The VIOLENT Series: The Complete Boxed Set

by Linnea May

  I continue to eat under his watchful eyes, still troubled by questions I don’t dare ask. He gives me a few moments to finish eating before he moves the tray off from my lap, telling me to present myself to him.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, honestly bewildered at his request.

  He rolls his eyes.

  “Move the blanket away,” he says. “I want to see what’s mine as I talk to you.”

  I know he won’t accept any kind of backtalk, so I just do as I’m told and move the blanket aside, exposing my naked body.

  A pleased smile appears on his handsome face.

  “Good girl,” he says, placing his hand on my knee and slowly caressing up along the inner side of my thigh, moving toward my center.

  I tense up, not ready for another round of his confusing treatment. Is abuse the right word? I’m still unsure.

  “Let’s clarify a few things before we go on,” he begins. “You should be familiar with the basic rules, and understand the consequences of your transgressions by now, but I will summarize them for you, nonetheless.”

  He pauses, his eyes fixated on me to make sure he has my full attention.

  “This is where you will stay, always. Unless you fail to obey and displease me. The punishment you received earlier was just a small taste of what else I have in store for you, but those punishments are only for the transgressions that happen naturally during your training, when you forget things, act clumsily, or misunderstand an order,” he continues. “If, however, you openly refuse to follow an order, you’ll lose your privilege to stay here.”

  My privilege to stay here? Is he fucking kidding me?

  My frowning eyebrows cause him to interrupt his little lecture, casting me a warning look.

  “It means you’re going back to the attic,” he clarifies. “For however long I decide, and it won’t matter how much you scream or bang against the door. Understand?”

  I nod. “Yes, Master.”

  “Good,” he says, getting up from the bed, ready to leave.

  “What do you mean by training?” I hurry to ask. “You keep saying you’ll train me. For what?”

  He looks at me as if the answer should be clear to me by now.

  “For my pleasure,” he says. “You’re my pet. It’s what pets are for, to be trained by their masters.”

  I wrinkle my eyebrows and instinctively cross my arms across my chest, closing my legs to cover my nakedness.

  “Will I get my clothes back?” I ask.

  He shakes his head no.

  “Unless there is something specific you’d like to have?” he wants to know.

  I’m confused by his question, but since he’s asking, I’ll answer.

  “My purse, with my phone,” I say. Obviously.

  He laughs. “You know you can’t have that.”

  “Why? Are you afraid I’d call the police to get me out of here?” I dare to ask. I know I’m playing with fire here, and his look only confirms that.

  “You know that’s not happening,” he snaps at me. “So, is there anything else you need to have with you?”

  I hesitate. I don’t understand why he keeps pressing me on this. If he wants me to have my stuff, why not just give it to me?

  “The coat,” I finally say. “I want the red coat.”

  He sighs. “Fine.”

  My surprised gaze follows him as he walks toward the door. I didn’t expect him to grant me that request.

  He puts his hand on the doorknob, but before he leaves, he turns around to me one last time.

  “I’ll be back later,” he says. “Get some rest, but don’t get any ideas.”

  I meet his look with narrowed eyes.

  “Afraid someone will hear me if I scream and bang against the door?” I ask.

  His face remains stoic.

  “No,” he says. “No one is here. No one will hear you.”

  With that, he opens the door and walks out the room.

  Chapter 23

  Joseph

  There are a lot of things that I can put on hold for thirty-nine days, but some things are out of the question. This includes the weekly phone call from my grandfather, Joseph. I’m not only named after him, but also turned out to be the son he never had, considering that my father grew to be the biggest disappointment to him imaginable.

  I don’t know where I would be if it wasn’t for this man, so I’d never reject a call from him or my grandmother. They practically raised me, even before the untimely death of my parents. I was twelve when it happened, a boy about to start junior high school, when my father drove the car into a ravine, killing both him and my mother. They were both drunk at the time. They had been out on another binge, leaving me home alone. I was used to it, even at that young age. I didn’t even notice that my parents didn’t return that night, because I was already fast asleep. When the police woke me up at five in the morning by ringing the doorbell and banging on the door, I was too scared to open the door for them. It wasn’t the first time that police had paid an early morning visit to our house, but this time I was afraid. I knew right away that something must have happened, and I knew right away that it must be something really bad, because they took of their hats when I finally answered the door for them. When they asked if my babysitter was home, I didn’t even understand the question, and when I told them that I was by myself, they exchanged a knowing look.

  It’s funny how people always talk about life being unfair, about kids having unequal chances at life, about how privileged those born into rich families are. While all of that may be true, parents like mine often get overlooked. My father was privileged, sent off to the country’s best business college to learn how to run the family’s real estate empire built by my grandfather. But the responsibility and lack of choice that comes from being one of the privileged overwhelmed him from the beginning. He was more than just a rebel, he was angry, violent, and he hated his parents for inflicting this pressure on him. He vowed to never do it to his own son, and I can give him that. He never put any pressure on me, but that was mostly because he barely acknowledged my existence. He and my mother got married because he knocked her up when they were both still in college, and both their families pressured them to do the right thing and get married. At least they had something to connect over - a joint hate for their families, and a joint love for drugs and alcohol.

  My grandparents sought legal custody of me several times, but they never succeeded.

  Until my parents died.

  It was as if they’d gotten another chance at raising the son they always wanted. They cared for me, they fostered me, they nurtured me, and they poured all their hopes and dreams into me.

  And I didn’t mind. On the contrary, I drank it all in as if I’d been dying of thirst for years. The love, the hope, the pressure, all of it was new for me, and I loved most of it.

  But I was still my father’s son. I’ve inherited some of his most loathsome traits. I’m cursed with the same rage, the same inability to control my anger when it overcomes me. Despite everything my grandparents did for me, I remained a trouble maker. Though that word may be a little too cute to describe myself.

  Just like most retired elderly people, my grandparents have a pretty set schedule. They’re the most predictable people I know, the only constant in my life that never changes. They call every Sunday, right after lunch, which is around 1 p.m. I don’t know why they decided to make this their time to call, but that’s what it is. I’ve not only grown accustomed to it, but made it an integral part of my week. No matter if there’s a girl in the house or not, I’ll be sitting in my office early Sunday afternoon, ready to pick up the phone.

  It’s usually my grandfather who calls as the classic patriarch of the family. But today, I hear my grandmother’s voice when I answer the phone after letting it ring just one time.

  “Joseph,” she greets me with glee. The smile is palpable in her voice, I can practically see her face beaming in front of me. “How are you? Is it as cold up th
ere as they say on the news?”

  “It’s gotten pretty chilly,” I tell her. “I bet you guys don’t have to worry about that down there, do you?”

  “Oh, no, no,” my grandmother replies. “Been more worried about the gators lately - Grandpa swears he saw one in the backyard this week!”

  I laugh at her excited voice. I’m pretty sure that they don’t actually have to worry about alligators in their wealthy gated community, but my grandparents like to create adventure where there’s none.

  I engage in a little chit-chat with her, getting reassured that both of them are doing fine, something that cannot be taken for granted at their age.

  After a while, she hands the phone over to my grandfather, thus shifting the conversation to an entirely different topic. My grandparents are not afraid to be the perfect stereotype when it comes to certain things, and while my grandmother prefers to talk about the weather, my health, and random gossip about people that I don’t even know, my grandfather is all about the business.

  “Things going good?” he asks as soon as he’s handed the phone, and I know he’s not talking about me or my health, but about the business he left me in charge of.

  “Yes, everything is running smoothly,” I assure him. “Flipped the Lincoln properties last week, so those are finally off our hands.”

  “Good, good,” my grandfather agrees. “Anything new on the horizon?”

  “Not right now,” I tell him. “I’ll pick up some negotiations with those law firms in town. They have been back and forth with us for months now, and I wanted to give them some time to think things over and come up with a good proposal before I sit down with them again.”

  “In Boston?” he asks.

  “Yes, in Boston,” I say.

  “Good, always good to be close to the client,” he concludes.

  “I know, you’ve taught me that,” I remark.

  My grandfather has taught me a lot of things, most of them business-related, of course. But even though he doesn’t know it, he also taught me quite a lot about human psychology.

  Years ago, that day when I went too far, when my fists destroyed lives, that was when he realized how dangerous I’d become, both to myself and others. That was the day he sat me down and told me I had to do something about it, I had to change something in my life.

  “You need an outlet, son,” he told me. “A hobby, sports, martial arts. Anything that will keep both your mind and your body focused. Something that captivates and controls you, something that channels all that violent energy into something less harmful, even useful.”

  Of course, he had no idea where I would go with his advice. I tried different things, I tried Tae kwon do, Jiu Jitsu, boxing. It helped my physique, but none of it could tame my mind.

  Nothing worked as well as this.

  I found my outlet in women, not in their embrace, but in their terror. They may only play a role for me, but their faces, painted with both agony and bliss are what keeps me sane.

  And so far, none of them have done the job as well as Ruby.

  Now as I look at her on one of the screens in my office, I can’t help but feel a warm wave of gratefulness flooding my entire being.

  She’s tied to her bed, her naked body hidden under that red fur coat, the one thing she needs to protect herself from me. It’s been two days, and I still haven’t fucked her. I’ve never waited this long, because no one has ever made me wait this long. Ruby makes me want to take my time with her, she makes me want different things. I’ve spanked her, tied her down, and I’ve made her come again and again, and not only to gain her trust so it’ll be easier to control her.

  No, it’s not just that.

  I just enjoy watching her. I can’t get enough of her beautiful face, her enticing body, her expressive reactions.

  I can’t get enough of her.

  Chapter 24

  Liana

  It’s been seven days. Four days since I was supposed to show up at work for my last week on the job. Four days since people – someone, anyone – must have noticed that I’m gone.

  I’m sitting on my bed, chained, waiting for him, wearing nothing but the lacy lingerie he provided for me – and the red coat. This is what my life has become, what I have become. I’m always waiting for him.

  Does anyone miss me? Are they searching for me? Does my mother know? Would she even care?

  After all that happened in the week leading up to my kidnapping, one could just as well suspect that I ran away, taking a leave from my normal life because I couldn’t handle all the shit that had happened. It would make sense, and only a person who knew me very well would know that I’d never do such a thing. I’m responsible, organized, very predictable. There’s nothing crazy about me or my life, I never overact or react in extreme ways.

  Until now.

  As fucked-up as this is, my life has never been as exciting as this past week with him. I’m chained, and confined to this room, locked up and pacing in my cage like a tiger, only allowed to move between the bedroom and the bathroom.

  He always leaves the door to the other room locked. I’ve only ever been in there with him present, and every time I came back with marks on my body, my knees shaking – and my pussy dripping. He has been doing a lot of things to me that were not considered punishment, but merely part of my training. He tied me down on the bed once, using the shackles at the bed posts to fasten my hands and legs so tightly that there was absolutely no leeway for me to move. Then he forced a vibrator on my clit, taking orgasm after orgasm from me. He made me count them, just like I was told to count the spankings during my first punishment, and he made me look at him every time I came.

  “Remember who is doing this to you,” he kept saying. “I’m doing this to you. Every one of your orgasms is mine.”

  On some days, he made me come a dozen times, on other days, he tortured me with intense teasing before withdrawing the permission to come until the next day.

  Those days were the worst.

  He told me I wasn’t allowed to touch myself when he was gone, but I did it anyway.

  Once.

  That day I learned that he’s watching me through cameras. I should have realized it, but I didn’t, and when I took a release from my body that was meant to be his, he knew.

  He was so angry that I ended up in the attic again, making my worst nightmare come true. I thought he’d throw me in there without anything, making the punishment so much worse than it was during the first night. But for some reason, he allowed me to wear the red coat.

  He didn’t leave me in the attic for long, though. I don’t know how long it was in the end, but if I had to guess, I would say it was less than three hours before he dragged me back to my bedroom. I don’t know why he cut the punishment short, especially because he was still furious when he came back for me. But instead of letting me rot in that cold and dusty attic, he decided to add a few blows with a leather flogger while tying me down on the bed.

  The pain was not as bad as the unfulfilled need he left me with that night. My hands and ankles were tied to the bed posts, and I winced and curled my body in agony, desperate for the release I was denied.

  I think I’m beginning to understand what he means when he speaks of training. This is what he’s talking about: my addiction, my need, my dependence. It’s only been a week, and already I find it hard to imagine how I will ever be able to find pleasure without him.

  There’s only one thing that disturbs me even more than this.

  He has never fucked me.

  He has done everything to me, he has made me come in so many ways, touched me, teased and tortured me. He has seen me in so many states, explored every inch of my body, and uncovered a part of my soul that even I didn’t know existed. He’s peeling away the person I used to be, day after day, touch after touch, climax after climax.

  And I haven’t even seen him naked. There were times when he took me to the other room and got so worked up that he took off his shirt, treating me to a vie
w that took away the pain in an instant. He’s so ripped, his body a piece of art work, with clear-cut muscles gracing his abdomen, his tanned skin stretching over stark trenches leading down to his pelvis.

  I’ve tried to touch him in my lusty daze, but he never allows me to. It was another kind of punishment, to lay this perfect body in front of my eyes but not allow me to play with it.

  He’s inked, too. But his tattoos are so unlike any I’ve ever seen on a man before. When I gawked at the guys lifting at the gym during my very few visits there, I would usually find words or tribal designs, sometimes animals or some kind of symmetric pattern, on their arms.

  He, my Master, is sporting none of that. The tattoos covering his chest and parts of his upper arms look more like scratches or wounds, randomly placed on various places around his body. They look like marks from a fight more than a decoration. I wonder what they are all about, but I never dared ask him.

  I stopped asking questions a long time ago because I’ve given up on ever hearing any answers. He’s psychotic, a mystery - and I’m growing more and more attached to him with every day I spend in his hands, in his control.

  I don’t know if this was his plan all along, but he has changed me. He has brought me to a place where I find myself longing for him more than I long for the freedom from which I’ve been robbed.

  Chapter 25

  Joseph

  She’s waiting for me, kneeling with her thighs spread wide, her perky ass resting on her ankles, her back arched, chest forward, her head held high, and her eyes lowered. Her hands are resting palms-up on her thighs. The perfect pose of the pleasure slave.

  When I close the door behind me, I can see her wince, her eyelashes fluttering as I approach her. Nothing suggests that today would be any different than the days before. She has been waiting like this for me every single day, just as I told her to. Her eyes are lowered, her body tense with anticipation, and she averts her eyes like she always does.

  Nothing is different today than it was yesterday, or the day before.