Darkroom Saga Omnibus 1

by Poppet

  Turning to face him, his smile is seductively mysterious. “Then I should scare you more often. I'm not a fan of anyone holding onto hell.”

  “Don't freak me out. I was just thinking about Vengeance.”

  “And there I was deluding myself that you were thinking about me.”

  I'm stuck between his arms and the black counter behind me. Closing the distance he whispers deeply, “I think this is my favourite song.” A soft kiss touches my neck before he pulls away and turns to the opposite counter top. “I only recently discovered that band. Their lyrics are subliminally perfect.”

  “Vengeance must love this song. That's what I was thinking about.”

  He pauses as he lifts the lid on the prepared vegetables, “Are you saying I'm like Vengeance?”

  Uncomfortable, I become aware that I probably just insulted him. “No! God no! Sorry I didn't mean it like that. I'm a fan of the song myself.”

  “It's okay. I don't mind sharing his taste in music and women.”

  “Only you can get me to smile with a sentence including him.”

  “So where's the coffee?”

  Grinning, I slip off the stool, put the microwave on high for thirty seconds, and turn to him, appreciating long legs hooked at the ankle in relaxed ease, “Coming right up.”

  “Oh I like it when you talk dirty to me.”

  I laugh again. Smiling broadly at the most yummilicious man I've had near me for years. “I'll wear just an apron and say it again if it'll keep you this charming.”

  The agility and speed that he moves at still surprises me. I'm caught by his strength again as he directs my face to stare up into his, like worshipping Sol. I wish I could read his eyes. They are so enigmatic. He seems happy and congenial, but like quicksand I feel stuck inside the vortex of his mahogany eyes.

  Take me to the angel's mind.” He stares deeply into my eyes, lips pursed slightly, highlighting the fullness of his bottom lip and the shy dimple in his chin. “Shauna, this song is your song. You hide it well, but you do have an angel's mind, holding all of your dreams to death. They kept your spirit alive. You never saw him. He kept you oblivious. And you endured the tragedy. Shakespeare made his fortune and legacy on tragedies. I look into your eyes and want to lose myself in them to excavate what they hide.”

  Oddly anxious, I'm shaken. “Victor, you are far too perceptive.”

  “Coffee. Now. Or suffer my wrath.”

  He's teasing I know, it's almost like he's testing me with his choice of words. Turning I open the door to the black microwave and hand him a glass mug of frothy Kahlua coffee. He takes it, kissing me again, before retreating back to the other counter, leaning against it and sipping slowly. I wait with eager anticipation.

  “Okay. I'll keep you.”

  Quizzically I smile.

  “Excellent coffee. Excellent ass. Excellent shape. Excellent voice. And excellent lips. Definitely a keeper.”

  Relieved, I take my own out of the microwave, walking over to clink it against his softly, “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.”

  “Victor …”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “For being there. You've been an unwavering haven in this storm for me.”

  “Keep making me coffee and seducing me, and I'll say it's my pleasure.” The wink reveals the jest.

  I observe as he makes dinner. Impressed with his ability in every department of life. Men like this don't exist. I've had bad luck for so long that I'm hesitant to take this at face value. He must have a flaw. He must.

  He made the perfect meal. Tender beef, slow roasted vegetables, everything is luxurious and immaculate. The wine is obviously expensive. I've read a lot about the Cape wine estates. They hug Table Mountain on one side, and stretch all the way throughout the region past Stellenbosch and deeper. The wines here are renown. Yet I'm staring at the wine bottle, which is surprisingly dust free, the cork was heavily stained, and see it's ten years old.

  He obviously masters everything he puts his mind to. Cuisine, photography, his own body even. Bugger that, he mastered my body too. Feeling lethargically warm with the wine and meal, it dawns on me that I'm thoroughly smitten. I'm deeply attracted to him. His melting chocolate eyes observe mine and I feel the temptation to be intimate beckon.

  A hand covers mine possessively. It reaches up and tucks my long hair behind my ear. “If you turn that horseshoe earring of yours upside down, you'll have an omega sign.” He pushes up the short sleeve on his t-shirt, revealing his tattoo, “And we'll match.”

  I didn't tell him about the earrings. And I don't have the heart to reveal the truth now. Choosing to smile instead. “Then turn it so we can match.” It's mildly painful as he turns it around.

  Then a firm hand pats my thigh under the table, “I cooked, you pack the dishwasher.”

  At times I think he's OCD. His desire to be neat obviously doesn't let him relax. I don't mind pulling my weight, and I suppose it's better to get the dishes washing so that we can go and test out my new bed, which I'm desperate to see.

  Despite the commanding way he asked, I find myself smiling affectionately at him as I stand. Leaning down to kiss him. “Thank you for an amazing dinner.”

  Taking the dishes to the sink, I rinse them and place them on the counter above the dishwasher. The shadow that falls over me distracts my focus and I turn just in time for his hands to hold my hips tightly against him. Looking up, he has a naughty half smile, his eyes dark with secret intention. My pulse triples as he walks me back until I'm flat against the granite tiles.

  He leans a hand against the wall, while his hips imprison mine. The other hand traces my face and settles on my neck. It's a simple act of touch, yet it's deeply erotic. It is one move that few men employ, and one which makes me randier than brandy. I can feel every blood vessel rushing to respond. Aching to rub naked nipples across his chest. But with Victor, I get the distinct sense he's a little old fashioned. He likes making the moves and leading. And so far I'm blissfully delighted to let him lead, because it's been a delicious ride. Experience does pay off.

  I've yet to find out how old he is, and I know it wouldn't make any difference to how I view him. He turns my entire body into a vibration of pleasure notes. Even his deep baritone sings to my soul. Reading his expression I know he's hiding a heat seeking missile, and I'm the target. As he dips his head to taste my lips, I slip eager hands under his shirt to feel the heat bathing his skin. Lordy he feels magnificent. When his other hand covers my breast, I can literally feel the wine and his intoxication drenching heat inside me to resonate longingly inside lace.

  •

  Victor:

  In this stage I must still test the boundaries of her commitment to my absolute authority.

  Walking her backward until she's hard up against the wall, I hold her against it with one hand on her neck. She doesn't even lift a hand. She stays there, staring up at me with lusty eyes. Trusting, seductive eyes. Keeping my hand on the fragile neck, I kiss her, testing responsiveness with her life obviously under my command. She is completely subservient, slipping her hands under my shirt, fingertips tracing my stomach. Whenever she passes a test, the dominance is like a hydraulic infusion into my libido.

  Running my left hand over the swell of her curvaceous breast, the hard nipple sets my own pulse skipping. Perfect response. Cutting her quivering breath short I instruct softly, “Shouldn't you be packing the dishwasher?”

  I almost laugh at her expression.

  “Oh. Right. Yes.”

  I pat her pert bottom as she walks around me back to the counter. She doesn't object. She simply bends her perfect body to pack the dishwasher. Placing plates into it. Stealthily I approach. Pushing one hand below her shoulder blades to keep her bent at a right angle. She pauses, unresisting. Halting her task, I slide the pink skirt up. This is why God commanded women wear skirts. I own you. Deliberately I cover her head with her own flowing skirt.

&
nbsp; “Brace yourself.”

  Obediently she places both hands on the counter. This ability to command gives me a head rush. In one swift movement I remove the pink lace to expose her core, revealed in vulnerability to my devouring eyes. This view is exquisite.

  Using my right foot I nudge hers out of the pink restraint, widening my view with the separation of her legs. Slowly I unzip, waiting for her to move, to speak, to object. But like a good little angel she stays waiting patiently for her maker to take her.

  I know I should probably give her body a chance to recover, but a part of me enjoys this. I take pleasure in this domination. It's still a form of punishment even though it's simply a test. A test she's passing. Submitting without resistance to my strength and domination. I find it headily intoxicating staring down. My thumbs framing the tattoo between her hips. My wings, my V, my purified dirty angel. Craving my camera to capture this moment. This angle. This view.

  Teasing, I trace her entry with my own. Look at her, prostrate before her lord. Utter trust. When once she feared me and tried to flee, now she runs to me. Opens her body and lets me penetrate her depths. I know this should include pleasure, but I'm feeling selfish. Running over her entry again and again until she literally leans back toward me, silent pleading, beckoning. Her face covered by the skirt.

  Yes, hide your shame. You should be ashamed. How eager you are for my body. Let the test become your lesson in humility. The malicious god hidden inside me stretches the wings wide with harsh hands, entering fast. The wince from her pin cushion lips caresses me harder. Almost painfully rigid. My hands command.

  I own this body.

  I own this soul.

  I own this life.

  ~ Chapter 22 ~

  A photographer must be prepared to catch and hold on to those elements which give distinction to the subject or lend it atmosphere.

  ~Bill Brandt

  Victor:

  Finally alone in the darkroom, I watch as she slowly lowers herself into bath water. The grimace of agony is an expression I have sorely missed on that angelic face.

  Such a good woman. She hides her pain from me. Letting me engage in pleasure without complaint, yet here, alone, it's obvious that despite my doubts, caused by her eagerness, I did in fact hurt her. She's in pain, that much is clear. Her development from negative to photo is pleasing. My angel puts a brave face on for me. She gives, and pleasures, and teases, putting me first, before herself.

  The thought pumps energy into my rod. Liberation is what this is. I have her trust, and it's a delicious secret to know she likes pain. She likes it. Or she would have complained. She knows I'm the one. She's doing anything she can to keep me.

  Absently stroking the command in my hand, I watch the creases furrow her brow. Secret knowledge circulating a scared dance through my body. What a good girl. She's now shaving everywhere. My order becomes her ritual. When she puts her hand between her legs, closing her eyes, breathing as if trying to numb the pain with pressure, my satisfaction becomes smug. I love that I had the presence of mind to install audio feed too. Her gasping, the wincing expletive, plaintive, precious …

  Considering this information, I observe her bending, one leg carefully balanced on the bath ledge. Her slick body prone to the camera. Now the mere image creates a flood of memory. She's entirely mine. Inside, outside, before and after. My rebellious freedom tempts me, grunting aloud with the fluid that purges from my body. Yes that's it. She's helping me purge my own past now. Helping me ready myself for our future, together.

  Pain … delicious, never ending pain. The darkroom of our future is now possible. She is a saucy minx. Hiding that pain. Ignorant of how much I relish it. Closing my eyes, I relive the heat of her, the sensation of tongue, breath, perfume, hair, lips; her perfect body framed with my hands, guiding, taking, kissing the rod in slow movements of her hips.

  Tomorrow I will take her to the warehouse. The ruse is self-defence. I will teach her to defend herself, against Vengeance. But instead I can punch her, splitting those perfect lips so that I can watch the pain on her face when I make her kneel before me, stretching them wide when swollen, tender, bloody. I can show her the full extent of my force, and she'll allow it, thinking it an accident.

  The thought of being able to hurt her, with her fully conscious and aware of it, filters exhilaration and anticipation through me. Lucid suffering, letting me take, making me hard, conscious acceptance of my wrath. Distracted I watch her climb naked between silk sheets. She doesn't see it. White silk, she has yet to realise I am Vengeance. Dangling obvious clues in front of her, all she sees is me. Accepting everything, the bed, the gown, the silk, the dominance, the hints at dinner about me sharing Vengeance's tastes, none of it filters through to her conscious mind.

  At least I know now that she has a dentist appointment this week. Giving me the opportunity to replace her contraception, and install a new lens feed into her lounge. I love how she's blinded by her Nightingale syndrome. Victims often fall in love with their rescuers. I used my knowledge of human psychology on her, and it worked. All she has, to give me in return, is herself, and she's making the most of that. Her responses to me are surprising.

  I thought she'd not respond to my hand on her neck the way she did. An eager victim. I did not anticipate that. She was so hard to break in captivity. Staying mentally resilient much longer than I predicted.

  Tomorrow angel, you will suffer by my hand, and thank me.

  Stroking the screen as she turns sleepy happy eyes at the camera to turn off the lamp.

  “Goodnight angel. I love you. Tomorrow you will cry. I can't wait to show you the depth of my compassion.”

  •

  Shauna:

  I'm conflicted. I'm partly excited and just as nervous at going to Vic's gym with him. I want to get in shape and feel encouraged that he wants to arm me with self-defence manoeuvres so that I don't have to live in constant fear of Vengeance showing up again. I'd love to be able to shove his own teeth down his throat and give him a bloody mouth for a change.

  Confounded, I stare in disbelief at an old dingy warehouse in the middle of nowhere. “Is this it?” There are no signs saying it's a gym.

  “Just wait until you see inside.”

  Anxiety sends tenterhooks into my stomach lining as I follow behind him when he opens the creaking iron door. Yanking me by the hand, he hoists me into the darkness, slamming the door with a clang of finality, plunging us into absolute black.

  Claustrophobia rises, my head's pounding, my mouth instantly dry while my stomach heaves into my chest. I'm now petrified of the dark. Bad bad things happen when I can't see.

  “Victor!” The screeching pitch of my voice alarms me.

  His hand finds mine, squeezing, “I'm right here.” A snap starts a series of popping noises as bulbs flicker on in sturdy aluminium brackets overhead. Forcing my heart to recede its frantic thrashing, I hold tightly to him for support.

  “You're pale.”

  Glancing up at him after surveying the huge space filled with equipment, I realise my feet feel unsteady because we're standing on sparring mats. “I just...”

  “The dark?”

  I affirm with a nod. Still holding his hand, vertigo grips me as I fall backwards.

  “Always be prepared for an attack. That was too easy, Shauna.”

  “What did you do?”

  “A simple foot-sweep, and you didn't even see it coming.”

  Disgruntled, I allow him to haul me back to my feet, intense distress forcing my body into quaking anxiety. I thought this was going to be a gentle first lesson. Not having me being attacked by him the minute we get in the door. My eyes drink in the equipment, treadmills, cycling bikes, boxing torsos, bags and balls, a ring, and multitudes of weight machines.

  “Take that skirt off. It's only going to hinder your movement.”

  “Why?”

  “You'll see.”

  Without realising my own gullibility, I slip the powder blue skirt off. Stand
ing with him, in my t-shirt and undies. He's so agile, moving across from retrieving boxing gloves off a hook like a panther walking nimbly over hunting terrain.

  He puts my hands into the gloves, lacing them up before putting padding on his own knuckles. His are easy to slip on and off. I feel handcuffed wearing gloves. You can't grasp anything. At least he can still use his hands.

  “Look at my body, and think of me as a rapist. Hit me as if your life depends on it. Think about aim, location, and speed. Try and surprise me.”

  I feel stupid. Bouncing the way I've seen boxers on TV do it, I think about the little I've learned from movies. I should go for the head. Pretending I'm going to go for his ribs, I glance a lunge up to his chin with the padded fist.

  Faster than I can register, he deflects the fist, catches my wrist, twists my arm behind my back and forcibly launches me into the mat, compressing the air out of me. My solar plexus hurts. Fuck!

  “Try that again. I'm going to rape you. How do you a stop a man my size who wants to rape you? Mean it baby. Come at me with everything you have, your life depends on it.”

  Grunting I sit up, glaring at him. Forcing my trembling arms to push myself back up. “I thought you were going to teach me?”

  “I am.”

  The punch against my jaw catches me off guard, falling, I land heavily, winding myself again. My teeth clacked hard, it was bloody sore. This time he keeps a knee in my back, yanking down my underwear. Then he withdraws, waiting for me to get up. I don't want to, this isn't any fun at all.

  “Be frantic. Do whatever you can to stop the next attack.”

  You fucking asked for it, asshole!

  Awkwardly pulling my underwear back up, I get onto my knees and carefully stand, keeping my distance this time. He's too tall, his legs are too long, his reach is too far, I don't stand a chance. He can clap his hands, and he does, plunging us back into impenetrable ink black.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “He kept you in the dark, we fight in the dark. This will sharpen your senses, I'm helping you.”