Dark Obsessions Vol II

by Thompson, Claire

  Finally, he succeeded in forcing her into the enclosed space. He slammed the door shut with a clang and snapped the padlock into place.

  “Let me go, you bastard, you bastard!” she howled.

  As he regarded her, Mark touched his cheek, pulling back fingers smeared with his own blood. She certainly had spirit—he had to give her that. But then, that was one of the things he loved about her. Still, the feisty little bitch would have to pay. She had earned her punishment, and then some.

  He walked out of the closet and closed the doors behind him without a backward glance. She continued to wail as he went into the bathroom to use the toilet and wash his face. She was still whimpering when he pulled on his pajama bottoms and left the bedroom.

  In the kitchen, he put on a pot of coffee. While it was brewing, he turned on the news to see what they were saying today about the missing celebrity. It had taken until nightfall for anyone to finally figure out she was actually missing, or at least it had taken that long for it to make it into the news cycle, and today they were running with it. A large reward was being offered for information leading to her return.

  Mark smiled to himself. No amount of money was worth the treasure he had locked in his closet. Muting the TV, he sat back to think. The scratches on his cheek were starting to sting. Things weren’t going quite as smoothly as he had imagined they would the day before, when she had seemed a lot more compliant.

  No matter. Mark liked a challenge. It was like developing a really intricate computer program. Sometimes you had to go back again and again, even to rethink the whole design. He would have to rethink a little here. Ms. Hunter was exhibiting that fiery will she displayed so effectively in Lovers Quarrel, one of his favorites. That was all very well, but eventually she would learn to control that spirit—to subvert it to his will.

  Mark could still hear Alana crying out from time to time as he made and ate his breakfast. Not that anyone but he would hear her. The next property was a half mile away. Still, it was distracting, so he went into his study and closed the door. Soon he was lost in computer code, focused entirely on his work.

  ~*~

  “Breathe,” Alana ordered herself with the last vestige of her strength. Her throat hurt from screaming, and she was too exhausted to call out any longer. “Deep, cleansing breaths.” In…and out. In…and out. She tried to expand her lungs and fill them with air, but it felt as if there was a two-ton weight on her chest, as if the darkness itself were crushing her.

  After the nightmare of being abducted, bound, beaten and raped, being forced into the terrifying confines of this cage was the last push that threatened to send her flying into the abyss. She was alone in the pitch black, in the deafening silence. Panic threatened like an oncoming wave, but she knew if she gave in now, she would lose her mind.

  “Calm yourself, manage the anxiety, challenge the negative thinking, let the panic wash over you,” she whispered, reminding herself of the techniques the phobia therapist had taught her. How had her abductor known of her fear of confined spaces? As far as she knew, it was one thing she’d managed to keep out of the media’s endlessly voracious gossip machine.

  “You can do this. You can do this,” she promised herself. “Remember your anxiety map, and navigate through it.”

  This couldn’t go on much longer. Her rescuers would be coming soon—they had to be. She was Alana Hunter—she would have been missed the instant she didn’t show at the shoot. But how would they find her? Her phone was somewhere on the George Washington Bridge, crushed and destroyed. But maybe the doorman had seen the car her abductor had used. Maybe street cameras had caught the license plate. Yes! They would track down the car, and it would lead them to the madman who held her prisoner. Already the police were probably closing in on the property, the SWAT team ready to burst in at any second.

  Okay. Good. She was breathing again, the panic receding. She shifted in a vain attempt to get more comfortable. Her stomach, so long empty, had curled itself into a hard, painful knot, and her tongue felt like it was covered in sandpaper.

  “But you’re alive,” she whispered aloud. “The guy is obviously insane, but if he’d been planning to kill you, wouldn’t he have done it by now?”

  Something brushed her face, and Alana screamed, jerking sharply in the tight confines of the small prison. Her heart was beating so hard she feared it would smash right out of her chest.

  “A house spider, a harmless nothing little bug,” she murmured as she willed herself to calm down once more. She focused on her breathing again, while trying to remember some of the affirmations the phobia coach had taught her.

  Her thoughts drifted to the moment she’d entered the studio car. Her very first thought upon seeing the new driver was how much better looking he was than Hank. For a second she’d even wondered if he was an actor—someone sexy and new to the acting scene. He had thick golden-blond hair that hung over a high, smooth forehead, and intelligent green eyes. She had liked his long Roman nose and the generous mouth that was quirking into a nervous smile as she looked at him. She’d assumed his nerves were a result of meeting a famous actress in the flesh, but how wrong she’d been.

  There was that horrible moment of realization that they were going the wrong way. When he’d pulled the gun, icy terror had shot through her body, leaving her dizzy and nauseated, her hands shaking. Her heart had pumped so hard she could feel it banging against her ribs and thumping in her ears. Yet here she was, still alive and relatively intact.

  She was Alana Hunter, damn it, and this creep would never get away with what he’d done. She just needed to bide her time until the police arrived to rescue her. Meanwhile, she’d be damned if she was going to simply bow down and become this nut job’s sex slave, or whatever the hell it was he wanted from her. The bastard had picked the wrong woman to abduct.

  Brave words, but they rang hollow in her head. Who was she kidding? She was alone—all alone with a crazy man who seemed to both adore and despise her, who was intent on terrorizing her one moment, and comforting her the next. He had chained her, whipped her, raped her, and then kissed away her tears, holding her tenderly in a warm, strong embrace, whispering sweet, soothing things, as if he hadn’t been the one to torture her. It would almost have been better if he’d just been a total brute, a pure monster. Who the hell was this guy and what in god’s name did he want with her?

  Hiding her face in her arms, Alana gave way to her tears.

  ~*~

  About two hours later, Mark went to check on his charge. She was huddled in one corner of the cage, her arms wrapped protectively around herself. Her face was puffy and wet with tears, her eyes red from crying. Mark’s heart went out to his darling girl. But he knew he had to be firm. She had to understand who was in charge.

  “Alana.”

  She didn’t respond. Mark went over to the cage and unlocked the small door. Reaching in, he dragged her forward, hauling her out of the cage. He pulled her upright and she stumbled, but Mark held her arm firmly, not allowing her to fall.

  Without a word, he led her down the hall and through the bedroom into the bathroom. “Climb in the tub. Naughty girls don’t get to use the toilet. You will pee in the tub.”

  Alana stared at him, her mouth opening, no doubt in another protest. Mark stopped her by placing two fingers against her lips. “No. You do not speak. Not a word. You climb in the tub and you spread your legs and pee like a good girl. If you protest or resist in any way, I’ll put you back in the cage.”

  The threat worked. Alana got into the tub. Mark turned on the warm water, and as it splashed against the porcelain, a stream of urine cascaded between her shapely legs, while she blushed sweetly, her face averted.

  When she was done, he allowed her to wash off, and then dry herself with a towel. She kept her mouth shut for a change, which pleased him. Maybe he was finally getting through to her.

  Taking her back into the bedroom, he had her sit on the bed while he went to the closet. Choosing a soft je
rsey of dark pink cotton, Mark returned to his slave girl. “I like dresses on a woman. You won’t be wearing pants anymore, and of course no bra or underwear. I bought you a whole wardrobe, my darling. When you have learned to behave better, you might earn the right to some of the finer ones. But for now this will do. Lift your arms.”

  She obeyed, and he slid the dress over her head. It fit her perfectly, but then, she would look good in a potato sack. Reaching into the nightstand, he withdrew a short silver chain, which he attached between the slave bracelets on her wrists. “You tried to escape from me earlier, and you tried to cause me harm. You obviously can’t yet be trusted,” he explained. “So for now you will be treated as a prisoner.”

  He half expected her to protest, but she remained silent. “I know you must be hungry, little girl,” he said. “Perhaps hunger will sharpen your desire to be obedient.” She pressed her lips together, and he could see her swallow. Yes, she was hungry.

  Mark led her down the hall to the living room, where he settled on the couch. Alana stood in front of him, staring at the floor. He pressed her shoulders, forcing her to her knees. “You will kneel on the floor for your first lesson in how to address your Master.”

  He lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. “First rule, you will always respond to me when I speak to you. You will answer promptly and with proper respect. You will reply to commands with ‘Yes, Sir,’ or ‘Yes, Mark’. You will answer any and all direct questions. Other than that, you will not speak unless spoken to. If there is something you must say, you will ask first for permission to speak. Is that clearly understood?”

  He dropped her chin and again she looked down. No response. Mark felt anger rising but he forced it down. He narrowed his eyes and set his mouth in a grim smile. “All right then. Since you insist, we will go about this a different way.”

  He stood and pulled Alana to her feet. Dragging her to the wall by the fireplace, he took down a large reproduction of a painting by Marc Chagall. He had read once in an interview that Alana especially liked Chagall’s work.

  Her back against the wall, he raised her manacled wrists above her head and hung the chain over the hook. His heart gave a tug, along with his cock. She looked so pretty and defenseless, her luxuriant hair in a tumble around her face, her nipples poking through the thin fabric of her dress.

  “Alana?”

  Silence.

  Then the sharp crack of his palm against her soft cheek.

  Alana cried out.

  “Alana?”

  Nothing but her heavy breathing. A red mark appeared on her face where his palm had struck her. Again he slapped her, this time across the other cheek. Again and again he said her name, waiting for her reply, slapping her each time she failed to respond, until her face was bright red from the blows, her cheeks wet with tears. Yet still the stubborn girl remained silent.

  Furious, Mark gave up. Lifting her dress high, he tucked it around her neck and shoulders. She looked ridiculous with her dress hiked up, her body naked but for the curled dark hair that covered her delicate mons.

  Roughly, he grabbed her by the pubic hair, using it to pull her away from the wall. He fingered her cunt for several minutes, forcing her pussy to secrete its juices, despite her best efforts to resist him.

  Slapping her thighs, he forced her legs farther apart. Again his strong fingers found her cunt and he slid two at once deep into her defenseless body. He felt the heat of those velvet walls and longed to thrust his rock-hard cock into her. But she didn’t deserve his cock. Not now. Not yet.

  Mark continued to forcibly arouse his chained slave until she was moaning despite herself. Alana’s face was averted and her eyes were squeezed shut, but Mark knew from her wet pussy and her ragged breathing that he was getting to her. When her body began to move, her hips arching slightly toward his hand, he pulled away, calculatedly leaving the bound woman unsatisfied. She wouldn’t be coming for a while. She would have to earn her way into his good graces.

  “Alana, listen to me,” he said quietly, standing back to admire her heaving breasts, the nipples suffused with blood so that they looked like ripe cherries. He held his fingers to his nose and inhaled her spicy-sweet fragrance. “You will stay on that wall. You will keep your chain on that hook, and you will keep your dress up on your shoulders. I’m going to work for a while. When I come back, if your arms are down, or your dress has fallen, you will be punished severely. If you try anything stupid like trying to get away, I’ll kill you. It’s that simple.”

  Alana opened her eyes wide, fixing him with a terrified look, but still the wretched girl said nothing.

  Turning on his heel, Mark left her alone, naked and chained to the wall.

  She would learn what it was to suffer. He would see to that.

  Mark returned to the living room an hour later, a bottle of water in his hand. Alana’s head was turned to the side, resting against her shoulder, her eyes closed. She didn’t seem to hear him come in. He was pleased to see her wrists were still slung over the picture hook, her dress still bunched around her shoulders. Perhaps progress was finally being made.

  He set down the bottle on the end table by the couch and approached her. “Alana?” he said softly. He held his breath as he waited.

  Slowly, she lifted her head and opened her eyes. “Yes, Sir,” she finally answered in a hoarse whisper.

  Mark smiled broadly. “Good girl.” Gently, he lifted her bound wrists up and over the hook. Her arms fell heavily in front of her. They were icy to the touch. Smoothing down her dress, Mark scooped her into his arms and carried her to the couch. Settling with her in his lap, he took her lifeless arms between his large, strong hands and gently massaged the life back into her limbs.

  “Thirsty,” she whispered huskily.

  Mark carefully set her limp body on the couch and sat beside her, reaching for the bottle of water. He held it to her lips and she drank, hesitantly at first and then greedily. It was mid-afternoon and she had had nothing to eat or drink since the champagne the evening before, and, now that he thought about it, she’d barely eaten a thing since he’d picked her up.

  He allowed her to finish the bottle, and then he stood and pulled off his T-shirt. He preened a moment in front of her, proud of his muscular physique, but Alana didn’t appear to notice. With a shrug, he sat beside her and unlocked the chain between her wrists so he could slip off her dress. Once she was stripped naked, he cradled her again in his arms, holding her body close to his.

  He kissed the top of her head. “Are you ready to try again, slave girl?”

  “Yes, Sir,” she said in a low, uninflected voice.

  Mark was elated. “Good, darling. Here’s the first thing. I guess it’s because of your career and all—a famous actress used to having her way in everything—but you are too proud. That’s what I think. And pride no longer has a place in your life. Do you understand that?”

  Alana didn’t respond.

  Mark pushed down the sudden annoyance. It was one step forward, three steps back with this girl. But she looked so woebegone, so exhausted, that he took pity on her.

  “You’re tired, so I’ll forgive you that lapse, but remember—speak when spoken to. Answer my direct questions.” He patted her head, brightening as he added, “You obviously need another spanking. I want you to lie over my knee like the naughty little girl you are. I’m going to remind you to behave.”

  Mark’s cock ached as he forced the girl down over his lap. He twisted so he could insert his knee between her thighs in order to force her legs apart. With one hand, he massaged and caressed her gorgeous ass. As she wriggled, he used his other hand to stroke and tease her cunt. Keeping one hand on her sex, he began to swat her ass.

  He worked her up more quickly this time, and it wasn’t long before her ass turned bright red, the skin hot to the touch. Alana was wailing and whimpering as she struggled on his lap. “Please, please stop,” she begged.

  “If I stop, will you behave?”

  “Yes
! Please!”

  “Please what?”

  “Please stop spanking me! I can’t take this. It hurts! It hurts!” Her last word ended in a high-pitched wail.

  Satisfied, Mark lowered his arm. He had her just where he wanted her. Alana’s body sagged with relief against him. His fingers were still buried in her pussy, and he kept her pinned beneath his thigh.

  “Okay, then. I’m going to take you on your word that you’ll behave. The first thing you must learn is how to address me properly. How to respond when spoken to.” He paused, and then began the lesson. “First of all, what are you, Alana?”

  “I—I don’t know what you mean,” she sniffled.

  He lifted her from his lap and set her on her bottom beside him. She winced as her tender ass made contact with the cushions, and then wrapped her arms protectively around her torso. He allowed her that cover, for the moment.

  “I’ll tell you what you are, so you will know.” He paused a beat, then said, “You are my slave. You are my slut. You are my whore. You are my cunt. When I ask you what you are, you may answer with any one of those terms.”

  Alana lay still, but made no protest. Perhaps she was just too tired and defeated after the last thirty-six hours of confusion and torture. Or perhaps she was finally accepting her lot.

  “So, tell me, Alana. What are you?”

  “Your slave.”

  “Your slave, Sir,” he emphasized.

  “Your slave, Sir,” she repeated woodenly.

  “What else?”

  “Um, your slut, uh, Sir.” She looked away.

  “Look at me when I speak to you,” he insisted, and slowly she turned her head to face him. “So you admit you are my slave and my slut. What else are you?”

  “I—I can’t remember.”

  “You are my whore. My cunt. Repeat it.”

  “I, um, I’m your whore, Sir.” She said it without conviction.

  “And?”

  “I’m, I…” she trailed off, whispering something incomprehensible.