by Linnea May
He's wearing a black suit with a silver tie, his hair gelled neatly to the side, displaying his edgy undercut that I've always found extremely attractive. The suit must be new. I can't remember ever seeing him wear that particular suit.
He's a true gentleman when we're out in public, pulling the chair out for me and making sure that I have a glass of champagne in hand as soon as I'm seated.
Meanwhile, I feel like I'm going to burst if I don't tell him. We clink glasses, and he can tell by the way mine is shaking that there's something on my mind.
"Tell me," he says, ominously smiling at me. "What's troubling you?"
I throw him a coy smile. "There's no place for secrets with you, is there?"
He shakes his head. "Not when it matters. Now tell me, Button. I can tell that something is up."
I take a deep breath - and another sip from my glass of champagne. The restaurant is busy, and the dining area is dipped in warm candlelight and unobtrusive background music. We're sitting at a table at the far end of the dining room, rather secluded from everyone else right in front of a big window that allows for people watching on the street.
"I got a job offer," I begin, catching his attentive eyes. "A pretty good one."
He smiles. "That's great! What kind of job?"
"Working for a presidential campaign," I continue. "I was asked to join the press team for Gregory Coldman."
Jared arches his eyebrows. "Let me rephrase that: that's beyond great, Button! How the hell did you pull that off?"
I give him a cautious smile. "It's... I know it's great. But it would mean that I'd be busy as hell, and I'd have to do a lot of traveling, especially if he makes it as far as becoming a candidate."
Jared nods.
"I understand that," he says. "But it's a great opportunity for you, far bigger than what we are."
"Nothing is bigger than we are," I correct him, feeling slightly hurt at how easily he's ready to part with me.
His face changes into a solemn smile. "Of course, you're right. Which is exactly why you need to do this. If that is what you want."
"It is," I say. "I mean, I know you didn't exactly feel comfortable in that area, but I think it could be really exciting. And I wouldn't be gone that much, at least not at first. And if it ends up becoming super huge, then-"
"Then we'll deal with it," he finishes my sentence. He leans forward, fixating his attention on me with his dark eyes while reaching for my hands. "I'm so fucking proud of you."
I blush at his praise. Him telling me, the man I love, that he's "fucking proud" of me is the most wonderful thing I could think of. I never doubted his respect for me, despite the way our dynamics change once we're playing, but the way he looks at me now, the way he understands, respects, and loves who I am... what else could I ever ask for?
"But there's one thing that worries me," he adds, knitting his eyebrows.
"Yes?"
"You, out there, all by yourself," he says, his eyes locking onto mine. "My sexy Button, turning every man's head with her beauty, her sass, her talent. You're more than most men would ever dare ask for."
I blush and let out a helpless chuckle. "I don't think th-"
"Let's just make sure that everyone knows you're mine," he says, cutting me off.
I don't know what he's trying to say, until he gets up from his seat, still holding my hand while he walks around the table, coming to a halt right next to me.
"Jared, what..."
My voice breaks when he goes down on one knee, a smile that never lacks his characteristic obscurity appearing on his face.
"You're mine," he says. "My partner in crime, my equal, my savior, my everyday challenge, and my everyday delight."
He pauses, smirking at my reaction as he produces a little jewelry box from the inside pocket of his jacket and drops to his knee. He opens the box, revealing a simple twisted split band ring with a round diamond setting.
"Ann Porter, will you do me the honor of wearing this ring and letting the world know that you're my everything, my wife-"
"Yes!" I cut him off, before I drop down from my chair, falling right into his open arms, tears threatening to betray my idea about being a strong and self-sustained woman. "Yes, yes, yes."
"And here I was, thinking that this could be the last time you'd let me have the final word," he breathes into my ear. "My sassy Button."
"Never," I reply, between showering him with kisses. "You're mine just as much as I'm yours."
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Violent Desires
Blurb
I want real fear. Real submission.
She’s giving me all that -
and taking so much more.
I’m the last son. The one who doesn’t matter. I was never meant to inherit my family’s wealth, but my brother’s gutless betrayal left me as the one holding the bigger fortune.
Now, with money to my name and the looks to match, women see me. They want me.
But they don’t know me.
I savor a very specific kind of leisure pursuit. I buy women to lock them up and make them submit to my will.
But this time, I want the real thing. Real fear, real submission.
Someone special, who doesn’t play a role.
Someone like her.
A luscious lamb, curves all in the right places, and eyes so deep, I’ve lost myself in them before we even exchanged a single word.
She doesn’t know what’s coming. She doesn’t know that she’s going to be mine, my captive, my submissive, my possession.
For as long as I please.
But something is wrong with her. She’s twisted, with a soul just as broken as mine.
She’s not playing by the rules, and that makes me want her that much more.
„I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.”
– Sylvia Plath
Prolog
Ruby
I shouldn't enjoy this.
I shouldn't allow pleasure to persuade me to ignore the obvious danger I'm in.
But I can't help it. I‘m dazed, my brain swimming in a pool of clouded bliss as I yield to him.
My wrists are chained to the rack, my vision shrouded by a blindfold, and my core trembling from the aftermath of a staggering climax. I can feel his cum trickling down the inside of my thighs, and he’s still tightly gripping me by the hip. I moan anew when he digs his fingers roughly into my flesh, pulling me closer to him as his hardness parts my lips again.
"No," I breathe out unsteadily, but my protest isn't sincere.
"Yes," he objects.
How can he still be this hard? He just came. We both did, peaking in joint rapture, our moans blending into a blissful symphony of carnal, violent need. He continued to ram into me with an urgency akin to rage. The spasms of my climax brought him over the edge within moments. Yet, here we are, still going, still fucking primally, as if there was no tomorrow.
And maybe, for me, there won't be.
I'm lost in a hazy and confusing mist of agony and thrill, clenching around him as if I was trying to stop him from leaving me. But he isn't going anywhere. He never will. He's here, with me, at all times, barely allowing me time and space to take a breath without his presence. He robbed me of my freedom, peeled away every layer of protection, exposing everything that I am and forcing me to face myself, my true self, the person I've always feared.
And I may love him for that.
But how can you love a man who kidnapped you? A man who seized you, leaving you bereft of everything you used to be?
He for
ced himself on me, yet never took anything I didn’t freely give up. On the contrary, he was the one who made me wait, the one who tightened the reins and made me realize that I wasn't ready for the things I desired.
We consume each other, feeding off each other's bodies and minds, neglecting the reality outside this room. A room that has been my prison for the past few weeks. I should despise it, but I don’t... I can't. I've lost too much here, but I've gained so much more.
Tears of pain roll steadily down my cheeks when I realize he's drawing another climax from me.
"No, no, no," I whimper desperately, trying to despise the warm throbbing that's spreading throughout my core, numbing my mind and elevating my body to inconceivable levels.
I can't possibly come again. I can't.
But I will.
He leans forward then, dropping one hand from my hips to reach under my belly, surpassing my mound to caress the swollen spot right above my entrance.
"Yes, my toy."
His lips are brushing my ears, his hot breath trickling across my skin in rhythm with his pants in ecstasy.
"Come."
As soon as his command echoes in my ears, another rapture cripples my body.
I shouldn't love this. I shouldn't love him. He's not who I thought he was.
He's fucking dangerous.
I know it now.
I know there's been a horrible mistake.
I know my life is in danger.
And there's absolutely nothing I can do to escape.
Nothing.
Chapter 1
Ruby
Jealousy. I'm used to it.
The way that girl is glaring at me, the way she grinds her teeth as she pins me down through narrowed eyes. I've seen it all before.
She doesn't even turn away like most people would when I catch her staring. She hates me, and she doesn't care if I know it.
We have never met before or exchanged a single word, but this woman across the bar already thinks she knows everything about me. She thinks she knows enough to hate me, despite the apparent similarities existing between us.
We're both overdressed for this dumpy and shady neighborhood bar, and we’re both sitting by ourselves at opposite ends of the counter, surrounded by greasy characters who make no effort to hide that they are undressing us with their eyes. Her make-up isn't quite as extreme as mine, but she still stands out in her professional business suit with her shiny heels and well-coifed hairstyle.
At first glance, we could pass as twins, but we both know we're nothing alike.
Unlike me, she doesn't radiate sex. She's missing the fake lashes, the fake tits, the fake presence that makes me irresistible to most men. And that's exactly why she hates me.
I get it, I really do.
To be honest, I didn't like myself all that much when I looked in the mirror this morning. These days, I'm nothing but a reflection of myself, a reflection of only a single side of me.
A side that I can't come to terms with.
The side of me that is Ruby Red, a high-class escort. A call girl.
I'm paid to please men, filthy rich men, filthy kinky man. Men who not only possess the darkest and most unbridled desires, but also the wealth to pay generous amounts of money to fulfill each and every one of them. Very fucking generous amounts.
I started this job out of desperation, but continued it to fulfill a deep-seated need. Not mere financial need. Actual need. Real need, like the need for air to breathe, water to drink, food to eat, all that is necessary to survive.
I don't know when it happened, but there was a point when something changed. I changed.
Something broke inside of me.
And something else came to life.
And I don't know which one of the two is the most real, because they feel equally dominant.
All I know is that I need this. I need to feel like I’m a possession, a fuck toy. I need to be used, punished; I need to feel the pain, the be rewarded, and see the voracious look on their faces when they take me, knowing they can do almost anything to me without taking my feelings into account.
That's what I signed up for, and my heart races with excitement every time I'm about to meet a new client. I could never openly admit it to anyone, but I love what I'm doing.
But I hate it just as much, because I know that it's wrong to love this. No healthy person would love this lifestyle, no normal person, no sane person.
Well, I guess I'm none of those.
I take another sip of my cheap bourbon and notice the girl across the bar doing the same. It's starting to really fucking bother me that she's still glaring at me. I wish I had the guts to just go over there and tell her off, tell her my story, tell her that she should take a careful look in the mirror before judging others.
But would she even understand what I’m trying to tell her? She's already formed her opinion of me. All she sees is a dumb blonde, with fake lashes, fake nails, fake tits, fake everything, lips painted a bright hooker red that matches my fur coat. I slip off the red fur coat. It’s neither stylish or classy, but I feel naked without it. It’s part of my identity, my signature, and it keeps me protected against the chill of those who judge me, like that cold girl sitting across from me.
Now the mask, it’s something different. The black fabric lying on the counter in front of me should be covering my face. It’s what the client requested because he doesn't want to see my face before he grabs me.
I'm waiting for that to happen.
I'm waiting to be kidnapped.
It has to seem as real as possible.
I knew this new client was special from the get-go, and not only because of his specific demands and the amount of money he was willing to pay. I actually heard about him before he knew about me, completely by accident. I overheard our Madame, Miss Barry confiding in another girl that she was looking for someone who was willing to completely turn herself over to a client for thirty-nine days, to be kidnapped, locked up, and stripped of any rights or a way to negate the contract once she agreed to do it.
I was intrigued. Very intrigued.
I've done a lot of objectionable stuff. I've sold myself to men who tied me up for hours, forcing spellbinding orgasm after orgasm out of me, or denying me the same as a punishment. I've served, pleased, submitted to the darkest desires - but I've always wanted more. With each new client, I hoped for something deeper, so strong and powerful that it could destroy me. I need the challenge. I want to be scared, to be at someone's mercy. I want to give myself, all of myself, to a man without knowing what will eventually happen. I want to know what it feels like to surrender completely.
And what better way to discover this than in a safe setting protected by the agency’s agreement with its clients? This setup is perfect. It seems so close to the real thing, but without the danger of it really, truly being real.
But when I asked Miss Barry to share my file with the client, she rejected me.
"He doesn’t want a redhead, he wants a blonde."
My heart sank. My bright red hair has always been my big selling point. So many men nearly go out of their mind when faced with landing a true redhead. We are rare and special, and we have a reputation for being fiery and hard to tame.
And he won't even consider me because of my hair color?
Fuck that.
I dyed my hair without thinking twice, and when I showed up at the agency, parading my new do in front of Miss Barry, she laughed, but agreed to include my file with the others.
And that was that.
He picked me. I signed a contract for him to kidnap me as the first step in the agreement to become his for thirty-nine days, no matter what. The instructions were specific and strict for the kidnapping: I must cover my face with a black mask every time I leave the house, which I’m obligated to do during the same couple-hour time frame every single day over the next week to give him time to learn my routine. The kidnapping is to appear as real as possible - for both him and me. I know he's been
watching me the past few days, and he's going to grab me very soon, but I don’t know exactly when.
The window is closing. Five days, the contract said. Today is day four.
I've been a nervous wreck since the countdown began, not sure when, where, or how I will be snatched away. I've followed the rules, spending the allotted time outside every single day, but never a minute longer than agreed upon in the contract. He's not allowed to break into my home, but that didn't stop me from laying awake at night, my heart pounding senseless in my chest with fear and anticipation. I haven't slept properly in days, I can barely eat, and I’ve started drinking more to ease my nerves.
This isn’t my part of town, exactly the reason why I picked this questionable drinking hole to spend my evening. I toss back one cheap bourbon after another, until I start feeling relaxed, calmed down enough to head back outside, too numb to drive myself crazy from the fear of being grabbed. I've always been a night owl, so it's not unusual for me to be out and about late at night. I’d be far more scared if I was nabbed during the bright daylight, as crazy as that may sound.
It’s nearly midnight. The buzz of the alcohol fuzzes my senses as I slip off the bar stool to pay a quick visit to the restroom before heading out into the night. I intentionally ignore the frosty-faced girl still sitting across the bar, but I can feel her eyes on me as I head towards the short hallway leading to the restroom. If she continues with those hateful stares when I come back, I may just have to tell her off for my own self-esteem.
My legs are shaky and my head feels like it‘s spinning. Steadying myself against the counter as I wash my hands, I study my reflection in the mirror. I still look good, good enough. I will never get used to the bleached blond strands framing my painted face, but the color will fade soon enough.
