“What the actual fuck.”
“You can't know where we're going.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “Take it or leave it.”
Sure, OK, I'd had fantasies about hoods and darkness, but nobody could look into my head and see those fantasies. It wasn't something I liked to talk about. It made me feel vulnerable inside if I thought about it too much. I was determined to be tough and to prove myself as a man. I didn't have fantasies about some other guy taking control of me. And if I did, nobody could know about it.
He can't just look at me and know what I'm feeling. He can't possibly know.
And yet, somehow, he had hold of my chin, and he was making me look into his golden eyes. “You came to me, Nicky.”
I didn't mean to shiver like that. I hoped and prayed he didn't notice.
“I'll need your consent.” He still held my chin, still held my eyes. The expression on his face was entirely neutral. It was very late at night in the middle of nowhere, and Brayden Brent didn't give a fuck about any-fucking-thing or any-fucking-body. “If you want to do this, give me your cell phone.”
There's a part of me that always has to be contrary. I tugged my chin out of his hand, stepped back, dropped the phone into my jeans pocket, and folded my arms in front of my chest. “I'm not going to give you my phone.”
Without the flashlight app, it was very dark out here, but my eyes must have adjusted a little, because I was very aware of the way he kept looking at me. His gaze felt like a physical touch.
“Up to you,” he finally said. “I won't ask again.”
And then he was turning toward the truck.
“Wait,” I said. “I, um, just wait.”
He stopped moving, but he didn't turn back to me.
“Fuck it.” I took my phone out of my pocket and touched his shoulder to make him turn. “Take it then, if it's such a big fucking deal.”
He looked at me but didn't reach out a hand.
Fucker was going to make me work for it.
Fine. Fucking fine. I'm not afraid of work.
I dropped my phone into the front pocket of his button-down shirt, a move which brought me close enough to smell a hint of musk on him.
I wasn't going to let myself think about it. Not now. Maybe later, in private, but not now.
“Whatever,” I said. “I'm ready to get going.”
He shook the hood in his hands. Not a question. A direct order. I wanted to object again, but we couldn't keep going around and around in circles. I had to switch off my contrary nature and submit. It wasn't easy, but I forced myself to turn around so he could pull it over my head from behind.
“This is some kinky shit,” I said as the world went even darker than it already was.
“I'm proud of you, Nicky. Maybe you're starting to catch on.” His voice was muffled by the leather over my ears, but I was pretty sure he sounded more amused than he should have.
I told myself I too was amused, but the truth was I didn't know what I felt. Letting him hood me like that seemed so intimate. Maybe because of the smell of new leather, which made me think it was a new purchase, made specifically for me. Or maybe it was the way he stood right up close behind me, so I could feel his bulge and muscular thighs bumping into the arch of my ass while he tugged straps and adjusted buckles.
When he finished, he smacked my ass to push me away. I stumbled forward a couple of steps, completely blind now that the hood was so tight against my face the nose opening didn't let any light reach my eyes. When I felt around, I grabbed a firm column—his thigh. His hand grasped my wrist.
“This way.” Now his voice sounded neutral, but I didn't know if I was missing some fine nuance because of the way the hood softened my sense of hearing. In any case, I had little choice but to allow him to guide me passively toward the truck. He smacked my ass again to get me to step up, and then I was seated in the vehicle, his body warm against me as he strapped my shoulder harness into place.
“Where are we going?” A stupid question. A weak question.
He ignored it.
I wondered if the guys playing basketball were still there. If they noticed the hooded man in the passenger seat.
Didn't matter if they did or didn't. They wouldn't call the cops. Wouldn't even talk about it to each other.
Don't ask me how I knew that, but I did.
He drove in silence for a while. There wouldn't be much traffic at this time of night, but there'd be some, and I assumed his focus was on getting us out of town. Eventually, there was the feeling of going around and around endless curves. We were in the mountains. Not too surprising. There was a lot of national forest around here. A lot of old logging roads. Up and down and up. Around and around.
At last, we stopped. Brayden came around to get me out.
“Can I...?”
“No,” he said. “You're not taking the hood off. Not tonight.”
There was the rattle of old-fashioned metal keys. The smell of stale dust and cheap cleanser. It was an institutional smell that made me uneasy.
He pushed me, and I felt my calves collide with a hard wooden chair, and I sat. His voice seemed to boom out at me from all directions, and I realized he was speaking louder to make sure every syllable got through the hood.
“There are rules you have to know.”
“I know the rules. I read the book. I'm writing a paper on the damn book.”
“The Fight Club rules aren't our rules. I keep telling you, and you keep not hearing me.”
“OK. Tell me your rules.”
“This is my place. My territory. My rules.”
“Yes, sir.” I couldn't resist letting a bit of my natural smartass shine through.
He snorted. “You will definitely be calling me ‘sir,’ but you will be using less attitude.”
“Yes, sir!”
A pause. “Well, we'll work on that. The most important rule is you need to understand that you're the one who put yourself here. Everything that happens to you is because of something inside of you that demanded it.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I wished I could see his face to tell if he really believed any of this crap. We were in a movie, maybe not Fight Club, but some movie with a lot of mindfucks in it. I wished I could see the wheels turning inside his twisted skull. Fuck, I'd settle for being able to see the glint in those eagle eyes.
What was it about those eyes?
His voice came from a distance. If I reached out, I wouldn't brush up against him.
“You want to test yourself, and you will be tested.”
“Fine. That's what I came for. I want to be tested. I want to prove myself.” That I knew for sure. One day, somehow, I would prove I was more than the spoiled rich boy everybody thought I was.
“I'll let you know when I require an answer.”
I opened my mouth and closed it again without saying anything.
“Very good. You're already learning.”
I kept not saying anything, but he was deliberately pushing my buttons. Fucker.
“This isn't about negotiation or nuances or fifty fucking shades of gray. There's no gray here. Either you want it enough or you don't want it enough. At any time, if we're going beyond the limits of what you can take, you can safeword and it's over and you'll never see this place again. Do you understand me?”
Thanks to the hood, I hadn't seen the place for the first time. This was definitely some highly kinky shit. He might claim this wasn't about any movie, but I'd seen enough leather porn to know what he was getting at. Limits. Safeword. Yeah, this was some hardcore BDSM shit.
You a little kinky, Dr. Brent? Maybe hella kinky?
I'm not gonna lie. My cock stirred in my jeans. I've fucked around as much as the average dude, but I'd never gotten involved in a leather relationship before. Most of the college guys I knew just wanted fast hookups. There's nothing wrong with casual screwing around, but I didn't feel comfortable getting into heavy-duty shit with somebody looking for casual. And, so far, casual seemed to be the only w
ay other guys felt about me.
I kinda thought he'd ordered me to shut the fuck up but, evidently, I'd now been silent for too long. He did not sound thrilled to be repeating his question. “Do you understand what I'm asking you? You need to answer the question now.”
Those other guys had been my age. Twenty or twenty-one. Brayden Brent was in his thirties. He knew what he was doing. Would I ever have a better opportunity to explore this option?
Seize the day, I told myself.
“Yes, sir, I do understand. It's make or break time. If I safeword out, I'm done. It's over. It's entirely up to me how far it goes, but if I stop it, it's stopped for good. I can't come crawling back and say I didn't mean it.”
“Do you understand why it has to be that way? Tell me in your own words.”
“Because if it's easy, if there's no consequences to safewording out, I won't be pushed to get out of my comfort zone. There has to be something real at stake.”
“That's right. So we do understand each other.” He sounded pleased and a little surprised. His voice seemed to echo around the room for a moment, followed by a long silence.
There in my hood, if there was too much silence, I became convinced I could hear the pounding of the blood in my veins.
I wished I hadn't worn the skinny jeans. I wished I could see where his eyes were going. Did he notice the bulge in my pants? Was there a wet spot? I wriggled in the hard chair. It felt humid in my briefs but maybe the leakage didn't show through denim.
How much time passed before he spoke again? Two minutes? Five?
Long enough to make me squirm, that's all I know.
“Your safeword is ‘buttercream.’ Say it once so I can hear you say it, and then don't say it again unless you mean it.”
“The fuck kind of safeword is that?”
“Just say it so I can hear you say it.”
“‘Buttercream.’”
“Get up.”
I stood.
“This way.” He took my arm and led me maybe four or five steps across what sounded like a hardwood floor.
The metal keys rattled again. Something creaked, probably a door.
“In here.” He pushed, and instead of the thump of wood beneath my feet I heard the clang of iron.
I was in a cage somewhere. When I stretched out my arms, I could feel all four walls—the front wall of metal bars, the other three old crumbly brick. The cot felt too short for my body but somehow I'd have to make it fit. A toilet, a sink. Ugh. It was like an old-fashioned Western jail cell in a movie.
I hoped it was movie clean.
“You're not going to leave me here.” I said it with more confidence than I felt. “Um, sir.”
He paused. Waiting to see if I used the safeword. Well, fuck him, he'd wait a long time.
Eventually, I heard the final rattle of the keys and the clop of departing footsteps.
I still had time to call him back, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
A door closed. The easy assumption was that he'd gone, but I'd learned to be suspicious of easy during the two seconds of our so-called fight behind the bar. He was a big man, but he was a boxer, and he could have been light on his feet if he wanted to be. The clop of those footsteps was suspiciously loud.
It wasn't a stretch to picture him quietly removing his shoes and slipping back on sock feet to watch me in utter silence. He knew the very last thing I'd expected was to be locked up and isolated. First, I'd expected a fight and then, after the hood and the safewords, I'd expected some ridiculously kinky leather sex. He'd gotten me hard without touching me anywhere below the neck.
And the son of a bitch knew it too.
Fuck him. If he thought he could break me that easy, he had another think coming real fast.
I wasn't going to fail his stupid-ass test.
He wanted the frustration to build.
Fine. Just fucking fine. I could handle ice bath, and I sure as fuck could handle this solitary shit. My hands weren't bound, so why did I need to put up with the hood one fucking minute longer? I sat on the cot and felt around behind my head for the various buckles. Got the hood off, shook out my hair.
Problem was I couldn't see any better than I had before.
The place was absolutely dark.
I began to breathe faster. I wasn't afraid. I don't get panic attacks. Not me. No, never, no way. But I had to admit, it was still a little creepy.
What the fuck had I gotten myself into?
This was minute eight of the ice bath. I even recognized the sensation of panic. The minute when you start thinking, “Has he forgotten me? Am I putting myself in serious danger here?”
I could push through that minute. I could push through all the minutes.
“Brayden?” I called. “Are you there?”
Silence.
I felt around for the sink area, washed up, went to the front of the cage and rattled the bars. Nothing. The whole front wall was bars, but they were steel, so I had to presume I wouldn't be breaking them in my two hands. Going still to let the rattle stop, I listened to the silence.
More nothing.
If he was there, he wasn't talking and he was being very careful to breathe without a sound.
Fuck it.
It was obvious I wouldn't be getting out tonight. Eventually, I felt my way back to the cot to curl up and try to sleep on a mattress far too small for me. My cock seemed to jab into my own chest from the force of my need. My right hand curled around the root so I could sink my fingers in and squeeze myself off without moving.
This was some kinky shit, all right. No two ways about it. Maybe not kinky in the way I'd expected, but it was still hella kinky.
A normal guy wouldn't be so aroused, I thought. This situation was more than a little twisted. Hooded and abducted to a mountain jail in an unknown place, presumably some sort of ghost town maintained for Brayden's kinky purposes. How was that exciting?
And yet it was.
How did he know I'd find it exciting?
Or did he? Maybe he couldn't be sure until he'd tested me.
That, in itself, was an exciting thought. My grip tightened on my shaft.
Was he sitting there utterly silent in the darkness? Could he tell from the shift in the way I breathed what I was feeling? What I was doing?
I didn't want to make a sound. Didn't want to fill the air with the salty scent of my release.
Did it anyway. I'm sure I moaned, and I know I made a sticky mess.
I uncurled my fingers and locked my hands together behind my neck so I could sleep on my back. My balls still ached, and my dreams were shallow. Over and over again, I felt him standing behind me to hood me like a falcon.
Chapter Six
In the morning, there was light coming in from the dusty window in the front office. Being able to see made the situation more surreal instead of less so. Again, I had the distinct impression I'd stumbled onto some kind of abandoned stage set.
A real 1880s sheriff's office complete with tiny jail wouldn't be this... clean, now would it?
Not that I was upset about the clean. I made good use of the sink and its tiny bar of soap. I wouldn't have objected to some other accouterments of civilization—toothbrush and toothpaste, a minty mouthwash, doughnuts with multi-colored sprinkles on the icing.
Coffee. French press. Real cream from a small paper carton. Two scoops of sugar.
Not a very Spartan fantasy, I suppose.
I felt for my phone, although I doubted I'd be able to get any signal out here. Then I remembered Brayden had taken it away from me.
Creepy being left in this cage like this.
Creepy all the silence.
My body felt hot all over as I remembered squeezing my hard-on in the dark. I doubted Brayden had left me alone in this place. I looked over at the dusty desk, which had the imprint of somebody's ass on it. Yeah, he'd been sitting there listening. Laughing. Telling himself he was there to make sure I got to sleep OK in the hood and the darkness
.
Sick twisted fucker.
Of course, the imprint could have been made when he sat on the desk to talk to me about the safeword.
I couldn't be sure. I wasn't sure of anything. He was deliberately turning my world upside-down.
“Hello?” I called. “Anybody out there?”
Silence. Dust motes floating in morning sunlight.
Creepier and creepier. I jiggled the door and, to my surprise, I discovered it was unlocked. Had it been that way all along? Had I stayed in a cage simply because I hadn't even bothered to try the door? Because of some assumptions I'd made? I thought about the way I'd rattled the bars last night, and I couldn't come to any conclusions. I might have rattled the wrong spot, since the entire wall was made of bars, not just the door. It had been very dark, and I was off-balance. It was also possible he'd unlocked the door only after I'd gone to sleep.
Cute. Very fucking cute, Dr. Brent.
At least all this mindfuck psychology should make for an interesting paper. Contemporary amendments to the Fight Club mythos. Hmm. Amendments? Was that the word I wanted? Mythos? Was this mythos or was it actuality? More hmm.
I pulled out the desk drawers, but they were all empty. Lifted the receiver of a silent wooden telephone that probably hadn't worked in decades, if it ever had. I still had the odd impression that everything around me was some sort of prop.
It might not be Fight Club, it might not be a leather porno, but it felt like somebody's movie.
I walked out of the building which, oddly, didn't have the name of the town or the sheriff's department or anything else posted anywhere.
A town without signs. Or a town where the signs kept being changed.
More of that movie set feeling.
Dusty streets, wooden sidewalks, wooden storefronts. I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. A genuine old West ghost town wouldn't be this well-preserved in the four seasons of the Gila Mountain National Forest.
The wood would be rotten, most of the buildings in collapse or gone. The street would be a meadow and then a field of spindly trees and now, a century-plus since 1890, it would be more forest.
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