His Captive
Page 4
She bit off her response, teeth literally clenching her lips closed from the inside.
Shackelford said, “Her pussy is gushing.”
Now she hid her face away, folded her arms around her ears and rocked her chin on the steel barrel while this handsome billionaire fucked her with two fingers to the great amusement of a sadistic male audience. And her body betrayed her, her interior a sticky spate of sexual lubrication that sputtered around the man’s well-manicured fingers.
“She’s a horny little slut,” Shackelford surmised.
“Fuck you,” she corrected him. “I’m a virgin.”
The men laughed with disbelief.
“It’s true,” she shouted into her arms.
Julian’s thrusting slowed, and he slid deep inside her. “You’re not intact,” he said.
“I used to ride dirt bikes when I was a teenager,” she said.
It brought great guffaws from them all; huge cachinnation, thinking she was lying.
Shackelford summarized, “Every bride’s wedding-night pleading: I swear my hymen broke riding horseback, darling...”
“What does it matter?” she moaned into her arms. “Why would I care what you think?”
Julian’s other hand joined the party between her thighs; two fingers plunged and now a new digit stroked and slipped under her hood, the cushion of his thumb pressing down on her launch button. Her body bucked hard, her tummy thrumming against the metal, her thighs quivered...
“Oh, shit,” she sighed, knowing what was coming.
Julian’s hand commanded her as convincingly as his voice. And just as he’d used words to conjure her surrender and bend her own body over the barrel for him, now synapses and biological switches were being triggered. Electric shocks fired up her engines, brought her sexual motor to life. She was oiled, fueled, and ready for takeoff; Julian put her pedal to the floor.
Her back arched tighter, her pussy turned up to an awkward height, hungry for penetration, her clitoris eager for touch. Her eyes fluttered open to see the cops watching, breathing heavy, eyes hungry. All of their cocks were at various stages of hardness, bulging out their flies or the insides of their shorts’ legs.
“Look at her thighs quiver,” Shackelford said.
Sure enough, her legs were jumping, the muscles trembling like they were pushed to their limit.
“Oh, no, oh, no,” she chanted, wishing she could rein it in, and then at the last second just letting it go, letting it happen.
She coughed a loud warbling series of vowels and her tummy tightened like a cable. Instead of arching back she curled forward, body seized like she’d been electrified. Her back twisted and she writhed on the barrel, a huge orgasm ripping through her but her body wanting to hide it so the men wouldn’t have the satisfaction.
Julian plunged deep and held himself inside, let her canal grip and roll on his fingers as she rode it out. His thumb pressed down and rolled on her button, and he had complete mastery of her pleasure.
“Stop, stop, stop,” she sighed when it had gone on long enough. Watching her had extinguished all their laughter and when her eyes opened again, she saw all the men wanted to fuck her. If Julian weren’t here to command his pack of wolves, they would all drop their pants and take their turn with her.
Shame rose up from her feet and swelled her face like a rising flood. Her cheeks burned red. She was disgusted with herself. She hid her face again.
Julian withdrew his fingers from her and dried them on the leg of her shorts hooped around her knees.
He stood. “Get up.”
* * *
The skin of her ass sizzled as she stood. She put two hands behind her, felt her cheeks hot where he’d stung her with the bite of his belt. The act of reaching around to caress her own bottom made her breasts push forward, presented to the watching men in her sports bra. She was at once offended at her humiliation and bothered that she hadn’t worn a nicer bra today.
The shame she felt was bottomless. Her ass was stinging, standing now with her shorts around her thighs and her knees pressed together. She dared a chance to look up. All three cops watched her, Shackelford as well. Julian Mann stood with his arms folded, looking proud of himself. A man and a woman stood at the top of the airstairs that led up to the billionaire’s gleaming white plane.
She averted her eyes, looking down now. Her teeth gnawed on her lower lip and she gathered her hands between her thighs.
Julian said, “Turn around and let us see.”
“See what?”
“You have a problem with compliance, don’t you? Turn around and show us your bottom.”
She rolled her eyes but shuffled around where she stood, her Converse scratching on the rough hard pack. She turned so he could see her backside.
Julian said, “You know what that is? It shows you’re learning.”
She sighed. “Learning what?”
“Such petulance,” he said. After a moment, he was standing close behind her and it made her bristle.
She said, “Can I pull up my pants now?”
“Good girl requesting permission. And you had to ask what you’re learning...”
She stooped a little, bending her knees and tucking her thumbs into her shoved-down shorts.
He put his hand on her back and she stopped.
He said, “I didn’t say you may.”
She disregarded him, shrugging away from his touch on her back and began sawing her hips to pull her shorts up. They stopped. His hand had tucked in the waistband and prevented her.
He said, “Take them all the way down.”
“Why?” she groaned.
“Do you need another lesson?”
“No.”
“You’re getting on that plane and I don’t want your wet shorts in there. Or your dirty shoes.”
“I’m not getting on that plane.”
“You’re getting on that plane. And you’re doing it now. Come on. Get those things off.”
Julian pushed down on the back of her shorts and she jammed her knees together to stop him.
“Are you out of your mind? I’m not getting on your stupid plane.”
Shackelford moved where he could see her now. He said, “You’re not getting on that plane? How else are you going to leave the island?”
“What do you mean?”
Shackelford presented her with a large Ziploc baggie held up in one of his hands for her to see. The contents: her passport, her ID, and the new phone replacing the one Julian had crushed under his heel.
“You stole my phone... You took those things from my room...”
“I did. And there’s no U.S. consulate here on the island. You have no recourse... And, anyway, don’t you want a ride in sixty-million-dollar luxury?”
Chewing at the inside of her lip again, she regarded the plane. A gleaming white falcon sitting on a dirt-streaked grassy tableau, hot blue sky above. A pelican flew over them, low enough they could hear its wings rustle.
Julian’s calm, superior voice: “She’s getting on the plane now because she is mine. I own her. If she doesn’t get on the plane in the next thirty seconds her ass will taste the leather again, and she will know the answer to her insolent questions.” He whacked the looped belt across a palm like a riding crop.
The cops laughed, watching these two white men put her in her place, twisting her up with intimidation and wrapping it in a velvet coat of logic. Of course you’re getting on the plane, my dear, you have no other choice, but it is your choice...
She said, “Why do I have to take my things off?”
Julian looked to the sky now, flexed his jaw. It was a sign she was testing his patience, and while she didn’t give a shit about his patience, she suddenly felt like she didn’t want to let him down.
She answered for him. “I know... my shorts are wet.”
“Exactly,” he said.
“Can I have something else to wear?”
“On the plane,” he said, not even looking at her.
She said, “Can I leave my bra and panties on?”
“Are they clean?”
She paused. “Yes.”
He didn’t answer, just watched her.
She said, “May I please take my shorts off?”
“You may.”
Hips sawing back and forth, she pushed the tight, wet cotton down to her knees, trying not to make it sexy because that would please the men. When they got to her knees, she rose again, folded one arm over her bra, put a hand between her thighs. She kicked the shorts down and off and stepped out of them. Now she stooped a little, still trying to cover herself, pinching at her panties and drawing them back up again and seating them between her thighs and over her rump. They were wet, but she wouldn’t mention that because Julian would make her take them off again.
He said, “Are we ready now?”
“Yes.”
“Your shoes...?”
She wanted to roll her eyes but stopped herself. Instead, she used the toes of each foot to pry the heels of her shoes off and kicked them away. Her feet ached, and it was a relief to get them out of the wet canvas. Now she stood in just her bra and panties in the hot Caribbean sun.
Julian said, “Get on the plane now, Miss Armbruster.”
There was nothing else to be done. No passport, no identification, no support... No U.S. consulate, and a man here who probably represented the U.S. in some shady manner prepared to advise any authority against her. He had the island cops at his beck and call. She couldn’t run, she had no clothes, only her underwear. There was nowhere to go, and they would catch her, anyway.
So now she was going to board a sixty-million-dollar plane in her skimpy underthings, apparently. She took tentative steps, careful of the scratching stones under her bare feet.
“That’s it, Miss Armbruster,” Julian said, pleased by her acquiescence.
He stepped behind her and she led the way toward the waiting airplane. A man and a woman stood at the top waiting to receive her. The man was in his fifties, distinguished, wearing a suit in black with a crisp, knotted tie. The woman was attractive and dressed like a flight attendant; charcoal suit, ironed shirt, cross tie pinned with a shimmering pearl, chestnut hair pulled back from her face and clipped. She gave a welcoming smile.
Avoiding the sharper stones, she crossed the hard pack to the waiting jet. She stepped up on the airstairs, moving her hands away from her body now to help pull herself up by the handrails. The kind woman at the top held out a hand to aid her. When Pearl extended hers, the woman took it and Pearl folded her other arm across her sports bra.
“That’s it, dear,” she said. “Come, let’s get you something to wear.”
Behind her, Shackelford and Julian Mann mounted the steps. She turned to see the three island cops waiting at the two vehicles. They weren’t coming.
She stood now in the service area of the jet. It was well-appointed with gleaming black surfaces, the kitchenette across from her in stainless steel and black marble. There were decanters of whiskey, labeled bottles of high-end alcohol, and crystal glasses lined neatly on shelves.
On her left she saw the cockpit, looking like a futuristic spaceship. The pilot and copilot chatted and didn’t even turn to see her. Like the jet’s owner routinely stopped to humiliate and manipulate naked girls, then made them board his plane.
Hydraulics drew up the door behind them as Julian and Shackelford came around her on either side.
Julian said to the woman, “She needs to rinse that ridiculous color out of her hair. I don’t want any of her dirt on my leather. Take her to the bathroom to make sure she scrubs herself.”
Pearl said, “I can go on my own. I don’t need any help.”
The pilot and copilot flicked switches, their headsets on now and the plane’s jets began to whine.
Ignoring her and addressing the attendant again, Julian said, “Escort her to the bathroom and watch her.”
The woman held her above the elbow and guided her to walk deeper into the luxury jet. Pearl stopped and looked back. Julian and Shackelford were close together in hushed conversation. She said, “What do you think I’m going to do, jump out a window?”
Julian smiled, though his eyes remained cold. He said, “Can’t be too careful. I’m sure an angel like you thinks she can fly.”
Chapter Five
The attendant escorted her down the plane’s center aisle. First, through the section that was leather chairs and a low table with flowers in a vase, past that a seating area, a leather banquette and a table, then through a narrow doorway and into a sleeping cabin. It was beyond there, behind the wings, they entered a narrow chamber with one side an undulating wall in porcelain white. It opened into a bathroom. There was a sink, toilet, and on the left a glassed-off room to shower.
“Just through here,” the attendant said, standing by the sink and gesturing into the shower stall.
Pearl stopped, regarded herself in the mirror. Her normally vibrant red hair hung in narrow black tangles down her shoulders and collar. Her freckled skin was speckled and smudged with the shoe polish used to conceal her hair color. Her cheeks were blushed. Couldn’t help it now—even though the woman was watching her, with her eyes still on the mirror, she swiveled her hips to get a look at her own bottom. Her pale pink panties scored a triangle over the curves of her cheeks, but arrayed in straight lines poking out below the material and over the flesh of her bottom she could see precise red marks where she’d been strapped.
“Someone’s been naughty,” the attendant said.
“Someone thinks so,” she said, admiring the precise parallel markings. Mr. Mann had technique. All the blows he landed were planned.
“Take off your things,” the woman said. She stood with expectant posture; smiling, hands clasped below her waist, fingers interwoven.
Pearl turned her back to the woman, but now she could see the men in the hallway down the belly of the plane preparing to sit in the leather chairs. She turned back to face the woman and folded her arms behind her, unclasped her bra. She brought the straps down her shoulders and covered her breasts with her hands as the bra fell to the floor. She could feel her own nipples like hard rubber nubs against her palms.
“Your panties as well, dear.”
“I know,” she said, and rested a hand on the counter, used a thumb to draw her panties down to her knees, and stepped out of them. She was completely naked now.
Sitting around the stainless steel sink were items belonging to her tormentor. Expensive soaps and lotions, a badger-bristle shaving brush set in a golden hook above a porcelain bowl, a gold-plated man’s shaving razor, and by the faucet, a set of solid gold cufflinks each studded with diamonds. There was her thirty grand right there. Fuck him and his photograph. Whenever Julian brought this dipshit show-off plane down, she’d make it all okay with a couple of shoplifted diamonds and whatever other gimcrack she might find in his ostentatious plane. That would make it equal...
Only the flight attendant woman was watching. The woman was watching, and where would Pearl hide the cufflinks? Besides the obvious...
“Let’s get going, please. We don’t want to keep Mr. Mann waiting.”
Pearl said, “No, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” She’d wanted to roll her eyes quite a bit over the last ten minutes and, boy, did she give it to the flight attendant now. A dramatic head-tilting eye roll that she showed the woman blatantly as she stepped naked into the shower.
The digital display to operate the shower wasn’t easy to figure out. Stainless steel plate with red and green lights, the buttons she pressed didn’t seem to work. The flight attendant sat down on the toilet and said, “Just hold on to the bar on the wall there until we’re in the air.”
“In the air?” Now she felt the rumble under her feet and she grabbed the stain
less steel hoop set in the tiled wall. Next thing she knew, her knees were going weak and her stomach flipped over as the plane rose up into the sky, smooth and quiet, but Pearl held tight to the wall and watched the showerhead’s stainless steel braided hose sway back and forth.
After a moment, the woman stood. “You’re all set now.”
The lights on the stainless panel below the showerhead had all turned to green. She selected hot water, stepped aside and let it blast. With her hand out, she tested the temperature, smiling humorlessly at the watching woman. She said, “Enjoying the show?”
The woman gave her back an equally humorless smile. “As much as you’re enjoying putting it on.”
Touché, bitch.
She said to her now, “I’m going to clean myself. It’s all right if you look away. Unless you’re checking to see if I get all my nooks and crannies...”
The woman raised her eyebrows and considered it, then turned her back to the shower and kept her hands folded in front of her.
“Thank you,” Pearl said, then ran her head under the water and watched the pale inky black splash and swirl around her feet.
It took almost a whole bottle of shampoo to get the water running clear through her hair. Bent over with her butt sticking out, head tilted down, she ran fingers through her locks, easing out the tangles. Between her legs she saw her fuzzy betrayer. Her twisted pink sex sitting in happy folds nestled in the curved halves of her vulva like it didn’t do anything wrong today. Like it was blameless. She whispered to it, “Way to go, sunshine. Whose side are you on?”
Over her shoulder, the flight attendant said, “Who are you talking to?”
“Nobody,” she said sullenly.
The woman looked down the hall, then back at Pearl over her shoulder again. “Are you talking to your pussy?”
“No.” Shaking her head, remorseful over being caught talking to her body parts, she scrubbed soap on her hands and built up cups of lather that smelled strong of lavender and pine. She scrubbed between her legs, giving her pussy a good going over, and grew surprised at how much excitement she’d produced. The insides of her thighs were sex-slippery almost to her knees. She exhaled a scoffing sound of disbelief.