His Captive

by Kiley Beckett

  She said something muffled into the goose down.

  “What was that?”

  “I said do it,” she said, right-faced, mad, spitting it gutturally.

  “Don’t command me.”

  She moaned again, swaying her hips and encouraging his fingers to push into her deeper. “Please, do it,” she said, softer now.

  “Yes, Pearl, now we understand.”

  He gripped his cock, teased the head around her anus, dipping the crown inside her up to the coronal ridge. She kicked her little feet against his thighs, then he dipped his hips lower and pushed himself inside her again. She was heaven.

  * * *

  Julian fucked her hard from behind. Much harder than when he’d been between her open thighs. Then he was a lover, now he was an annihilator.

  His grip was like iron around the curve of her hips, his fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs and her tummy, holding her bent over, driving that massive rod in and out of her body. The pleasure was astounding and still so unexpected. She hated that she loved it. Hated that her body forced her to beg for this. She was too smart, too strong; there was no way she should be on her elbows and knees like this succumbing to a man, no matter how handsome and wealthy he was. But there was something about him that controlled her. It was undeniable. So she let him. And here she was, held prisoner in a luxurious cottage that acted as a jail cell.

  The storm built outside the windows and rain began to slash in sheets against the unbreakable glass. More rumbles shook the room, and she felt the storm’s power grind through her body. The room flickered with lightning flashes, and her head rolled from side to side as he fucked her from behind. Not face to face anymore, just an arrogant billionaire with no respect for anyone, using her as a soft fleshy vessel to get off inside.

  A weakness traveled from the center of her belly down her legs. Her ass muscles fluttered. His hard stomach crashed against her soft bottom, and she could feel all her flesh shaking. Her breasts dangled and danced between her arms. The harder he fucked, the more they slapped. It was degrading, humiliating, but he got her singing.

  Her face turned up to the ceiling, and she began a series of remorseful vowels. That feverish cauldron of lust boiled over and she felt another orgasm spilling over the lip.

  “Oh God, oh God,” she cried, gripping the pillow and pulling it to her face. She clamped its silky cotton hard between her teeth, chomping down and grinding her jaws. She didn’t want him to know his effect. Didn’t want him to have the satisfaction. But when it hit her full force, she could hide it no longer.

  The wild orgasm left her dim. Her eyes came awake finally as another lightning flash lit up the room. She was aware of Julian’s face looming over hers. A rumble shook the bed. The storm still beat on the windows. For a moment, she forgot where she was—her mouth tried to form the words to ask him what he was doing in her dorm room, but her lips stuck together. He lightly tapped her cheek with four fingers. “You’re not done yet, Pearl,” he said.

  She whispered, “Done what?”

  “I haven’t got my pleasure yet.”

  She said defiantly, “So?”

  That made him smile, and he held her face with two fingers, his thumb along her jaw as if he admired her face. He studied her, even tilting her head side to side.

  She asked him what time it was, and it made him chuckle. She was remembering where she was now.

  “I’ve fucked you dumb,” Julian said.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Where are you?”

  Okay, yeah, I thought I was in my dorm room, but I know where I am. “I’m your prisoner.”

  “You are,” he said. “But your face,” he said, turning her side to side again, “is also keeping me captive.”

  “Good for you,” she said, and, if she had the power, she might’ve spat at him. But it was moot anyway, because as soon as his hips began working against her again, she was powerless. She grabbed her own breasts, took account of her position. She was on her back again and she didn’t remember getting that way. Her legs were to one side, both of them together, knees touching, her feet lightly scissored apart. Julian was over top of her, hands out on either side, and he was fucking her sideways.

  “Fuck it,” she sighed, thrust her head back into the pillows.

  He fucked her that way till she came again. Then she was a little out of it, she would admit. He took her on all fours again, and that was good because she could bury her face and bite fabric, which helped her to deny his power. But then at some point he was on his back and she draped his hard body, and he held her with forearms hooked under her armpits, her breasts mashed against his muscles, biting her ear, his hips powering up and down from the bed with his heels dug in. The pleasure was enormous. She could feel the slap of his testicles against her ass cheeks, he fucked so hard. And yeah, she was pretty sure she came from that too—but it was getting really hazy.

  Then he was on top and between her thighs again; at one point he had his hand wrapped around her neck. By the time he was ready to come, she didn’t know where she was. All she was aware of was his cock moving in and out of her. She felt every vein, every ridge, could feel the ripple of the flared lip of his cockhead as it reamed against her tight, virgin interior. So deep, so hard, so large...

  Before he came, he took her hands again. His fingers interdigitated hers, gripped them in a tight scissor, and held them pinned above her head as he chased down his own pleasure.

  “Ho God, ho God...” she was sighing, and now she was desperate for Julian to orgasm. Wanted to feel what it would be like. And he showed her.

  When it was time, he was controlled.

  Julian looked in her eyes, face set grim and hard, his jaw muscles jumping and flexing. He held his breath, snorted through his nose. His cock swelled inside her and she felt it flexing and then came a brilliant gush of liquid. “Oh, God,” she cried out, this man dominating her, this master, holding her down and fucking her, coming inside her. Not even asking if she was on the pill. Not even asking if she was ready, not even asking if he should pull out. Just pushing deeper and letting it go. It was a flood, a hot spate that gushed around his shaft, making his penetration slipperier. And dammit if she didn’t come again.

  She’d been claimed. Just like he said. Just a hot bit of lubricated flesh for him to get off on and come inside. Because when he was done, he didn’t linger. No movie romance kisses on the lips and cuddling; he dumped his sticky load inside her, took a short moment to gather his breath, let her fingers and hands go, withdrew his cock. It fell wet and hot against her stomach, and then he was getting off the bed, breathing heavily, running a hand through his thick head of hair. Lightning flickered again, and she saw him stark for one split second. All that muscle, sinew, and power lit up in high contrast against the dim amaranth of her luxury prison cell. Then it was dark again, she was blinking, melting into the bed.

  Her eyes wanted to stay open, but no matter how she tried, they closed. She heard fabric being pulled over flesh, a zipper being done up. A short time later, she heard the door open and close, a brief loud moment of torrential rain against the gardens outside, then the door was closed and she was alone and used and leaking.

  Chapter Eleven

  When she awoke, the room was flooded with bright light. She stared at the ceiling for a long time, taking stock of her situation.

  Still on some madman psycho billionaire’s island? Yep.

  Fucked into oblivion? Yep.

  Was she aching? Oh, yeah.

  She groaned, stretched, balled her fists, put them overhead and straightened her arms. It was a good feeling, but there was a tight soreness through her. Her back was sore, and, golly, she throbbed between her legs.

  The room was stuffy and smelled like sex. How long had he fucked her last night? She didn’t even know.

  Up on an elbow, she looked around. All her familiar little cottage amenities were lit in warm tropical daylight glow. She winced when she looked out the wind
ow, but saw the sky was bright and blue. The storm had passed over.

  So what now? What do you do now, Pearl, huh?

  We get up and we figure out how we get the fuck off this island is what we do.

  The muscles of her stomach hollered as she sat. She covered her sex with her hand. That man had come inside her. Her folds were warm and full, but anything he’d left in her had been absorbed, or seeped out and dried on the bed while she was unconscious.

  Every bit of her nervous system jangled as she swiveled to put her feet on the floor, scooting her butt forward so she sat on the very edge of the bed. “Oh, ha, ow...” she complained. But she felt kind of good despite the tightness that hardened her body. Like an overall brain fugue. A pleasant sort of haziness.

  That must be what all her dorm mates called ‘good sex.’ How could it get better than that, anyway?

  Well, it could be with someone you actually gave a shit about, maybe a man who wasn’t cheating with a married princess.

  It was a good point.

  Feet on the floor, she pushed off the bed with her hands, stood. For a mere second before she collapsed to her knees. She rolled to lie on her side. Holy shit. Her legs had just given way. Her knees went to gravy. Even lying on the floor right now, she could feel a trembling through her hamstrings, through her ass muscles. Now she even chuckled a little. Good sex indeed.

  “Oh man, oh wow,” she groaned, getting to her hands and knees. Once steady, she walked on all fours to the bathroom door. With a two-handed death grip on the doorknob she pulled her ravished body to stand. Palms spread out on the bathroom counter, she side-shuffled along until she could seat herself carefully on the toilet. She peed—not without a little sting—and chuckled again, buried her face in her hands.

  Wow, that was really something. She wasn’t a virgin anymore, that was for sure. Not a virgin at all. And boy, would she have some story...

  If she ever saw her friends again.

  Toilet flushed and gurgling cold air around her still-seated bottom, she looked at the shower—knew she did not want to stand up. It took effort, but she managed to hoist herself from the bowl and drape her body up the marble steps that led up to the elaborate bathtub, reached to turn the gold fixtures and fill it with hot water.

  Fifteen minutes later, soaking in a lavender oil bath bomb and wishing there were bubbles, she saw light spill from the front door being opened and lighting a long bright slash in the bedroom, over the dirtied bedding.

  Julian was returning.

  Knees gathered up in her arms, she hugged herself tight. She wasn’t ready for another fucking. The point of her chin dug between her knees as though she could hide away from him; a stupid, naked girl in a tub of hot water, in way over her head. She slunk lower beneath the surface.

  It wasn’t Julian. It was the woman, Swanson, the strict one from the plane who had watched her in the shower. The one who didn’t like her. Now she hugged her legs even tighter and watched the open bathroom door. There was movement, shadows flicking the sliver of light, and she could hear voices. More than just the woman, maybe Julian and some other guests. Now her toes curled up again, making a squeaky rub on the bottom of the bath.

  Swanson filled the doorframe now, coming in to casually lean on the doorframe and cock her head, regarding Pearl in the tub. The two of them stared at each other for a long time. At last, Pearl said, “What?”

  “How are we feeling this morning?”

  She shrugged, sank down so low in the tub only the very tips of her knees showed and water lapped over her bottom lip with her chin tucked to her chest. “I don’t know.”

  The woman regarded her for a few seconds, raised her eyebrows. “I imagine you’re hungry.”

  She shrugged again, took a mouthful of bathwater and let it spout from her pouted lips—lavender bath oil did not taste as good as it smelled.

  “There’s breakfast for you here. Can I help you out of the tub?”

  She sank her face in the tub, just her eyes and the tips of her ears peeking out now. She bobbed up again, said, “Why are you being nice to me now?”

  Swanson said, “Does it matter why? Would you prefer it the other way?”

  “No.”

  The woman sighed, stepped into the bathroom, and regarded herself in the mirror. She tugged at the pointed hems of her short white jacket to straighten the way it sat on her shoulders.

  Now she came to the tub, sat herself on the second highest step, and rested an elbow on the curved marble top. She dabbled her fingers in the water. “A nice hot bath,” she said.

  “I’m a little sore...”

  The woman’s eyebrows raised again, and she said, “I’m sure you are, little one.”

  “I’m not little,” Pearl said.

  Now the woman flicked the wetness off her fingers and held her hand out, palm up, saying, “Come now, let’s get you out of the tub—get you lying down, and we’ll take care of you.”

  She put four fingers in the woman’s grip, said, “Take care of me how?”

  “Come on, we’ll show you.”

  “Who’s we?” she asked as she stood up, water sloughing off her body and splashing in the tub. Instinctively, she pressed her thighs together and dipped her pelvis to hide her womanhood, folded a forearm over her breasts. Swanson had seen her naked before, but who else was in the room?

  Visions of being held limbs extended and gripped by muscular men at four points of the bed came to her; she was spread-eagled and exposed, and Julian was coming at her again with his big cock.

  “Do you need help stepping down, dear?”

  Pearl lifted a foot, shifting her weight to one leg, and could feel the muscles wanting to buckle. She said, “A little help, maybe.”

  “You must’ve had some night,” the woman said, standing face to face, feet on the top step, both hands extended. With a quick pull, she helped Pearl raise up out of the tub, get on her hip, and then scoot down to put her feet on the floor.

  “Your legs aren’t working,” Swanson said.

  “They’re kind of wobbly,” she said and wiggled both hands for Swanson’s help. Swanson guided her to stand, put an arm over her shoulder even though she was wet, hooked an arm around her waist and helped her walk.

  There were two men in the room standing near the foot of the bed, one of them by a stainless steel cart with two tiers of trays, food blossoming on each one. Parfaits, croissants, muffins; she smelled bacon; there was coffee. The second guy was arranging a low long bed—a massage table. It even had one of those holes at one end that you could lie with your face through.

  She asked, “What’s this?”

  “We have to get you back in working shape, don’t we?”

  “I guess,” she said, and the woman helped her limp along and eased her up, lifting a leg for her and getting her settled face down on the massage table. She put her face through the padded oval and looked at the floor. Swanson’s shoes came into view. Swanson said, “Massage first then, I take it—you don’t want to eat?”

  “I want both,” she said.

  The woman said something in French to the two men who agreed in low masculine sounds, then their hurried, sneakered feet shuffled out of the cottage and they locked the door behind them.

  Pearl said, “Do I smell vanilla French roast?”

  “You do.”

  “Did I see honey-glazed bear claws?”

  “You did,” the woman said, and it sounded like she was removing her jacket.

  “Those are my favorite.”

  “We know.”

  “I saw cherry strudel, too.”

  “You did,” the woman said over the sound of her sleeves being rolled up.

  “Yeah, cherry strudel... Parfait, too, the kind with the green Jell-O cubes.”

  “Yes, that’s there, as well.”

  “All my favorite things.”

  “I hope you’re pleased.”

  “Not really.”

  Now oil was drizzled on her back in a zigzag patter
n from her shoulders to her butt.

  She said, “What are you going to do?”

  Swanson said, “What do you think?—a massage.”

  “You’re not going to hurt me?”

  “Like choke you? As much as I’d like to, sweetheart, I’m going to do quite the opposite for you this afternoon.”

  “It’s the afternoon?”

  “You did sleep late, precious. Yes, I’m a registered massage therapist; at least I was before I was whisked away to work for Julian.”

  “He’s a good boss?”

  “This isn’t a cocktail party, Pearl, why don’t you just close your eyes and relax?”

  She didn’t close her eyes, staring at the floor instead and watching Swanson’s shoes move around on the floor. Swanson began to rub her back, and in about half a minute any trepidations she had over Swanson’s intentions were kneaded away. At first it was just pleasant, then it became enjoyable, but it wasn’t long before intense and deep feelings of pleasure were pushed and dug and worked through her like endorphins being squeezed from a sponge.

  “Oh my God, oh my God,” she babbled, then fell asleep.

  * * *

  When she woke next, she felt distant and cottony. A delightful combination, one if packaged in pill form would generate a fortune. There was a steady thrumming sound, a droning sort of dry vibrato... Shoot, it was her own groaning. She’d groaned herself awake. No hands were on her, and she worked up onto her elbows to look sleepily over her shoulder. Swanson stood at her side, one thumb rubbing into the center of the other palm, her hands glistened with massage oil. “All better?”

  “That was... magic.”

  “I know it was,” she said, then returned to the side of the table, ran her fingertips down Pearl’s back with a long slow backhand, saying, “Those are some stripes he left on you.”

  “Each one’s a lesson, he says.”

  “Are you a good student?” Swanson said, her hand spreading to cup over one of Pearl’s bare ass cheeks.

  “I am,” she said, pretty sure she wasn’t, though she didn’t know which way was up right now.