by Quin Zayne
My cock was harder than it had been in a good while. My shaft pulsed in my hand, stiff and eager as back when I masturbated multiple times a day and went to bed still horny.
She lifted her hips, pressing her heels into the mattress, rocking herself against the heel of her hand. Her face intent, she shifted to grinding, hips and hand meeting in a delicious sex rhythm.
I wanted to watch her come. I wanted to come with her.
She stopped. I swallowed and held still, as though she could see me. As though, if I ceased to move, she might start again—and finish, for both of us.
She lay still. Her eyes rolled back. She sighed, her perfect breasts rising and falling. Why did so many people assume all men preferred extra-large breasts? Hers were excellent, not huge, not small.
I wanted to caress them. I wanted to tease her nipples with my tongue. She had swollen-looking pink aureoles. They’d be soft in my mouth.
Unlike breasts with implants, hers would feel right to my touch. I didn’t fault anyone for doing what they wanted with their bodies, I simply preferred softness.
I willed her to touch herself again, but she didn’t.
Worse, she pulled the sheet over herself and turned off the light.
I groaned. My cock deflated. Her image remained inside my eyelids. I didn’t want to do it without her, though. I tucked my disappointed dick away.
Why had she stopped? Was she unhappy here?
I rose from my desk. It was time to provide her with more diversion. I couldn’t have my Rose wilting.
The Vault
Mandy rolled over on the bed and got out of it. The air conditioning stirred the sheer curtains. Below the deck, sunlight dappled the jungle trees that descended to the sugar-sand beach and turquoise sea. It still stunned her to see that view, and still gave her a pang to be so far from everything she’d known as home.
She’d had time to rest with a cool washcloth over her eyes before his summons came. The permanent makeup simplified things. No more raccoon eyes, no more time wasted on applying, repairing, and removing eyeliner and mascara.
Ravishing herself for the camera had improved her mood. Take that, Damon Karl. She felt strong, defiant. Fuck him if he thought he could control her.
She answered the door to a woman in a retro dress that matched Lucinda. “Excuse me, Mr. Karl invites you to come and tour his collections.”
“Oh, yes.” Snapping out of staring at the woman’s black hair and the crinkles around her eyes, she shook her hair back. “Thank you. Um, where do I go?” What a relief. The staff wasn’t made up of doll rejects. This woman appeared to be in her thirties and a healthy, attractive plus size.
“He’ll meet you in the library.” The woman nodded quickly and backed away.
“I’ll be right down.” She slipped on a cream linen wrap dress and sandals, and brushed out her hair. ‘Invitation’ was a nice way of putting it. She took it as a summons.
His collections. She couldn’t help being curious. Excited in spite of her misgivings about what he wanted, she hurried downstairs.
He met her in the library and said, “Open sesame.” His grin would have fit a boy at Christmas.
A bookcase swung out from the wall, revealing hidden stairs.
“Fantastic. I adore books and movies with secret passages. This is the first time I’ve seen one in person.”
“So do I. I grew up on movies with mysterious doorways and booby-trapped temples, and books with magic portals. Did you read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe?”
“Yes. We have a lot in common,” she murmured, surprised how being near him made her feel shy. “This is exciting, Damon.” She didn’t need any of the facial expressions she’d been practicing. Her pleasure lit her up.
She stepped into the doorway. This was like stepping into one of the mystery books of her lonely early years.
His hand came to rest on the small of her back long enough for the rush of heat to extend between her legs.
“Lights.” A soft glow illuminated a raw stone wall and cut-stone steps.
He led her into an unexpected and luxurious basement.
At an enormous door, Damon Karl held still for a device that identified him by scanning his retina. The door clicked and opened. The room ahead of them had the security and thick walls of a bank’s safe. No, the cutting-edge security of a billionaire’s treasure vault.
She took in a breath, curiosity warring with her conscience. This job would be easier if she didn’t have to pretend to admire questionable aspects of his enormous wealth.
“Lights.” At his deep-voiced command, recessed lights cast a dim glow on the display cases.
She gasped. Nothing could have prepared her for this.
“Do you like them?”
She hesitated. The part of her devoted to pleasing him for the money tried to bite her tongue, but the sight of the pinned wings made tears sting her eyes. “I’d like them better free and alive.” Iridescent butterflies in myriad colors and patterns shined in display cases.
“Tender Rose. What a treasure you are. They have brief lives. I assure you, they felt no pain.”
She averted her eyes, not believing him. That was an overused and convenient excuse, the lie that other creatures didn’t feel as we did. Her estimation of him slid further into the mud. If we didn’t respect other life, that made us cruel. Of course, he embraced cruelty. Good thing she wasn’t wearing eye makeup. Her eyes kept watering. She shook out her hair, hiding her expression.
“Come.” He led her through the glowing, temperature-controlled gallery, his eyes glowing with pride of possession.
She pretended an interest in his prized moths with their exquisite jewel tones and the actual, no doubt priceless gems displayed between species. Rubies, emeralds, sapphires, star sapphires, diamonds, spiders in amber.
A scorpion in amber made her stop and lean close to it. It was the largest inclusion she’d seen. Its tail curled upward, ready to sting, trapped for all time.
The next vault featured antiquities displayed in special cases at eye level with museum-quality soft lighting to keep from harming the pigments. Etruscan pottery, Mayan statues, jade masks, Egyptian collars and sculptures of pharaohs and gods.
A goddess with ruby eyes captivated her.
A clay shaman transforming into a jaguar from a crouching position matched one she saw in a Maya Riviera museum on a rare vacation with her parents. The details of the transfiguration felt so closely observed, she imagined the sculptor watching the jaguar emerge to stalk the night.
Tiny wooden figures from Egyptian tombs enthralled her. Sailors rowing ships and other miniature scenes of daily life, all painted in wonderful details with tiny props to capture each setting.
Artists capture. Did that make Damon an artist, for capturing her?
One day, she’d capture him.
The selfishness of such cultural treasures shut away here for one wealthy man—appalling. She made appreciative murmurs and circled the case, examining the tiny figures from all angles. It was a key difference between them, that she felt charmed by ordinary life, while he needed to capture and hoard rare and expensive things.
With each step deeper into his vaults, she congratulated herself for keeping her mouth shut.
Sensing she’d been silent too long, she realized he probably expected praise for this display.
“You have a remarkable collection. Thank you for showing it to me.”
“You don’t approve.”
It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t answer. He seemed to like that she wasn’t a push-over, but she wasn’t going to risk offending him.
“We have different priorities,” she said in a mild tone.
He laughed. “Nikki brings the children every week for lessons. We have at least two budding archaeologists, three entomologists, and I suspect young Bartholomew may grow up to become a gifted designer of jewelery.” He glanced down at her. “I’m not quite the evil dragon stockpiling treasure that you imagine. I loa
n out many items for public exhibits—on the mainland, as well as internationally.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” It hadn’t occurred to her he was capable of sharing.
His warmth when speaking of the children surprised her and thawed her disapproval. She imagined a young designer studying ancient gems to inspire his life’s work and chuckled with pure pleasure.
“All of it goes to the museum on the mainland when I die. Unless—.” He cut off the thought and forged ahead, walking past an unusual sarcophagus and heading toward the distant exit. They’d gone farther beneath the villa than she realized. The coffin before her seemed to rest on the raw stone of the mountain itself, encased by glass. She drew in a breath and leaned close to the case. The symbols on the body-shaped case were unlike anything she’d seen before.
“Who is it?” She breathed.
In spite of his haste, he heard her and turned. “A princess, of course. Her coffin remains sealed. I’m not a grave robber—not the way you think.”
“Stop telling me what I think.” The words burst out before she could stop them.
His throaty chuckle helped her follow him through the dim vault full of small statues from local ancient cultures.
Bloody demon.
“Where’s mine?” she asked as she drew even with him in the first vault, the one with his moth collection.
“Your what?” He raised a single brow, as composed and devastatingly handsome as ever.
“My display case.” She held his eyes for a beat and walked ahead through the exit.
When he caught up, he ordered the vault to close and scanned her from head to toe.
“I hadn’t thought about putting you in there. Thank you for your suggestion.” He laughed, no doubt pleased to unsettle her.
She needed to be more careful what she said to this man.
“That won’t be necessary,” she replied to his back.
“Get your beauty sleep. The boat comes in early tomorrow. You’ll want to be up at dawn to assess the prospects for escape.” He said it in a deep rumble that matched his chuckle, as though it were a joke.
Damon headed up the stairs without waiting for her.
“Thank you,” she said to his broad back, suppressing the urge to give the words a sarcastic twist. You bastard.
The damnable thing was she didn’t want to escape. She’d come here willingly. The lack of Internet was an hourly hardship, but in the morning, she’d have something useful to do. She wanted to meet the schoolteacher, and she looked forward to helping in the village.
Let Damon consider her predictable and a liar who’d try to escape. Maybe the million bucks at stake didn’t mean much to him, but it meant everything to her. If she had to remind herself about her forthcoming fortune all day, every day, to keep up this act, so be it.
Of course, it wouldn’t hurt to assess the boat, in case of emergency.
A display of colorful local textiles and embroidery drew her into a vestibule between the vault and the stairs. The lovingly crafted pieces with their plants, animals, and simple symbols didn’t fit the pattern of captured rarity and wealth, unless they were something she didn’t understand. Certain people thought it was chic to rip off indigenous artists and mass produce their designs for profit.
Here, instead, she got an impression of appreciation, and perhaps a desire to preserve and value the crafts of the residents. She sighed, and resisted the temptation to touch the pristine white dresses and the rainbow of shawls. She drew close and examined the careful stitching in the embroidery. It represented hours of work, and kept alive designs passed down through generations.
The man must thrive on being an enigma. She couldn’t help smiling, thinking of the children seeing the fine embroidery and weaving on display here. True treasures. Most heartwarming of all, a collection of portraits graced the back wall: women sewing and embroidering, creators of flowers and symbols continuous in this land for uncounted generations.
She stopped before the photo of an elderly woman at her loom. Around her, younger women and a little girl held up traditional dresses with flowered bodices. Their faces glowed with love and pride. Her eyes watered. Women’s work, eyes and hands adept at making beauty, even at bare subsistence.
Damon saw it, he must see it, to have this display here. Did she want to find something good in him no matter what, or was he actually deeper than she imagined? He didn’t make it easy to get to know him.
She hurried up the stairs with as much composure as she could fake. Her heart trip-hammered.
With each passing day, her faint belief in any way to escape Damon grew more dim. Not escape in the physical sense, no, the cage she clawed at held her deep inside and scared her to her core.
His ultimate trap: his power to own her truly, to make her want to be his. If she surrendered, she’d no longer be Mandy, not even in her most private thoughts. She’d be Rose forever. She’d be gone.
Squeezing her fists at her sides, she forced herself to relax them. No frowning, no broadcasting emotion.
She was a doll now.
Despite the vision of being encased in glass in his vault casting a shadow through her, she remained mindful of cameras. None were visible, but she was sure they were there. Her expression remained calm, lips curved in a faint, sensual smile. Mona Lisa of Damon’s private island. Perfect. ‘Touch me, no, don’t.’ This face is yours, for any fantasy, Master. She pursed her lips in the suggestion of a kiss.
Perhaps in the morning she’d get an opportunity to do some digging. Asking questions in the village would be natural. She might observe the man himself when he was unaware she was watching.
Turn about. Only fair—he acquired a great deal of information about her without being direct about it. Possibly even by mind reading. She put nothing past that devil man.
Chuckling, she ascended from the underworld.
In the upper hall, there was no sign of Damon. For now, she’d be obedient and get her beauty sleep. She liked the idea of rising ahead of him in the morning. The more she learned about her mysterious host, the better.
She wasn’t sure what kind of game was afoot, but she needed to win.
Jungle
After she brushed her hair to a high gloss, she went on the hunt for her host.
Her quarry stood at the shelves in the library, wearing unexpected yet handsome reading glasses. He ran a finger along the spines of antique leather-bound books.
She spied what appeared to be ship captain’s logs, and her fingers itched to get a hold of them.
His head rose and he made the glasses disappear after eying her over the thin tortoiseshell rims.
“Good afternoon, Rose. I hope you’re enjoying your day.”
She marched up to him, bracing to hold her ground. “As you offered yesterday, I’d like to look around the island more.” She waved a hand. “Out past the grounds.”
“That’s fine.”
“It is?” She teetered, off-guard at his easy assent. She’d expected him to pull the invitation out from under her as a mind game.
“You’re not a prisoner. You can go explore the island any time you want. You’ll find hiking boots, long pants and shirts in the closet in your size. Wear the long sleeves and pants despite the heat, for sun protection and to keep off the insects. The hiking boots protect against snakes.”
“There are snakes?”
“Yes, Rose. Watch out for them, a few are dangerous. I have anti-venom, and the clinic in the village does, too. Here.” He pulled a small paperback book from a shelf and handed it to her. “It’s a good guide to the local flora and fauna. Most wildlife won’t bother you. Stick to the beaten paths, please. Take water with you. There are plenty of bottles in the kitchen. We use refillable ones, doing our part to keep paradise in balance. It’s easy to get dehydrated out there. No air conditioning outdoors.” He grinned.
“Thanks for the tips.” If he meant to discourage her from exploring, he came close to succeeding, but she wanted to get the lay of the
land. More than that, she wanted to learn what he was doing. The man was up to something. Too much about this situation didn’t make sense.
Within minutes she was dressed and walking the path to the thatched buildings in the jungle. She was grateful the path was well-cleared, it made it easy to watch for snakes. Thanks to getting an early start, the heat wasn’t unbearable.
Within minutes, she reached the first of the thatched hunts and the sounds of blades hacking at the fast-growing jungle.
Everyone she passed gave her a friendly greeting and she replied with a smile.
No one was staring at her.
This was a different world. The ordinariness of the village gave her perspective. No one cared what she wore, how she sounded, or about her posture. The pressure to be perfect lifted and she breathed easier than she ever did in the villa.
The simplicity of the place soothed her.
The jungle barely made way for the village, and several men were at work keeping the vines and undergrowth back with machetes. The narrow road through the center was free of cars. Everyone walked or bicycled. A few bicycles equipped with carts hauled goods. People went about their chores, making clothing and food, repairing fishing nets, children part of everything.
It was humbling that her looks didn’t matter. She’d been so absorbed in her fears about the transformations, and then impressed with the results. Here, all that self-consciousness seemed ridiculous.
She didn’t encounter a single woman wearing makeup. There were children to tend, meals to make, clothes to wash.
The clinic stood near the church at the village’s heart. She paid attention to its location, in case she got bit by a snake or encountered someone else in need of medical care. The small church’s cross served as the highest point in the place.
The clinic was a hut, larger than most of the others. She peeked inside. It looked clean and well-stocked. A large, locked cabinet and a refrigerator appeared to be prized improvements. Maybe when she got to know people, she could volunteer.
A familiar voice startled her.
“Here, take this.” It was Damon, out of sight, but nearby.