by Linnea May
I'm sitting behind the wheel of my black Cadillac, staring at the same fucked-up shed disguised as a rundown bar that I've been staring at, at the same time every day for the past few days. She comes here every night, always around the same time, always made up to look like the perfect fuck doll, dressed to the nines, her face hidden behind the mask, but only until she steps inside. She always removes it as soon as she takes her seat at the counter, putting it back on right before she leaves. She has followed the same ritual every single evening. I know because I’ve watcher her, always from the outside, because I know that - just like her - I'd stand out from the crowd inside, and I don't want to draw any attention.
No one can know that I'm here. No one. Especially not her.
What the hell is her story? Why does she parade around looking like this? Why is she hiding behind a mask? Why does she dress like a high-class call girl only to hang out here, of all places? Who is she?
So many questions, and every single one of them is driving me crazy with curiosity.
My heart literally skipped a beat the first time I saw her. It was purely by coincidence, and I'm almost inclined to call it fate. On the spur of the moment, I decided to break with routine. I turned down a different street on my way home, because I needed to see something new, something different, to clear my head and gather my bearings before heading out to my usual club and fucking some random girl's brain out.
And there she was. She looked hot as hell, her bleach blond hair blowing in the wind as she hurried down the street, meandering through the evening crowd and ignoring the numerous looks she was drawing. Her head was either lowered to the ground, or she was looking anxiously behind her shoulder, keeping an eye out for something - or someone.
My eyes were instantly glued to her, my mind zoning out the angry honking behind me. I didn't care about that damn green traffic light, I didn't care about blocking traffic, I didn't care about his road rage.
All I cared about was that hot as hell mystery woman hurrying down the street. I knew right then and there that I had to have her. I knew she was the one I had to make mine. My toy, my victim, mine to break.
This is why I'm still here. This is why I'm sitting outside this fucking dive bar, my eyes locked on the entrance, waiting for her to come out. It's been three days, and I've been watching her long enough to know her routine. I know everything I need to know. She's going to put her face mask back on in about forty-five minutes, and then she's going to slip on that red fur coat, grab her fancy little bag and clutch it tightly to her side, and march out through the front door onto the poorly lit street. She will furtively look left and right, quickly scanning her surroundings before turning left and hurrying down the street, checking over her shoulder like she always does.
This is why I have to be careful, prepared. She's going to turn down an alley that's too small for cars, and that's where I'll be waiting for her, the injection in hand, hoping it hits quickly. She's a lightweight, so this dosage should work, at least well enough so I can drag her to my car before she's able to call out for help.
I've parked across the street. The spot provides me with the perfect angle of the bar but it’s too far away from the alley where I plan to grab her. If I want this plan to go off without a hitch, I have to do it right, which means moving the car before she leaves the bar.
Just as I'm about to turn the key over in the ignition, the bar door flings open and there she is, darting out. She’s moving faster than I’ve ever seen her move. I’m frozen, my hand still poised on the key in the ignition, trying to absorb the change in her routine. Something must have happened. I fixate my stunned gaze on her red fur coat, watching her flee in the opposite direction of where she usually heads.
And that’s when I notice it.
It's not her! It's her coat, but some other woman is wearing it. She's not wearing the face mask either, and this woman‘s hair is darker and she’s not wearing stiletto heels. She only turns around once, throwing a quick glance back at the door of the bar, as if to check whether or not she was being followed.
"What the fuck," I hiss. A car passes by mine, moving in the same direction in which the mystery woman is headed. I notice the car doesn’t have its headlights on, raising my suspicion that whoever is behind the wheel is up to no good - just like me.
My attention is drawn away from the suspicious car when the door of the bar slams open again. This time I see the familiar bleach blonde rushing out onto the pavement. It’s the first time I see her outside without that black mask covering her face. She stops, her eyes flitting from left to right as she tries to figure out what to do.
Here’s my chance.
Before I can change my mind, I burst out of my car and charge across the street.
Chapter 3
Ruby
"Fuck!" I exclaim, my heart surging in my chest. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"
That bitch stole my coat! What the hell is wrong with her?
I can‘t prove it, but I doubt it’s a coincidence that both are gone.
I'm standing outside the bar, clutching my little purse to my chest, while frantically looking up and down the street, but she's nowhere to be seen. I’m engulfed with rage and desperation. That coat has been a part of me for years. Next to my red hair, it's my signature, it makes me stand out.
The thing that makes me recognizable to him.
I inhale with shock when I realize that I'm standing outside on the street without my mask. I'm not supposed to do that! Under no circumstances am I allowed to let him see my face! It was risky enough to remove the mask every time I entered the bar. Even that could be considered breaking his rules.
Instinctively, I cover my face with my hands before turning to run back inside the bar to fetch my mask.
But just as I'm about to reach for the door handle, a large hand closes around my upper arm. It’s a strong, masculine hand, and it‘s squeezing me so hard that it hurts.
It's him. It must be.
That's the first thought running through my head as I flinch under the crushing pain of his forceful grip. It has to be him. He’s taking me right now!
I turn around to see the owner of the masculine hand that‘s holding me hostage - and freeze.
“It’s you,” I breathe out helplessly, biting my tongue when I remember that I’m not supposed to respond like that.
He frowns at my reaction. I let out a little sigh when he pulls me closer.
I had no idea before now what he looks like. I hadn‘t been shown a picture, only told his age and the first letter of his first name. Clients usually prefer to remain anonymous.
I knew he was rather young, younger than a lot of my former clients. It was rare for me to be bought by someone only a few years older than me. Most clients are wealthy businessmen in their late forties to mid-fifties, well-dressed, well-groomed, and respected gentlemen seeking a woman with whom they can live out their dirtiest fantasies. They can leave their gentleman facade outside the hotel room door – the version that everyone else but me gets to see – before turning into who they really are.
It's rare for them to be this young – he’s not even thirty years old.
And it's even more rare for them to look like this. The man who's holding me in a tight grip is probably the most beautiful man I've ever come across in my entire life. He's towers over me as he leans in closer, his face too close to mine. The agency told me that he's twenty-nine years old, but he looks even younger than that. Even in the dim evening light, I can tell that his eyes are black and a lot darker than his brown hair, which is cut short, tight to the scalp, in a military style. His rectangular-cut jaw is spotted with dark five o’clock stubble, and when he narrows his eyes to study me, I notice a jagged scar right next to his left eye.
I'm too dumbfounded to speak, and anything resembling flight instinct is failing me at the moment. But why would I try to fight him off, anyway? I knew this was going to happen. I waited for him to come for me, and here he is.
He stares me d
own, the intensity of his gaze sending shivers coursing like cold blasts through my entire body. Why is he not saying anything? Why is he not dragging me off?
Why is he not acting like a kidnapper?
"It's me?" he mimics my careless words.
I shake my head. "I'm sorry, I-"
"I saw where she ran off to," he interrupts me.
I look up at him, startled. "Huh?"
What is he talking about?
"The girl who has your coat," he elaborates. "I saw where she ran off to."
"Oh," I say. "Right. My coat. I'm sorry, I-"
"Stop saying that," he cuts me off again. "Come. I'll help you."
Help me? Okay, if this is the game he wants to play. Maybe he staged all of this? Did he pay off the girl to steal my coat so he could appear to be some kind of knight in shining armor, who then turns bad? No details of the kidnapping were ever confided to me. All I was told was to act and dress in a certain way for a few days and wait for him to come and take me.
I notice that he gives me a once-over before turning around to pull me along behind him. I feel pretty exposed in my racy get-up, especially without my coat to cover up most of it, but I can tell that he likes what I’m wearing. After all, this is what he ordered, a perfect slut.
I can barely keep up with him as he drags me across the street toward an expensive looking black car, the lights flashing as he unlocks it. He pulls up on the handle of the door for the front seat passenger side and beckons me to get in. This must be the most polite kidnapper in the history of mankind.
I cast him a puzzled look before slipping into the car.
My heart is racing when he takes his seat and starts up the engine. He locks the doors before we pull out from the curb.
"She ran that way," he says, pointing ahead of us. "I think we have a better chance of catching her if we drive."
"Sure," I agree, still bewildered at all of this.
This is not at all how I expected things to go down. I thought he'd grab me off the street, maybe even strike me unconscious somehow. I was told to struggle, at least a little bit.
But what am I supposed to struggle against if this is how he's playing the game? He may have appeared out of the blue and grabbed me roughly, but now he's acting like a hero helping out a girl in need, not like a kidnapper.
At least so far.
Maybe the struggle is yet to come. Maybe he'll become sinister any moment now, turn the car down a dark alley, tie me down and tell me to shut up, as I realize that his alleged help only masks his true violent intentions.
I take a deep sigh, preparing myself for whatever is to come. Acting is an essential part of my job, but I've never done role-play like this. I feel like I should have practiced lines or something.
He seems nervous, too. I notice him casting me quick glances from the side, as if to make sure that I'm not trying to jump out of the car. Is he expecting me to do something like that? Should I?
I eye him from the side, and our gazes meet for a split second before we each turn away. It's almost cute.
The longer and farther we drive, the more I realize that we're not actually following anyone. Whoever this woman was, he has no intention of finding her and getting my coat back. Was that woman even part of the plan? If she was, I'll most likely get my coat back after the thirty-nine days are up. If she was simply a thief, I’ll probably never see that coat again.
He's steering the car toward the freeway, and it becomes apparent that we're about to leave the city. If I’m going to play my part to his satisfaction, this would be a good time to begin acting suspicious and scared.
"Where are we going?" I ask, underlining my voice with fear. "The woman was surely not running toward the freeway?"
I'm breathing heavily now, my eyes wide with concern when I turn to face him. Not all of this is an act.
He doesn't look at me, but keeps his eyes focused straight ahead on the road.
"We're not following her," he says, a dark smile forming on his handsome face. "I have other plans."
I don’t know how to reply. I’m supposed to struggle, fight him and act as if this was a real kidnapping. My acting skills have never been put to a test like this before.
I take a deep, cleansing breath. All right.
It’s show time.
Chapter 4
Loran
This was easy.
Too easy.
I can't wrap my head around how naive this girl is. The way she just followed me to my car was strange on its own, but when I steer the car out of the city and she realizes this is not about finding her precious ugly coat, she doesn't freak out the way I expected. Acting on impulse was a risky move. I jumped out of the car, set aside my former plan, and decided to just... go for it.
I didn't think this through, none of it. I'm driving with her in the passenger seat, fully conscious and not bound. She could easily jump across the steering wheel, risking both our lives in an attempt to save herself. She could scream to deafen and distract me, she could hit me, she could run as soon as I park the car, or try to overpower me when I have to stop for a red light.
That's what a normal person would do. That's what I have to be prepared for.
But she's not doing any of it. I can tell that she's unsettled and worried, but she's nowhere close to panicking, and she should be. In fact, it's almost as if she's trying to figure out what she should say in this situation.
"Where are we going? What are you going to do to me? Let me go!"
The words spill out of her, but there's no conviction behind them. Maybe she's in a state of shock? Her hands are clenching the black purse in her lap, and her eyes scuttle around aimlessly. She tries to open the door at one point when I have to slow down to navigate a sharp curve, but she only does it once, confirming that the door is in fact locked.
"Let me go!" she repeats, now yelling at me. "I'm scared! Let me out!"
I ignore her pleas and continue driving. If she ends up going crazy, I might have to use the injection on her after all. It's hidden in the inside pocket of my jacket, easily accessible and ready to be used if needed.
We still have about half an hour of driving ahead of us. A lot can happen in those thirty minutes. Every moment brings her closer to my house, closer to the basement that will become her cage, closer to her becoming mine. And she has no idea.
However, it's pretty apparent that I'm no longer the good guy in her eyes. I'm no longer the savior who came to help her get that coat back. She knows that my intentions are evil, and she's growing more and more afraid of me.
But still, she's not displaying the degree of panic that would be normal for someone in her situation.
"Where are we going?"
She's asked me that about five times now, but I never deigned her with an answer.
"Home," I say eventually, still not looking at her.
"Your home?"
"Yes."
"W-w-why?"
Her voice is trembling. Finally.
"What are you going to do to me?"
"You'll see."
"Are you going to kill me?"
I let a few moments pass before answering her. I relish seeing her like this, scared as fuck, ready to jump at any moment, at my slightest move. I want her to act out against me.
I want to have a reason to touch her.
"I hope I won't have to kill you."
My answer causes her to inhale audibly, and she shifts uncomfortably in her seat, pulling at her seatbelt and removing it from her chest, gasping for air. The view of her round tits heaving with desperation is driving me crazy. I avert my eyes in an effort to remain cool and collected. She's so fucking delicious, looking like the perfect fuck toy in her slutty dress that hugs her perfect curves in all the right places, showing off her lean legs and her tits that are way too big for her frame to be real. She's wearing stockings underneath, I can see the suspenders peeping out from under her short dress now that she's sitting.
What a perfect slut. My
cock twitches with desire every time I lay my eyes on her, but I can't let that part of my body take over just now. I need to stay focused and level-headed. I need to be ready to keep her under control in case she tries to escape or overpower me.
She falls silent, and minutes seem to turn into an eternity, leaving me guessing just by her breath and her gestures what she might be thinking. The tension is almost unbearable.
I can see the red light approaching far ahead. My shoulders hike up in strained anticipation, as I'm forced to slow and stop the car. If she's going to try anything, she's going to do it now; I can sense it.
And in the blink of an eye, I find myself reaching for the syringe inside my jacket and jamming it into her exposed thigh. I don't even know what brought it on. She moved. I saw her moving from the corner of my eye. I don't know if she was up to something, if she was about to jump at me, hit me, start screaming, or if she was just shuffling in her seat.
It doesn't matter now. The sedative is spreading through her system, the needle still embedded in her flesh, as she casts me a horrified look.
I make sure that the syringe is empty before pulling the needle out of her flesh, accompanied by her pained yelp.
"What the hell did you do?!" she shrieks at me.
"Just something to calm you down," I say nonchalantly, as if I'd just embraced her in a friendly hug.
She whimpers, pressing a hand to her thigh where the needle stung her. She has a small frame and doesn’t weigh much, but the drug still needs a few minutes to take full effect and knock her out. Her eyes are drowsy already, and her facial expression lacks the intense panic from before, as her muscles begin to relax. She sinks back into her seat, the tension fleeing her limbs just as the traffic light turns green.