Dark Obsessions - Volume I: Four Intense Capture Fantasies in One Sizzling Collection

by Claire Thompson

  “Yeah, okay. We’ll do the bondage shots later, once she’s got a little training under her belt.” He smacked his lips and ran the tip of his tongue over them while he raked Julianna with an insolent, hungry stare. Bondage shots. Julianna felt ice trickling through her veins.

  Stephen moved closer to her, scanning a clipboard he held in his hand. “You’re twenty-three, originally from Mahwah, New Jersey. Your mother is dead, father unknown. You currently reside in Queens, New York, and work as a hairstylist in Manhattan at an establishment called Sophie’s Salon. You have no criminal record. You stand five-foot, four inches tall and weigh 110 pounds. You’ve never had a broken bone and you have all your teeth. Your vision is twenty-twenty and you’ve been sexually active since the age of eighteen. No STDs.”

  Julianna, eyes wide with shock, whispered, “How do you know all that?”

  “We do our homework. Or rather, our operatives in the field do. I’m telling you all this because I want you to understand this wasn’t a random abduction. You were carefully selected, once you were initially identified as someone with potential.”

  “Colin Harris,” Julianna murmured. The whole thing had been one big sham—the business card, the receptionist answering at the other end, who just happened to know someone local who was eager to meet and clinch the deal with her lies. Too good to be true…

  “Is that what he called himself this time?” Jason interjected, grinning beneath the drooping mustache.

  Julianna felt lightheaded. Her ears were ringing and a gripping nausea moved through her empty stomach. Stephen approached her and took her arm, leading her to a sofa, where she collapsed against the deep cushions. “This is a nightmare,” she moaned. “This can’t be happening. Why are you doing this? Please, please let me go. I want to go home.” Dropping her head into her hands, Julianna burst into tears.

  Stephen sat on a chair catty-corner to the sofa and put his hand on Julianna’s knee. “Julianna,” he said, his voice soft but steely. “Stop crying and look at me. Now.” Julianna looked up slowly from her hands, sniffling. “I’m going to tell you just exactly how things stand. The sooner you accept the situation, the better it will be for you. The fact is, you are never going back. You have basically ceased to exist. At least, Julianna Beckett has ceased to exist.

  “From this moment forward you are nothing more than property. Any man on this island has full rights to your body, as long as they don’t harm or impregnate you. Resisting anyone is grounds for severe punishment, do I make myself clear?”

  Julianna stared at Stephen, her mouth hanging open. She felt as if all the breath had been smashed out of her lungs. He continued calmly. “As of this point, until you are placed with a Master, you have no name. While you are here on the island, you have been assigned a number. You are number thirty-eight, and like the thirty-seven who have come before you, you will learn what it is to obey. You will be broken down—all trace of ego and self-will will be summarily and ruthlessly excised from your makeup. You will learn submission in its every dimension.

  “We will teach you to become sexualized. The goal is to intertwine torture and sexual pleasure so thoroughly in your psyche that you’ll climax as easily from the cane as the cock. You will be trained to serve a man on every possible level. Once you are deemed worthy, you will be sold. If we’ve done our job properly, you will no longer regard this as a fate worse than death, but as an honor and a privilege to serve and submit.”

  Julianna stared at the man in speechless horror, too stunned to continue crying. It was impossible to believe what she was hearing. Sanctioned rape, torture, sexual slavery. Submission, punishment, breaking her down in mind and body. He was outlining a living hell more terrifying than anything she could have imagined, speaking in that deep, calm voice as if this were all perfectly normal. Helplessly, Julianna looked from him to Jason, who simply nodded.

  Stephen leaned close to her, his chilly gray eyes boring into hers. “Who are you?”

  Julianna didn’t answer. Stephen stood and, before Julianna could react, slapped her hard across the face and then jerked her by her hair from the couch to her knees. Tears blinded her eyes and her hands moved automatically to touch the spot where he’d struck her.

  Julianna looked up, her hand still cradling her cheek. Stephen looked down at her, a grim smile on his face, his eyes hard. “You will always answer a direct question. You are number thirty-eight. I’m going to give you some time to think about your response. When I ask you again, make sure you answer properly.”

  He turned to Vince and Jay. “Take number thirty-eight to solitary confinement.”

  Chapter 3

  Julianna lay on a narrow army cot. She was in a one-room hut with a low ceiling and no windows. The walls were made from bamboo poles lashed together with rope. The crude door was locked from the outside by means of a wooden two-by-four wedged into place across it. The ceiling was made of tin, held up with rough wooden beams. In a corner where the wall met the roof she saw the black dome, like a lidless eye gazing at her. What light there was came through the chinks between the bamboo poles. Aside from the cot, the only other thing in the small enclosure were two large plastic buckets, one with water in it that appeared reasonably fresh, the other she assumed was for waste. The air was hot and close, and the smell of feces, sweat and fear saturated the place.

  Jay and Vince had taken her from the building and loaded her onto an all terrain vehicle, wedged between the two of them. She’d been driven to the far side of the island where the lone hut stood, set against the backdrop of a sapphire sea.

  After shoving her inside, they left without a word. She sat still on the cot for a long time, staring at nothing as hot tears rolled steadily down her cheeks. Eventually she made herself stop. Crying wasn’t going to get her out of there. She had to come up with a plan.

  Moving to the bucket, she washed her face, using the hem of her dress to dry her skin, and leaving a smear of makeup on the material. Cupping her hands, she brought some water to her lips and drank. It was warm and had a faintly salty taste, but seemed fresh enough. If only she had something to eat to go with it! Her stomach was a tight ball, having moved past hunger into a dull ache.

  “I have to get out of here,” she whispered. She began to pace restlessly around the small, hot space, peering through various chinks in the bamboo to see what she could see outside. With a surreptitious glance at the camera overhead, she slipped her fingers beneath one of the stout ropes that secured the poles, wondering if somehow she could find a way to undo it. The rope was knotted tightly, its texture rough against her fingers. Using her body to shield what she was doing, she tried to loosen a knot, but met with no success.

  Exhausted, she lay down. The cot, while less than satisfactory, was better than the dirt hole she’d spent the previous night in. She closed her eyes and actually managed to fall into an uneasy doze.

  She came wide awake at the sound of heavy footsteps clomping up the path. Her heart gave a jump and then settled to a fast, hard beat. She sat bolt upright and swung her legs over the cot, her eyes sweeping the small space as she wished there was somewhere to hide. She heard the sound of the wooden latch being lifted and sucked in a sharp breath of fear. She was sweating, her heart thumping in her ears.

  She stood, tense, wiping her sweating palms on her dress as the door swung outward. Stephen stepped inside, a bowl in his hand. She stayed in the corner, wondering if he was alone, wondering if she could somehow overpower him. As a woman living alone in the city, she knew how to defend herself. She had taken several courses in self-defense over the past couple of years since she’d first started working in Manhattan.

  Who was she kidding? She hadn’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours and she’d barely slept. Still, if she could take him unaware…

  Any hope evaporated as she saw two men dressed in black cargo pants and tank tops, heavy boots on their feet, standing at the entrance. They held large, scary looking whips with lots of thick leather strips, as well
as handcuffs and lengths of chain.

  As if they weren’t even there, Stephen asked, “Are you hungry?” He held out the bowl, which contained what looked like rice and black beans with bits of sausage. The dull ache in her belly transformed into sharp hunger pangs at the sight of the food.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Who are you?”

  Julianna stiffened and thrust out her chin. “My name is Julianna. Julianna Beckett.”

  Stephen shook his head. “Stupid girl. You are number thirty-eight.” He stepped into the room. Julianna shrank against the back wall. He held out the bowl of food. Julianna reached for it and he pulled it away. “What is your number?”

  Julianna desperately wanted that bowl of food. It smelled heavenly. Her mouth began to water and she had to swallow to keep from choking on her own saliva. “My number…” she began, but she couldn’t say it. She wouldn’t say it. Goddamn it, she wasn’t a fucking number! “My name is Julianna Beckett,” she said doggedly.

  Stephen shook his head and frowned. He turned toward the men still standing just outside the door. “Beat her.”

  He pushed his way between the guards, taking the food with him. Julianna cursed herself—why hadn’t she been able to say it? Just to get the food? “Wait! I’m number thirty-eight!” she shouted, but Stephen disappeared from view.

  The two men moved into the hut. She forgot about the food and the philosophical debate over names and numbers when they advanced upon her. Neither said a word as they grabbed her arms and wrenched them over her head, securing a pair of steel cuffs around her wrists in the process, which they attached to a chain they looped through one of the ropes that formed part of the bamboo walls.

  In the space of a few seconds Julianna was bound at the wrists, her body pressed against the wall, her back to the men. One of them grabbed and ripped the dress from her back, easily tearing the flimsy fabric.

  “No, please! Please don’t hurt me. Please! Oh god, don’t hurt me!” Julianna begged, her voice rising in a yelp of fear. They ignored her, their faces impassive when she twisted back toward them to beg.

  The leather landed hard on her back, ass and thighs in vicious, stinging blows. Julianna screamed and jerked in her restraints, but the men were relentless, whipping her steadily and thoroughly until Julianna finally sagged in her chains, crying as much from fear as pain as they continued to cover her skin from calf to shoulder with the stinging leather.

  As abruptly as they’d started, they stopped. One of the men reached for the cuffs, which he unlocked with a small key and pulled from her now-chafed and aching wrists. She slumped to the floor, curling in a ball and hiding her head, afraid they would start again if she moved.

  Mercifully, they turned and left. After a moment she heard the sound of the wooden latch falling into place. She stayed where she was for a long while, rocking back and forth on the rough planks that made up the floor of the hut. Eventually she stood, moving stiffly toward the cot. The skin on her back and ass felt flayed and tender. She lay down carefully on her stomach and cradled her head in her arms.

  It was so hot now that she could actually feel the heat radiating down from the tin roof. Sweat rolled from her body, soaking the canvas cot. She drifted in and out of consciousness, her mind blank, save for the terror that knocked and clamored at its edges. After a while she dragged herself from the cot and drank from the water bucket. She splashed a little over her face, afraid to use too much.

  Time inched forward as she lay again on the cot, pinned down by the heat, exhaustion and fear. Hours passed, days passed, years passed—at least so it seemed. She was alone. She would be left there to starve, never found, barely missed. She drifted in and out of restless sleep, waking each time with a jolt from murky, terrifying nightmares that were no worse than the nightmare of this reality in which she found herself.

  The hut began to darken as the sun went down. The air cooled quickly and Julianna found herself shivering as the sweat evaporated on her body. She began to whisper the same words over and over as she hugged herself and rocked in a vain effort to soothe herself.

  “Mama. Where are you, Mama? Come get me please. I want to go home.”

  ~*~

  Julianna awoke suddenly to the sound of the ATV approaching. She could hear footsteps coming closer and she tensed, drawing herself into a tight ball on the cot as if that would somehow protect her. She heard the latch being lifted from the door and it was pulled open. It was daylight, and she squinted against the bright sun that entered the hut through the open door, along with Stephen and his henchmen.

  She saw Stephen was carrying a glass bowl again, this time filled with fresh cut pineapple, bananas, plump green grapes and glistening bits of orange mango. The fragrant aroma of the fruit nearly knocked her over and she gasped as she stared at the bowl, swallowing to keep from choking.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  Stephen set the bowl on the floor in the center of the hut. “Get on the floor,” he said brusquely. “Kneel with your head on the ground, ass in the air.” He waited a beat and then barked, “Move!”

  Julianna rolled from the cot and crouched on the hard floor, glad at least the position allowed her to hide most of her naked body. She touched her forehead to the rough wood, aware she was shaking but unable to stop.

  Stephen moved right in front of her, the toe of one huarache sandal pressing under her bowed head. She didn’t move. She wanted that fruit. Oh god, she wanted that fruit.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  She swallowed. What did it matter? They were only words. A means to an end. “Number thirty-eight,” she mumbled into the floor.

  “Speak up. I can’t hear you.” The sandal wedged harder beneath her forehead.

  “Number thirty-eight,” she said louder, at once hating and forgiving herself.

  Stephen chuckled softly above her. “That’s right. That’s who you are.” The foot moved back. “Would you like some fruit, number thirty-eight?”

  “Yes, please,” she whispered, nearly faint with longing. The banana and pineapple smelled heavenly. She could almost taste the sweet tang of mango on her tongue.

  “Stand up.”

  Julianna struggled to her feet. She moved too fast, and the dizziness that assailed her made her list and nearly fall, but she managed to right herself. Her eyes slid to the bowl on the floor.

  Stephen continued. “When you are given permission to stand, you will assume an at-attention position, legs shoulder-width apart, back straight, fingers locked behind your head, understood?”

  Julianna hesitated, her eyes moving over the two men behind Stephen, her gaze catching on the long, thin sticks they held in their hands. Slowly she lifted her arms, locking her fingers behind her head as instructed, keenly aware of her nakedness in front of the three men.

  Stephen approached her and reached out. Julianna flinched and shrank back. “At attention!” he shouted. “Never pull away from a trainer, ever. No matter what they do to you, you stand there and take it. Now, a brief lesson in protocol. You don’t speak unless spoken to. You always answer a direct question, and you address every man on this island as sir, do you understand?”

  “Yes…sir.” Julianna couldn’t seem to get her breath, each one shallower than the last. Hunger overrode her fear. “Please, sir” she begged. “I’m so hungry.”

  Stephen extended his hand again and Julianna closed her eyes, but somehow managed not to flinch away. She was expecting a slap in the face like before, but instead he stroked her cheek, his voice suddenly gentle. “I know you are, thirty-eight. You were a bad girl, and bad girls get punished. But they also get forgiven.” His touch was soft, lingering.

  A tear rolled down Julianna’s cheek. Stephen flicked it away with his thumb. “You would like some of that nice, fresh fruit, wouldn’t you, number thirty-eight?” He continued to stroke her cheek.

  “Yes. Yes, please…sir.”

  He stepped back, smiling. “Then you shall have it.”
>
  Gratefully, Julianna started to reach for the bowl, but Stephen stopped her.

  “Back in position.” His voice had resumed its harsh tone. “Hands behind your head.”

  “But—”

  “Never speak unless spoken to.”

  Julianna bit her lower lip, terrified he was now going to refuse her the fruit. What horrible game was he playing, and how could she learn the rules? She resumed the position, trying not to sway, her head swimming.

  “Kneel.” Stephen pointed to the ground. “But keep your hands behind your head.”

  Somehow Julianna managed to lower herself to the floor without falling or losing her position. The bowl was less than a foot away from her. She could see it in her peripheral vision, but she didn’t dare turn her head. She stared straight ahead, waiting in quiet desperation.

  Stephen crouched in front of her and reached for the fruit. “Open your mouth.”

  Eagerly as a baby bird, Julianna did as she was told. Stephen picked up a grape and dropped it on her tongue, like some sort of unholy Communion. Julianna bit down, the grape juice bursting inside her mouth like liquid heaven. She had never in her life tasted anything so sweet, so perfect.

  He gave her another, and then a piece of pineapple. She tried not to gobble the fruit, but she couldn’t help it. Not only was she starving, but she was afraid he might stop at any moment. She wanted all the fruit in that bowl—every bit of it.

  When she’d eaten about half of the contents, Stephen set the bowl down on the floor between them. She was still ravenous. The first few bites had awakened her appetite with a vengeance. She managed to swallow the moan of frustration that rose in her throat, certain this would somehow be used against her. She choked back a sigh and focused on the middle distance, longing for withheld the fruit.

  “You want more.” It was a statement.