instead of being led to the dining room, I’m taken in the opposite direction, down the hall into a room with a cool tile floor.

  Elizabeth jerks the hood off my head. I’m in an enormous, beautiful bathroom with a raised tub the size of a Jacuzzi. There are steps leading up to the tub. The room is like a grotto, with flowing carved walls, sconces shaped like torches, and big fernlike plants in wooden planters.

  Joshua is wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. His body is stunning—shoulders broad, stomach gorgeously sculpted. There’s a light dusting of dark hair across his chest. Scars are scattered across his torso. Slashes and round marks that look like burns.

  He was abused once upon a time. Figures. And it doesn’t excuse him in the least.

  Elizabeth stands there, and Joshua flashes her a look of impatience. “You may leave, Elizabeth.”

  She nods respectfully, but I see the resentment in her gaze as she hunches her shoulders and walks out. Is she jealous? Of me? She can’t be. I’m a prisoner who’s covered in bruises. She’s walking around free.

  Joshua uncuffs me and sets the key down on the marble sink counter.

  “You will not speak to Elizabeth again the way you did last night. She works for me, and therefore you will show her respect.”

  “Yes, Master,” I mutter.

  “Time for me to bathe you,” he says. I look at the tub and see that there are cuffs affixed to the wall that surrounds the tub, on both ends. I’ll be splayed out, legs spread wide, obscenely vulnerable.

  “I…I can bathe myself…Master.” I force myself to choke out that last word. I feel sticky and vile, and I do want a bath, but I don’t want him touching me. I don’t like that he can make my body feel pleasure. It gives him power over me that he doesn’t deserve.

  He snorts in contempt. “God, I’d certainly hope so. But I didn’t ask if you could bathe yourself.” He points at the tub. “Get in and raise your hands over your head so I can cuff you.”

  His hands glide between my legs, sending waves of pleasure through my body. I want to scream, “Hell, no!” But I also don’t want to bleed on the floor of his torture room. “Please, Master, I prefer to bathe myself.”

  He smiles gently at me. “All right then.”

  Really? My eyes widen in astonishment.

  My relief is short-lived. He spins me around and cuffs my hands behind me again. He puts the hood back over my head and calls Elizabeth back.

  Her hand is unnecessarily tight on my arm as she leads me, still naked, down the hallway. My heart sinks.

  She leads me down to the room, s
natches off the hood, and chains me back to the floor before releasing my wrists. Her lips are set in a grim line, but I see a twinkle of malice in her eyes. She officially hates my guts.

  I sit there and wait. The overhead light is left on, still dim. The minutes tick by. I’m hungry and thirsty.

  The minutes stretch into hours. My mouth is sticking to itself, my stomach rumbling. I feel as if there’s a sticky film of filth coating my body.

  Finally, I look at the camera on the ceiling and cry out, “I’m sorry, Master!”

  The minutes tick by. Nothing happens.

  “Please, I’m really thirsty! Master! I’m sorry, Master!”

  I flop face down on the bed. Somehow, I know I won’t be getting an answer anytime soon.

  With nothing else to do, I tap on the mattress.

  I should have been more consistent, should have followed the rules that I set for myself. I need my chanting rituals. They’re my little touchstones, giving me a sense of security that I need and crave.

  I have to do the tapping ritual in the morning, at night before I go to bed, and before I go to any important meetings or job interviews. It’s better if I have a mirror, but it also works if I close my eyes while tapping and chanting.

  Or it used to.

  I sit there and tap and chant over and over again, whispering low so Joshua can’t hear the magic words. I repeat the chant again, and again, and again. It doesn’t help. I’m still here.

  I’m going mad with boredom and hunger and thirst. And worse, this is only my second day here.

  Or is it the third day?

  I’m already losing track of time. And although I can go days without food—I did all the time as a child—I’ve never had to go without water before. I’ve always taken it for granted that I could just turn on the tap and water would come out.

  I lie down on the bed and desperately try to think of anything but how thirsty I am, but it’s almost impossible. I’m utterly miserable.

  A few times, I croak piteously at the security camera, begging for forgiveness. None comes. I didn’t really expect it to, but I had to try.

  A million years drag by, and the light winks out, probably signifying nighttime. I wish I had more of those pills, because the bruises from my caning are throbbing, and I’m in too much pain to sleep.

  But nobody comes. I start to cry.

  Dear God, he’s going to leave me down here to die of thirst. What a horrible way to die.

  I lie awake most of the night in a daze of misery and burning thirst. I’m not sure if I sleep at all. When the door finally opens, I’m ready to weep with gratitude, but I’m too dehydrated for tears.

  I’m too weak and thirsty to be bothered by the look of hate that contorts Elizabeth’s face as she puts the hood on me and cuffs me. She leads me upstairs again, and the dull ache of my bruises throbs through my body. With every single step, all I can think is, Water, water, water.

  Joshua is standing there, looking as cool and fresh as ever, with a white towel wrapped around his waist again. I cringe in shame. My breath stinks and my hair is matted and I have BO. I try to cover my body with my hands, but he grabs them and forces them to my sides.

  “You’re disgusting, you know that? You make me want to vomit. You look like crap, and you smell like you bathed in pig shit.” His lip curls in scorn. I want to sink into the floor, to escape the contempt radiating from him. I hate being dirty. He’s sent me right back to grade school, walking through the door in filthy, stained clothes, with matted hair, as the teacher stares at me in horror and the children laugh and whisper behind their hands, their eyes shining with malicious glee.

  “Eww. It’s that gross Tamara girl again. I hope she doesn’t sit next to me. She smells so bad.”

  “She smells like doody. Look at her shoes—you can see her toes sticking out!”

  I nod miserably.

  “Please give me water,” I croak desperately, and he arches an eyebrow.

  “Master!” I cry out desperately. “Please give me water, Master!” I am shaking so hard I’m ready to pass out. I dry-heave sobs. I’m so afraid he’ll send me back to the basement for forgetting to address him the way he demands. I can’t survive another day.

  His gaze is merciless. “Get in the tub.”

  I scramble to obey. I feel a flood of gratitude that he’s giving me orders I can follow.

  That’s sick. Messed up. I can’t feel grateful for anything he does.

  But I’m too exhausted and thirsty and weak to fight right now, even in my mind.

  I throw my arms back over my head and let him fix my hands to the rubbery cuffs dangling from the bolts in the tile. I let him spread my legs open wide and affix each of them to the ankle cuffs.

  He turns on the water and pours in a capful of sweet, heavenly smelling liquid from a bottle of amber fluid that was nestled into a little shelf in the wall. Instantly, flowery-scented bubbles start churning in the warm water. I start to croak out another plea, but he freezes me with a look.

  “You haven’t earned the right to speak.”

  When will he let me drink? I shake with dry sobs as he walks away, then I stiffen in terror as I see him bring back a silver razor. Then he sets down a can of shaving cream, and I relax and sag in the bathtub.

  The water is lukewarm, just the right temperature, and even though my skin stings, it feels wonderful to soak my filthy self.

  He walks away again, and when he comes back, he’s holding a bottle of water in his hands.

  He unscrews the top slowly, deliberately. He kneels next to me, and my gaze is fixated on it. My entire universe has shrunk down to that water bottle. I want it more than a pile of gold coins or an Upper-East-Side mansion. Cool, sweet water.

  He holds it out to me and presses it up against my lips, but he doesn’t tip it up so I can drink.

  “You may apologize now.”

  “I’m sorry, Master.” My lip splits and bleeds as I speak.

  “For what?”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t let you give me a bath. Master,” I add quickly.

  He tips the bottle and lets me have a few precious sips.

  Then he pulls it away.

  “I could have forced you, but that isn’t the point,” he says as my eyes desperately fix on the water bottle. “The point is, you obey me instantly, without question. And this bath will be part of our daily routine, every morning. I despise filth, and I require your cleanliness. The next time you refuse to let me bathe you, you’ll be in that room for two days. And if you do it again, three. I won’t kill you, but if we get to four or five days, you’ll probably die, and I will consider you as having killed yourself. But I don’t think we’ll get to that point. Will we?”

  “No, Master,” I croak out.

  He presses the water bottle against my lips, tipping it up, and I greedily gulp it all down. He walks away, sets it down on a counter, and returns with a small pot of salve, which he massages into my dry, cracked lips with gentle fingers.

  Then he sheds his towel. I can’t help but glance at his long, thick cock, jutting upward from a thatch of dark curls. Then I look away.

  He climbs into the bath with me, straddling me, settling into the sweet, fragrant water. I feel his balls and pubic hair gently rubbing against my stomach. His cock is rock hard, pointing straight at the ceiling. Once upon a time, I dreamed of him being inside me…

  First, he washes off my face with a soft cloth. Then he takes a blue sponge and drips liquid soap onto it and begins massaging the filth off me. He swirls it around my breasts, and the whip marks sting, causing me to suck in my breath with pain. But as he washes me, my nipples swell under his touch.

  He moves slowly and gently, watching me the whole time. My lips part and my breath quickens. I don’t want to be aroused, but I’m helpless under the slow, firm pressure of his hands.

  He drips shampoo into my hair and lathers it up. His fingers expertly massage my scalp, pressing firmly, and I close my eyes and surrender to the delicio
us sensation. My hair smells like honeysuckle now, and he runs his fingers through the strands when he rinses it, then repeats the process with conditioner. He takes his time, his attentions shockingly tender.

  When he slides a soapy cloth between my legs, I flinch, but force myself to relax. I feel warm pleasure flowing through my body with each stroke of the cloth. He slides it through the folds, caressing me with it, and my breathing speeds up.

  It feels so good that for a moment I forget why I resisted yesterday. Then I close my eyes again and firmly force myself to remember that he is the enemy, and every submission he forces on me strips away some of my power. But it’s hard to concentrate on that when my whole body is melting and my legs are spreading of their own accord, welcoming the firm rubbing motion across my slit.

  Waves of pleasure flow through my body with each stroke. They start gathering in my lower belly, tightening, growing urgent. I’m humming wordlessly, almost on the brink of orgasm when he stops. And I’m sure he knows it. He drains the tub and sets to work shaving me. He squirts shaving soap between my legs, from front to back. The razor glides delicately across my flesh, plowing through the creamy soap, and afterward he rinses it off, massaging me with the washcloth. Stoking those hot flames of arousal between my legs. When he stops, I glance down at myself. I’m bare, pink and smooth. He strokes me once, then pinches my clitoris between his thumb and forefinger. A little too hard to be sensual.

  I jerk, and I can’t help the pained whimper that escapes from my lips. He meets my gaze. A lazy smile curls his lips. Tears shimmer in my eyes, and I look away quickly.

  He slides back in the tub and leans in close to look. “Beautiful,” he breathes, his warm breath fanning my splayed-open sex.

  Dear God. Even here, now, in this horrible situation, after everything he’s done to me, he’s got me so turned on that I want to scream with frustration. I remember the feeling of his tongue lapping at me, and I yearn for him to do it again.

  But instead he pulls away and uncuffs me. I’m so weak and shaky, he has to help me climb out, and he holds me firmly but gently. Like a lover helping his sweetheart.