by Linnea May
"Where are we going?"
She's asked me that about five times now, but I never deigned her with an answer.
"Home," I say eventually, still not looking at her.
"Your home?"
"Yes."
"W-w-why?"
Her voice is trembling. Finally.
"What are you going to do to me?"
"You'll see."
"Are you going to kill me?"
I let a few moments pass before answering her. I relish seeing her like this, scared as fuck, ready to jump at any moment, at my slightest move. I want her to act out against me.
I want to have a reason to touch her.
"I hope I won't have to kill you."
My answer causes her to inhale audibly, and she shifts uncomfortably in her seat, pulling at her seatbelt and removing it from her chest, gasping for air. The view of her round tits heaving with desperation is driving me crazy. I avert my eyes in an effort to remain cool and collected. She's so fucking delicious, looking like the perfect fuck toy in her slutty dress that hugs her perfect curves in all the right places, showing off her lean legs and her tits that are way too big for her frame to be real. She's wearing stockings underneath, I can see the suspenders peeping out from under her short dress now that she's sitting.
What a perfect slut. My cock twitches with desire every time I lay my eyes on her, but I can't let that part of my body take over just now. I need to stay focused and level-headed. I need to be ready to keep her under control in case she tries to escape or overpower me.
She falls silent, and minutes seem to turn into an eternity, leaving me guessing just by her breath and her gestures what she might be thinking. The tension is almost unbearable.
I can see the red light approaching far ahead. My shoulders hike up in strained anticipation, as I'm forced to slow and stop the car. If she's going to try anything, she's going to do it now; I can sense it.
And in the blink of an eye, I find myself reaching for the syringe inside my jacket and jamming it into her exposed thigh. I don't even know what brought it on. She moved. I saw her moving from the corner of my eye. I don't know if she was up to something, if she was about to jump at me, hit me, start screaming, or if she was just shuffling in her seat.
It doesn't matter now. The sedative is spreading through her system, the needle still embedded in her flesh, as she casts me a horrified look.
I make sure that the syringe is empty before pulling the needle out of her flesh, accompanied by her pained yelp.
"What the hell did you do?!" she shrieks at me.
"Just something to calm you down," I say nonchalantly, as if I'd just embraced her in a friendly hug.
She whimpers, pressing a hand to her thigh where the needle stung her. She has a small frame and doesn’t weigh much, but the drug still needs a few minutes to take full effect and knock her out. Her eyes are drowsy already, and her facial expression lacks the intense panic from before, as her muscles begin to relax. She sinks back into her seat, the tension fleeing her limbs just as the traffic light turns green.
"You sick bastard," she slurs. "I wasn't gonna do anything..."
"Better safe than sorry."
"This... this was unnece-nece-ss-"
"Shut up," I cut her off. "Just relax."
She moans in protest, and it's the sweetest sound to my ears. It takes all my strength to focus on the street ahead as I resume driving, noticing as she slowly loses all control over her sinful body. Her head is falling to the side, turned away from me, and she manages just in time to turn her knees inward so that her legs don't sprawl out in an obscene manner.
"S-s-s-," she slurs desperately. "S-s-s-sick."
That's the last word that leaves her beautiful lips before the world darkens around her.
Chapter 5
Loran
I'm not a rapist, and I'm not into necrophilia.
Yet, it's anything but easy to restrain myself when I carry her inside my house. I try to keep my hands where I need them instead of where I want them, ignoring the urge to take her right here and now. She’s so irresistible, even in her current state, drooling all over my jacket, her eyes slightly opened, giving her a creepy appearance. Her skirt moves up when I gather her into my arms, exposing an alluring set of lingerie intimately covering a body that's to die for.
I'm rock-hard by the time I reach the basement of my mansion. This house is just one of several in my possession. Others would call it a summer home, but for me, it's more of a playhouse. This is where I come when I have a girl, whether she’s an acquisition from the bars and clubs I frequent, or one of the girls who I have contracted to spend time with me.
It's a mansion, providing all the luxuries a man like me is used to, but it's modest in size. The first floor only boasts a big living area connected to an open kitchen that rarely gets used for anything but coffee, drinks, and snacks. There's a fireplace in the living room, but I can't recall ever using it. If I did, it was definitely when I was alone, by myself. I never spend time with the girls in here. The few who I've spent an entire night with were allowed to roam the house as they pleased, once I was done with them or allowing them to take a break, but I never let it go as far as cuddling up on the damn couch. They were allowed in the basement, that's where I used them, and upstairs in one of the three bedrooms designed only for that purpose - to host my playthings.
I pass through the living room with her limp body in my arms and carry her downstairs, which proves to be harder than I thought. I've never had to carry a girl down here; they usually followed me, either forced down on all fours or walking in front of me, so I could take in the view of their perky asses, fueling my insatiable hunger for them.
The basement consists of only one giant room, a room that's the perfect exhibition of my twisted desires. The ceiling is unusually high for a basement, one of the reasons I bought this particular mansion. I needed a basement to house my playroom, but I don't like feeling choked by a low ceiling that I can touch without having to climb on a chair.
Despite the remoteness of this place, I opted to install a noise-canceling door and windows. There are only two small windows. They allow in very little daylight, but enough to know whether it's day or night. They're framed with thick and heavy dark red curtains. The color is predominant in here, and it gives the room almost a cozy feel, despite the many apparatuses and pieces of furniture that serve only one purpose - torture and sexual stimulation. Pain and pleasure, they always go hand in hand with me. Black leather, cold steel frames, a dark red carpet, and gray walls - dungeon would probably be the best word to describe this room.
I don't bother to switch on the lights, but focus instead on finding a place to place her sedated body first. She's still out of it, and I reckon she will be for a few more minutes. It might be hours until she's back to her normal self.
There's no bed in this room, as it's never been intended for sleeping, so I place her onto the next best thing - the rack. As soon as she's no longer weighing down my arms, I turn away from her and make the mistake of switching the lights on.
Violent need rushes through my core when I approach her. Her beautiful body is sprawled out across the wooden stretching bank, her skirt still pulled up in an indecent manner and revealing far too much of her perfect legs, her perfect hips, and her pussy, hidden behind a see-through wall of black fabric. The view of her bare lips through the sheer material is driving me insane.
I lean over the bench, careful not to hurt her when I hook my arms underneath her armpits to shift her upward. She's most likely unable to feel pain at the moment, but I don't want her to get hurt nonetheless. Not like this, not because I didn't handle her with the care even a slave deserves. I move her arms so they’re above her head, watching the curves of her pushed-up tits move as I handle her.
Fuck. She's killing me. She's not even awake, and yet she's killing me.
I'm hesitant to fasten the cuffs around her wrists and ankles. Can I trust myself? Already my cock is
pushing almost painfully against its fabric cage. My eyes hungrily trail across her luscious body, imagining all the things I want to do to her, all the things I'm going to do to her. This body will be mine for as long as I wish. She has nowhere to run, no one to hear her screams. And she will scream. Loudly.
I will have my way with her, in every way possible. But I need her to be awake when I do.
Because I need her to want me to do all those things to her. I need to hear her begging, I need to hear her desperate moans, and I need to see her dazed eyes as I force one orgasm after another from her perfect little body. I need her to break under my touch. I need her devotion, her complete and utter submission to my will.
And I need to earn all of it. I need to earn it, I need for it to come from a place of sheer desperation.
She barely showed any signs of struggle when I first took her, but I'm expecting that to change once she wakes up. Once she realizes how serious and dire her situation is, she will try anything to get away from me. She will resent me. She will fight me, and she sure as hell won't want to be fucked or even touched by me.
I reach down to my crotch, trying to tame the wild beast that's threatening to take control as it has many times before. I can't allow for that to happen, even if it means I won't get to fuck her for weeks.
Weeks. It could be weeks until I can bury my cock inside of her.
I've never trained an actual slave before. I've never trained a woman who didn't agree to be here. I've never had to fight for consent.
The realization hits me hard.
I'm a criminal. I actually did it. I kidnapped a woman, ripped her from her life, to fulfill my sick needs. I may be about to destroy at least one life, if not two, with what I'm about to do.
I'm fucking insane.
As the thoughts circle through my head, I slowly begin to fasten the cuffs around her, to make sure that she's secured and unable to move when she wakes up. I couldn't handle it. I couldn't handle it to have her running around, I couldn't handle having to physically force her down, while she's kicking, biting, hitting and screaming.
Screaming.
It's all she's left to do at this point, with her limbs tied up on the rack. I take a step back, my eyes traveling across her sinful body, her beautiful face, her hair, now a wild mess, as strands of bleach blonde tendrils cascade in all directions, partly covering her eyes as her head is turned sideways, resting on the unforgiving wood beneath her.
Every fiber of my being wants her, and I wish there was something I could do to wake her up. But I can’t.
Patience. It’s always been my strong suit. It’s made me the man I am, and it will get me where I want to be with her.
If only I can wait. Wait for her to open her pretty eyes.
Wait for her to be ready to become mine.
Chapter 6
Ruby
I want to scream, but I can't. My mouth is stuffed with a piece of cloth. It‘s tied at the back of my head in a knot and drenched with my saliva. I've seen this in movies, but I've never been in this predicament. None of my former clients were into gag balls or anything like that.
I'm feeling dizzy and a little nauseous. The ceiling above me appears to be turning and moving, and I know if I was standing up, I wouldn't be able to keep my balance.
It takes me a few moments to realize that my hands and legs are tied, too. I'm spread out on a wooden surface, my limbs stretched in all four directions like a star. I yank at the restraints, even though I know how pointless it is.
Panic rises in my chest, quickly expanding to my core, my head, my limbs. A nervous tremor oscillates through my entire body, and all attempts to calm myself are futile.
I signed up for this, I knew it was coming - why am I so shocked? So scared? Why am I breaking out in a sweat and about to hyperventilate? Did I underestimate the contents of the contract I signed? Was I really that stupid?
My breathing accelerates, and I'm moaning helplessly as I try to speak. All I'm able to produce are unintelligible sounds, as I soak the cloth further with my saliva. I turn my head, trying to see if he's in here with me, but my radius of movement is so limited that I can only perceive a very small area directly around my head. He's nowhere to be seen.
But I know he's in here. I can sense his presence, and when I manage to calm my heavy breathing at least somewhat, I can hear him moving. I try to lift my head, but only manage to so for a split second before vertigo pushes me back down.
"Careful there," I hear a strong voice warning me, after my head connects with the wooden plate. I can barely see him, but I know he's standing at the far end of the room, and he’s now approaching me with calm, deliberate steps. I'm surrounded by dark colors, a warm red and a cold gray. They’re blurry in my intoxicated vision. Despite the limitations blinding my senses, I can tell that this is some kind of sex dungeon, a room that serves only one purpose. I'm tied on a stretching bank, something I have only seen on-screen before. None of my previous clients ever used one of these on me, albeit I have been in similar rooms. They were never this big, and never this intimidating.
My heart is racing as I hear him coming closer. I'm torn between actual fright and excitement. I've been looking forward to this just as much as I have feared it. I wanted this. I thought I needed it.
But now that I'm here, I can't help but hear the doubts screaming at the top of their lungs in my head, as they try to overpower the sick little girl who's still excited about this.
I'm panting when his face appears above mine. He's no longer wearing his suit, at least not on the upper part of his body. Instead, he's teasing me with a view of his naked, chiseled chest. He can tell that I'm staring, and he loves watching me as I take in the view of his toned muscles. My eyes are glued on the tanned skin that stretches above his brawny chest, yearning, as I follow the black lines of a tribal tattoo adorning his left side all the way to his strong upper arm.
"Naughty girl," he says, and a smug smile appears on his face. "Too busy leering at me, you almost forgot to be scared."
My eyes scurry to the darkness of his. I flinch when he leans down, bringing his face close to mine, and removing his marvelous chest from my sight.
"Can you promise me something?" he asks in a low and daunting voice, placing his hands at each side of my face.
I bite on the cloth and let out a pathetic croak as I try to answer. A simple nod will have to do.
"You won't scream when I take this off," he continues, yanking at the cloth on both sides, almost choking me. "I'm going to take this off, and you'll be quiet like a good girl and listen to me. Do you understand?"
Another nod, and just a moment later, I'm freed of that fucking cloth, finally able to close my mouth to relax my face from that painful grimace I was forced to wear. I won’t scream because I know there's no point. We're playing a game, all right, but I won't risk losing my voice or strength through something as silly as screaming.
Besides, I'd much rather hear what he has to tell me. I like this. I like the tension of not knowing what's next, and I like looking at his handsome face as he threatens me. I know it's all a game and I have nothing to fear for real, but he sure as hell is making this feel real.
I should try my best to make him feel the same way.
He pulls the cloth down, but leaves it draped around my neck, observing me while I take in a deep breath of relief and press my lips together like I haven't been able to do for such a long time.
"Good girl."
This praise. Those words always have the same effect on me. They make my heart flutter with pride and accomplishment, and an arousal that is still so weird to me, even after all those times I've felt it.
Our eyes lock onto each other for a moment. He doesn't look happy. If anything, he looks unsure and doubtful. Is he unhappy with me? Is he regretting buying me already? What am I doing wrong?
"You're a special one, aren't you?"
His question baffles me. What am I supposed to say to this? Now that I'm finally here,
in his hands, in this cage, as his possession, I finally begin to realize the scope of my commitment. With previous clients, it's always been simple. We usually met up at a bar or hotel, and as soon as I was alone with them, they started barking commands at me. They never cared much for conversation or tested my skills as an actress. I just reacted to whatever they did to me.
This is harder than I thought it would be.
"Sir, I'm-"
"Don't call me that," he snarls, cutting me off. He reaches for my throat and closes his hand around it, choking me just enough to send a rush vibrating through my core. "I'm not your fucking Sir."
I want to respond, but he's making it impossible for me to breathe, let alone speak. A croak is all I can produce.
I've almost always been told to address my clients as Sir. I don't know if it gave them a sense of class or legitimacy or if they just lacked the creativity to come up with an alternative, but it was always the one word they wanted, if they chose a title to begin with. And I just went with it.
"Now, you'll just listen to me for a while, little girl, do you understand?"
He lets go of my throat, leaving me coughing and gasping for air.
"Do you understand?" he repeats his question, and this time I find myself able to give him a proper response.
"Yes, s-" I start, stopping myself just in time. "Yes. I understand."
"This is how things will go from now on," he continues. "You're mine now. You'll stay in here, in this room, and you'll do whatever I ask of you. There won't be any back-talk, and you won't try to get out of this, because I can guarantee you, you'll regret it."
He stops, observing my expression as I listen to him.
I nod. "Yes."
He furls his eyebrows.
"Yes?" he mirrors my response. "That's all you have to say?"
He snorts and straightens up. I watch in confusion as he begins pacing up and down the room, rubbing his temples and shaking his head. I lift my head so my eyes can follow his movement, and this time my body doesn't betray me. The drug he injected is slowly wearing off.
