by Linnea May
"So, she's definitely with the client now?"
"As I've told you already, sir, yes, she is," she says anew. "It's an exclusive contract that went into effect a few days ago."
She coughs slightly.
"Sir, if you are a client with us, I could-"
"Lucky guy," I say, before hanging up, interrupting her mid-sentence.
I walk away from the phone booth as quickly as possible, my head buzzing with unanswered questions.
How is it possible that no one is looking for her? Is it just a matter of time until I'll see her face on the news? I've done extensive research, even checked out police reports, but there's nothing about a blonde woman her age missing anywhere. Maybe not enough time has passed yet for her client to report her missing? She said her client had a five-day window during which he could seize her, but I never asked when during that time frame I kidnapped her.
I had to fight a painful surge of jealousy when she talked about him, the man she was supposed to be with right now. There was no real affection in her voice, but a certain fondness for him and the contract between them. I know she didn't agree to this simply because she felt like she had to. She signed up for this because it's what she wanted.
A girl like her gets to choose. She's not an uncommon type for this agency. They claim to deliver nothing but the best of the best, and they really do. All the girls in their files are not only astonishingly pretty and sexy, they also have a mind of their own, they're smart, and stronger than the prejudice existing about escorts usually dictates.
Nevertheless, they're all actresses, and that includes her, my Ruby Red. I can't trust her, and I have to remember that.
But I also can't stop thinking about her. I've been away from the house long enough, longer than I ever have since taking her.
My mind is still racing, matched by the speed of my heart rate, as I walk back to my car. I’ve been away too long.
Chapter 17
Ruby
I feel lost and scared. I've been feeling like this for days, seeking comfort in the lavish bedding he provided me. When he took me upstairs that day, holding me like a baby while I sobbed in his arms, processing the things he had done to me, I honestly believed we'd move on. I thought I had earned myself some kind of promotion. I thought I could be with him, in that bed, in that room, in his arms whenever I needed the comfort and aftercare a submissive needs after a session.
He gave me that comfort, but only that one time. He let me remain there with him merely an hour, and a significant part of that time was spent with me wrapped around his cock, moaning and fighting off a new wave of tears, because it was all too overwhelming.
I'm not one to weep easily, but once those gates are opened, it's hard for me to stop. I cried when he carried me back downstairs, and I cried when he closed the door, leaving me all by myself. I ran to the door and begged for him to let me out. I was more convinced than ever that what he said was true, and it scared me to death.
He listened to my pleas, and then showed up a few minutes later to provide me with food and a silk robe, so I had something to wrap my naked body in. His face was sinister and he barely spoke, only saying the very minimum.
And it's all he has done since, providing me with the necessities. My heart skipped a beat every time I heard the door open, hoping to get more answers, hoping to see the man who did these cruel and wonderful things to me, but my hopes never materialized. He only came downstairs to provide for my needs. He gave me clothes, but not the kind I expected. I thought he'd want to see me parading around in sinfully delicious and sexy lingerie for him, but instead he gave me a t-shirt and sweatpants to wear. There's absolutely nothing sexy about these items, but I still wear them because it beats running around naked.
He also brought a mattress for me to sleep on. He placed it right in front of the St. Andrew's Cross, because it was the only space where it would fit. He showered me with fluffy pillows and exquisite silk bedding that I actually looked forward to sleeping on, despite being by myself. Every single item he provided me was of the highest quality, even the embellished cotton t-shirts wore a Valentino tag. I couldn't help but chuckle when I pulled one of them over my head. They don't look special, but I've been surrounded by wealthy men long enough to know that their price might come close to my monthly rent.
I've been given gifts by clients before, but never like this. They usually bought lingerie for me, or jewelry, sometimes a dress. Sometimes I was allowed to keep the items, and when I first started this job, I couldn't think of anything else to do with the gifts except to sell them so I could pay off my student loans faster. The money one can spend on an everyday item such as earrings or a dress still baffles me. It seems ludicrous.
In any case, it didn't really help ease my suspicions about him. He's adamant that he's not my client, but it appears he enjoys a similar level of wealth as the man who bought me. I was promised a generous sum for agreeing to this job, a sum that I'm sure he'd be able to come up with just as easily.
I wish I could believe that I wasn't truly in trouble, and just fulfilling the job I signed up for. But there was one thing he said that eliminated that hope for me.
He said he hated my hair.
He said he hates blondes.
The client who purchased me specifically said he wanted a blond woman. He was the reason I dyed my hair because he wouldn't even look at my file if I remained a redhead.
And this man, this man who grabbed me off the street and did everything exactly as I expected the client to do, this man now says that he hates my blonde hair color.
I can't wrap my head around it. Could it really be true? And if it is, why is he treating me this way? If he's nothing but a criminal, a kidnapper, a rapist even, why is he not doing whatever he wants to me? Why did he refrain from slapping my face when I reminded him that face hitting was one of my hard limits? Why did he never fuck me?
I'm curled up on my mattress, as I always seem to be, wrapped in the luxurious silk sheets, protecting me against the cold. It's always chilly in here, another reason why I was grateful for the clothes and the blanket.
It's the middle of the day, but I can't see the sun from down here. I can only imagine what it must look like outside because the windows are so small, just above ground-level, and made from frosted glass. Gray is all I've seen the past few days, and it only changes from a lighter gray to a darker gray, depending on the time of day and - presumably - the weather.
I straighten up when I hear the lock of the door turn, announcing his arrival. He steps inside then, wearing a dark polo shirt and dark jeans, sexy as fuck. Sometimes I wish he wasn't this goddamn beautiful, and I wish my body wouldn't react to him the way it does. My core is trembling with anticipation, and my heart flutters every time he shows up. It has only gotten worse since he fucked me. I want him to do it again, and I feel silly for wishing these things, because there should be more urgent issues on my mind.
Concern for my safety, for example.
"Get up," he says, approaching me and motioning for me to rise from the mattress.
I hurry to obey, presenting myself in front of him. I‘m wearing a gray cotton t-shirt and black shorts, with nothing underneath. I have no make-up, but he was kind enough to provide me with a brush and hair products, so I don't have to look like a bum. Yet, I feel inferior and underdressed next to him.
"No one is looking for you," he announces, stepping closer and - to my surprise - wrapping his arms around me to grab my ass.
I sigh, resisting the desire to lean into his touch.
"What do you mean?" I ask, bewildered.
"I called the agency-"
"You what?"
He casts me a warning look, and I bite my lip to stop myself from talking. How the hell does he know about the agency if he claims not to be my client?
"I called them to check on you, little Miss Ruby Red," he says. "And they said you were with a client right now."
"Which I am," I insist, even though I'm still hav
ing trouble believing it.
"Which you aren't," he corrects me. "But whoever your real client is, he‘s clearly not missing you. Yet."
Our eyes lock. His grip on my ass tightens, and I almost moan when he massages my ass cheeks like this, so demanding, so possessive. I fucking love being touched like this, and I've missed having his hands on my body more than I'm happy to admit.
"Now, you have to tell me something, toy," he continues. "You said there was a window of time during which you were to be taken."
I nod, eager to find out where he's going with this.
"How long did you say that was? Five days?"
"Yes, five days."
"I had been watching you for three," he claims. "So that time window must definitely be over by now?"
I nod again. "Yes. It was day four when you... took me."
He moves his lips as if he’s tasting my words. Something concerns him, and if he really is who he claims to be, then it’s easy to tell what it is. He’s worried that someone might be looking for me, that the client, who apparently didn’t show up in time before I followed him to his car, would now be calling the agency to ask about my whereabouts.
“You really aren‘t him,” I whisper, my voice shaking. "You really aren‘t, are you?"
It's not a question but a statement. I'm finally giving voice to a thought that's been creeping up on me again and again over the past few days. I already knew it. I knew since he commented on my hair.
But I couldn't let myself believe it, not truly.
Now I can. I have to.
He looks at me, and his eyes darken, but it doesn’t stop him from squeezing my ass once again.
"Took you long enough to realize the truth, toy."
Chapter 18
Loran
There it is. That sweet, sweet terror I've been craving.
I've seen a glimpse of it before, three days ago right before I fucked her upstairs. At first I thought she just felt insulted because I said I didn't like her blond hair, but I soon realized that it was more than that. She was surprised, shocked actually, to hear me say that I didn't like blondes. I didn't think much of it, but now that I think back to that day, I realize that her client probably had specifically requested a blonde.
She dyed her hair for him, and when I said that I didn't like it, it only proved to her that my words were true.
But if she already realized it then, why hasn't she been freaking out until now? Why is she screaming at me now? Why is she trying to fight her way out of my grip now?
She stared at me for a few moments, and I could almost see the gears working behind the scenes as understanding set in. Heavy silence was followed by panicked screams. She lashed out at me, spilling tears, and using all her strength to coil within my embrace, fighting so hard to get out of my grip that it almost hurt.
I tried to keep her in place and control the little manic she'd turned into. It wasn't too difficult, that is until she finally had the sense to do something smart. She realized that hitting and kicking didn't do much, so she decided to try something different. I didn't even see it coming until I felt her teeth digging into the flesh of my upper arm. She didn't use full force at first, but once she did, the pain was strong enough for me to let go of her and shove her away from me.
"You fucking bitch!"
She glared at me, her face smeared with tears and her cheeks glowing from screaming.
"You monster!" she yells, slowly backing away from me. "You fucking monster! Let me go! You didn't pay for me! I don't belong to you!"
"Yes, you fucking do, toy!"
"NO!" she insists, crying out so loud that it chills me to the bone. "No! You're not fucking paying for me! I'm not yours to keep! You stole me! You're a fucking criminal!"
I take a step toward her, causing my little toy to run away from me. It's a futile attempt because all she can do is run around in circles through the room, banging from one wall to the next, and she knows that. Nevertheless, she continues moving frantically, even if it doesn't get her anywhere. I watch as she circles through the room in panic, her eyes frantically scurrying around, searching for a way out. Eventually she runs to the door, half-heartedly tries to open it, only to discover that it's locked, like it always is, whether I'm in the room with her or not.
"Let me go!" she yells at me again, accusingly pointing her finger at me. "You have no right to keep me here! You didn't pay for this!"
I smile at her, relishing the terror painted across her pretty face. Things didn't go as planned with her, nothing did. It was pure coincidence that I found her in the first place, and it was another coincidence that I was able to take her when I did, without making any arrangements for her confinement, and it was another incredible coincidence that she works for the agency that I refused to contract with this time.
It all led to a few very confusing days, for both her and me, but now she's finally acting the way I expected my victim to act from the beginning. My plan might be spoiled because I've already tasted her, but I know I will still enjoy her, nonetheless.
"Help!" she shrieks. "Help! Heeelp!"
"No one will hear you, my toy," I remind her, speaking calmly as I continue moving toward her.
She jerks away from me when I try to grab hold of her arm, but it only works for so long. I close in on her with two big steps, getting a hold of her and pulling her toward me with little effort.
She cries out again, trying to lash out at me, but I keep her arms held in place. This time, I'm making sure she won't be able to bite me by keeping her at a distance.
"Do I have to tie you up?" I ask, trying to catch her eyes with mine. She tries to evade eye contact, but not for long.
"You will fucking have to, you sick bastard!" she yells at me.
I'm probably the only person in the world who can see the beauty in this, the only man who savors her terror, the only man who gets hard just by looking at her terrified face when I pick her up. She continues to squirm in my arms and cry out for help that won't come, but I still manage to take control of her by bending her arm behind her back and immobilizing most of her body with just one hand. I drag her over to the glass cabinet, using my free hand to open one of the drawers underneath the main display.
She wails in protest when I produce a rope bundle from the drawer, quickly unfurling it as I move on, carrying her over to the mattress she's been sleeping on. I get down on my knees with her still wrapped in my arm. She's still trying to fight me, but her efforts lack the conviction from earlier. It's almost as if she has decided to surrender. Almost.
She howls into the cushions when I push her down on her stomach, crossing her wrists at her back and tying them together in the wink of an eye. The piece of rope I grabbed is pretty long, and it allows me to tie her up in a very simple version of a hogtie, connecting her ankles and wrists behind her back, completely immobilizing her.
Her struggle grows weaker by the moment, as she's not only losing the will but the power to fight me. I roll her onto the side, making sure she doesn't hurt herself when she falls over. She's lying on her side, her arms and legs bent and tied behind her back, her gaze not fearful, but repulsed.
"Why didn't you just buy me?" she hisses, fighting back another wave of tears. "Or someone like me? Why didn't you just pay for this? It's clear that you have the money for it."
She pauses, considering her words before she continues.
"Or is this not your house? Is this not your stuff? Did you steal all of this, too?"
I shake my head, ignoring the fact that she tries to flinch away from me when I reach for her to gently stroke along the side of her face, moving away a strand of blond hair.
"No, this is my house, my stuff," I say. "And you're right, I could afford to buy you. I've actually contracted with the agency before."
She inhales audibly, suggesting that this revelation gets to her.
"Which is why I'm familiar with the agency you work for," I add.
"How do you know-"
&nbs
p; "Because I found your business card, toy," I cut her off. "Violent Delights. I've actually been one of their clients."
"But not this time."
"Not this time," I confirm.
"Why not?" Her lower lip is quivering, and her question is laced with desperation. "Why the hell did you not buy me or someone like me?"
"Because I grew tired of acting," I tell her. "I'm tired of fancy whores pretending to be someone they're not, pretending to like something they don’t like for the sake of the client, pretending to be scared or helpless, when in reality they know they're perfectly safe because of a contract. I've grown to hate this fakeness, people who show anxiety when they have nothing to fear."
She looks at me with a contemplative expression on her face. It actually looks like she understands me, like she can relate to what I'm sharing with her.
"You wanted the real thing," she concludes in a hoarse whisper. "But all you got was another whore who thought she was hired to do this."
I'm startled when she begins laughing. It's not a happy laugh. It's the creepy kind of laugh from someone who's about to lose their mind, the kind you hear coming from the evil villain’s throat in a movie, just before he blows up an entire city. The kind of mad laughter of a lunatic.
I stare at her with narrowed eyes and can't help but worry for a moment, but she recovers soon enough. She's shaking her head as if trying to cast the urge to laugh away.
"I can't believe this is fucking happening," she breathes without looking at me. "This cannot be fucking real."
I huff. "You're telling me, toy."
"Stop calling me that," she demands.
"I can call you whatever the fuck I want," I remind her, grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulling her head back so she's forced to look at me. "Do you understand?"
She glares at me through glassy eyes.
"You must've been so disappointed," she says in a voice so low that I can barely hear her. "Here you are, out to get yourself a pretty little victim to fuck, something real, someone who's actually afraid of you, someone who does what... succumbs to your dominant charm eventually? And all you get is the same old thing, a whore, ready to bend way too easily at your will."