Tricked

by Claire Thompson

  “Don’t speak unless I ask you a direct question, cunt,” he snapped. “And then, make sure to answer.”

  Aware he was being too hard on her, given her shock and still-drugged state, he said in a gentler voice, “I know this is a lot to take in right now. The bottom line is this—I’ve chosen you. You should feel honored, as I’ve been looking for a long time for the right girl. No one knows we’re here. No one knows you’re gone. You are completely at my mercy and under my control. The sooner you accept that, the better things will be for you.”

  She continued to gape at him with big cow eyes.

  With a snort of exasperation, he said, “I can see you still don’t quite get it, so I’m going to give you a little more time to contemplate your circumstances. I’m going upstairs to make myself something to eat. When I come back down, if you’re ready to be a good girl, I’ll bring you up with me and show you around the place. But be aware—the minute you misbehave, you’ll be back down here, got that?”

  She didn’t reply.

  His irritation edged into anger. Bending down, he grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked her head upward. Leaning down so his face was close to hers, he snarled, “I said, got that?”

  To his annoyance, she burst into tears, while at the same time, a dark stain spread beneath her bottom, soaking into the canvas.

  Startled, he let her go and stepped back. “Silly girl,” he said, his anger ebbing away as he realized what she’d done. He shrugged, managing a grin. “Ah well, you made your bed, or rather pissed it, and now you have to lie in it.”

  With that, he turned from her and moved toward the stairs. As he climbed them, he twisted back to add, “Remember, good girls get to come upstairs. Bad girls stay shackled to their piss-soaked cots. See you in a while.”

  Chapter 5

  Callie lay stupefied in her chains, her still-sluggish brain not quite able to comprehend what Damon had just said to her. She couldn’t stop trembling. Her lungs refused to inflate. Tears were streaming down the sides of her face and annoyingly into her ears.

  “Breathe,” she ordered herself, trying to regain some control.

  She needed to think. There had to be a way out of this. Whatever this even was!

  At least he’d left the lights on.

  She lifted her head, craning to take better stock of her surroundings. From what she could see with her limited ability to move, the basement consisted of a large single, mostly empty room, the walls and floor of gray concrete. A sink, washer and dryer were against the wall facing her. By turning to the left, she could see the wooden stairs leading down into the basement. Water lines and various pipes crisscrossed overhead. There was a small door set into one wall. A closet? A way out?

  She closed her eyes, trying to recall her last memory before waking up to this nightmare. She remembered feeling pretty drunk when they’d left the restaurant. She had assumed the brandy was stronger than she’d realized.

  The feeling had intensified as they’d walked to Damon’s car. She remembered a rising sense of dizziness. She’d stumbled at one point, righted by Damon’s steadying hand. She’d briefly wondered if she was getting sick, and hoped she wouldn’t embarrass herself by puking in the parking lot.

  Then…

  Nothing.

  “You’ve been out for the past twelve hours straight. Guess I gave you a little more of the drug cocktail than I realized.”

  He must have put something in her drink.

  Why?

  Why had he done this? Was it some kind of horrible, elaborate joke? Was Diana in on it? Would she come tripping down the stairs in a moment to tell Callie they’d just been fooling around? The thought was bizarre in the extreme but easier to handle than the possibility that this man had actually abducted her.

  “There is no Diana, silly girl.”

  How could that be? Diana was real! She had to be. She had a Facebook page, with photos and everything. She would find out what her twisted cousin had done, and she would rescue Callie.

  Even as Callie desperately wanted this to be true, she knew in her gut Damon had set her up from the start. Anyone could create a bogus Facebook account. And that voice changer—while she’d never heard of such a thing, that didn’t mean it didn’t exist.

  Damon’s handsome face loomed in her mind. Try as she might, she couldn’t reconcile the easygoing, charming man she’d met at the restaurant with this terrifying monster who’d drugged and kidnapped her. A chill settled over her as she thought about all the planning he must have done to bring this whole thing to fruition.

  Her brain spun for a while, caught in a loop of confusion, denial and panic. She closed her eyes, desperately trying to regain some control. She needed to calm the fuck down and try to think clearly.

  Somehow, she had to get herself out of this. The first thing was to find a way out of these restraints and off this damp, nasty cot.

  “Good girls get to come upstairs.”

  Okay. So, that was the first step. She would be a “good girl.” When he came back down, she would pretend to be docile and compliant. Once she was out of the shackles and upstairs, she could determine a plan of escape.

  The sound of heavy footsteps made her whip her head toward the stairs. Damon appeared. His sun-streaked hair was damp and combed back, as if he was fresh from the shower. He was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. Come to that, it was warm in the basement—not chilly as you might expect in Chicago in early autumn.

  “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.”

  Panic curdled in Callie’s gut. She ordered it away, refusing to give in. Fear was paralyzing and she needed to be ready for action. She had to keep her wits about her and gather all the data she could. Knowledge was power.

  He came closer, tilting his head as he smiled at her—that deep-dimpled, easy smile of a man who was aware of just how handsome he was.

  She stiffened as he came closer. He crouched beside the cot and stroked some of the tangled hair out of her face. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”

  Callie resisted the sudden, strong urge to spit in his face. Instead, she closed her eyes and drew in a breath.

  He smelled good—like expensive aftershave scented with oranges and pine. She, on the other hand, could smell her own stink—sour breath, fear sweat and urine. There was dried snot beneath her nose that made her skin itch.

  “Are you ready to behave?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. Before I let you up, let’s get the first ground rule established. You will only speak when spoken to. I don’t want to hear whining and complaints or a bunch of stupid questions. The only time you speak is when asked a direct question. You will answer respectfully, eyes downcast as befits your station as my sex slave. And with each reply, you will refer to me with the honorific of Master or Sir—your choice. Got that?”

  Callie swallowed the bile rising in her throat along with her fury. Who the fuck did this bastard think he was?

  The one in charge—for now, she reminded herself. She started to nod her assent, but caught herself in time. Looking down, she replied “Yes, Sir.” No way was she going to call this asshole Master.

  “Good girl.”

  He got to his feet and reached for something behind her. She tilted her head back, trying to see what he was doing. There appeared to be something hanging on the wall, which he was taking down.

  He crouched again beside her and she saw he was holding a metal choke-chain dog collar attached to a leash. “Until I get you properly trained,” he said, “I’m going to keep you tethered. Just in case you get any stupid ideas, the doors are all locked, as are the windows. I possess the only key.”

  His expression hardened and he fixed her with a stern gaze. “I have a gun and I know how to use it. You try anything and you’ll be sorry—very, very sorry.”

  A squirt of fear shot through Callie’s veins. Was he going to kill her? At the same time, a glimmer of hope sparked in her soul. She’d gone out hunting with her dad since
she was a kid, and knew how to handle firearms. If she could find that gun…

  One thing at a time, she reminded herself. First thing is to get upstairs.

  He slid the choke collar over her head. The chain links felt cold against her skin and she shuddered. With a tug, he caused the collar to tighten until it fit snugly around her neck. Fear rippled through her body at this additional restraint.

  But then, to her relief, he unclipped the cuffs around her wrists and ankles from the chains anchored to the cot. But her relief was short-lived.

  “Hold out your wrists toward me,” Damon instructed.

  Not daring to refuse, Callie obeyed. But instead of removing the cuffs, he clipped them together. Then he tugged at the leash, pulling her into a sitting position.

  “Get up,” he directed.

  A wave of dizziness washed over her as she got to her feet, accompanied by a hard knot of nausea in her gut. Her legs felt like rubber. She swayed, trying to get her bearings. Damon’s gaze flickered over her naked body, a hard glint in his eyes. A blush moved up her chest and licked against her cheeks. She longed to cover herself from his probing gaze. Instead, she took a wobbly step forward.

  Damon put his arm around her shoulders, steadying her. She wanted to shake him off, but didn’t dare. She needed to keep her focus on her goal—stay alive, get upstairs, gather data, make plans.

  “Whew,” he said with a mean grin. He dropped his arm and took a step back, the leash still in his other hand. “You stink, girl. First thing we gotta do is hose you off.”

  Callie bit her tongue to keep from snarling a curse at him. She looked away so he wouldn’t see the rage in her face.

  He tugged on the leash and took a step toward the stairs. She followed, her cuffed arms hanging in a V in front of her, making it that much harder to maintain her balance in her weakened state. Her legs shook as they navigated the stairs. He put a firm hand on the back of her neck as they climbed. While her skin crawled at his touch, she was glad of the extra support.

  They came up into a hallway that led directly to a large, spacious kitchen with gleaming appliances and stone countertops. Sunlight poured in through a window above the sink, the sky a vivid blue. The light was different than in Chicago. Where in god’s name had he taken her?

  He led her into the room and directed her to a counter on which stood a glass of what looked like water. “You need to hydrate first, and then we’ll get you showered.”

  She started to reach for the glass with her bound hands, but Damon jerked the leash, causing the collar to tighten painfully as he yanked her back. “No,” he snapped. “I’ll do it.”

  Too thirsty even to be annoyed, Callie dropped her arms and waited. Damon lifted the glass and tilted it to her lips. She drank eagerly, trying not to choke as she swallowed.

  He let her drink the whole thing, though some of it spilled down her chin, splashing onto her chest. Her thirst somewhat slaked, her stomach gurgled with hunger. At the same time, her skin and scalp were itchy with dried sweat.

  Leading her again by the leash, Damon pulled her out of the kitchen and down the hall. They walked past a large living room with an open, spacious floor-plan, the furniture wicker, the floor tiled with smooth, cool white marble. A large ceramic bowl filled with beautiful seashells sat in the center of a polished wooden table. The place had the feel of a beach house, albeit a very elegant one. The entire back wall was covered by vertical louvers from floor to ceiling. Every window they passed had the plantation shutters firmly closed.

  Farther along the hall was a bedroom. It contained a king-size bed set low to the ground, covered in a yellow and blue striped duvet, flanked by white wicker night stands. A large wardrobe stood along one wall, and some chairs were set around a low table in the corner. Like the living room, the back wall was flanked by closed louvers, probably covering sliding glass doors.

  He brought her into a large bathroom with a glassed-in shower stall and double sinks. She could see into a smaller room, the door ajar. It contained both a toilet and what she assumed was a bidet. The toilet had buttons on the top instead of a flusher on the side. It reminded her of the toilets they’d had in Spain when she’d been there with her family after high school graduation Where the hell had he brought her?

  “You’ve been out for twelve hours straight.”

  Okay. That wasn’t long enough to get to Europe, was it? Not to mention the time it must have taken to get her unloaded and to this place. The lemony sunlight through the kitchen window and the warmth in the basement told her they weren’t in Canada, so he had to have flown south. South America? Central America?

  Another tiny flare of hope—Callie had taken Spanish through high school and college. If they were south of the border, she could at least communicate with the locals, assuming she could get the hell out of this house.

  One step at a time, she reminded herself.

  Damon opened the shower door and turned on the water, which came out from all directions, like a carwash. To her relief, he unclipped the leash and removed the collar and cuffs. “Get in,” he directed. “Wash your hair and body. There’s shaving cream and a fresh razor on the shelf there. I want you to shave under your arms, your legs and that nasty pubic hair covering your cunt. I’ll be standing right here the whole time, so don’t try anything stupid.”

  At least he wasn’t getting in with her. She felt a tiny bit safer with the glass door closed between them. She rubbed the luxurious soap over her body, washing herself clean. Then she lathered her hair, washing it twice. She was aware of him just outside the shower, his eyes fixed on her, his hand in his shorts.

  Angling away, she reached for the razor and shaving cream. Figured the jerk wanted her to shave her pubes. He was probably terrified of a real woman and needed to pretend she was a little girl.

  Doesn’t matter, she told herself. Do whatever he wants. Let him think he’s got you under control. Lull him until he lowers his guard. Then you make your move.

  When she was done and rinsed, she dared a glance at him. He had pulled off his shirt, and she could see the outline of his large cock, fully erect and straining against the thin cotton of his shorts. In spite of herself, she was momentarily distracted by the sight of his body—the smooth, tan chest, the corded muscles of his abs, his arms and legs like a statue molded by a Renaissance sculptor.

  He opened the shower door, reached in and turned off the water. “Much better,” he pronounced. “Let’s get you dried off.”

  She stepped out of the shower onto the large, thick bath rug. She reached for one of the towels folded in a neat stack on the counter.

  “No,” he said, placing a hand on her upper arm to stop her. “I’ll do it. Lift your arms over your head and spread your legs, shoulder-width apart.”

  She wanted to refuse, but didn’t dare.

  He was surprisingly gentle as he dried her hair and body. The high-quality towel felt nice as it moved over her skin. He crouched in front of her to dry her legs. He ran the towel between her thighs, rubbing it against her newly shaven sex.

  It took every ounce of will not to slam her legs together. She imagined lifting her knee in a sharp movement, smashing it into his nose. He would fall back, blood spurting, and she would sprint away. Even as the possibility beckoned, she rejected it. He could easily overpower her. Come to that, he could kill her with his bare hands, much less a gun. No—she had to bide her time before she made her move.

  She forced herself to remain still. At least he wasn’t hurting her.

  He tossed the towel aside and got to his feet. Hooking his thumbs in the elastic band of his shorts, he dragged them down his legs. His eyes boring into her, he kicked them away.

  Unable to stop herself, Callie stared at his groin. His cock was large and fully erect. Dropping her arms to cover her torso, she took an involuntary step back.

  “How dare you fall out of position and step away from me?” Damon demanded, his dark blue eyes glittering.

  He reached for her, g
rabbing her by the shoulders and yanking her toward him. Pressing hard, he forced her down onto the bath rug and fell on top of her, his body heavy over hers.

  “You want it,” he murmured in a throaty voice, his breath hot on her neck. “You know you do.” He ground his pelvis against hers, his cock like a bar of steel between them.

  Holding her down with his body, he forced her thighs apart with his knee. Guiding his erect shaft between her legs, he nudged the thick head against her opening.

  Terrified, Callie squirmed helplessly beneath him. She opened her mouth to scream, but all that emerged was a terrified squeak.

  “What the fuck’s wrong with you?” he demanded as the tip of his cock penetrated her. “You’re dry as a fucking bone.”

  The tiny bit of rational brain still functioning beneath her fight-or-flight automatic physiological reaction to the situation wanted to yell, “Of course I’m dry, you fucking dickhead! I fucking hate you!”

  That same rational brain, however, knew better than to give voice to the thought. Instead, she gasped, “You’re hurting me! Stop! Please, stop!” Her heart was beating so hard it felt like it was going to fly out of her chest.

  To her relief, he pulled back with an angry snort. He raised himself on his arms above her and glared down at her.

  Then, as if he’d flipped some kind of emotional switch, his expression softened, all trace of anger and irritation gone. He shook his head, a small smile lifting his lips. His thickly-lashed, deep blue eyes radiated kind sincerity. “I’m being too hard on you, poor thing,” he said in a gentle, soothing voice. “The knockout drugs aren’t completely out of your system yet. You haven’t had a chance to adjust to your new situation yet. I need to cut you some slack.”

  This abrupt juxtaposition from anger to kind concern was somehow more terrifying than if he’d stayed mad. Beneath the veneer of Damon’s charm there lurked something dark and dangerous. He appeared able to turn on charm like it was water from a faucet, and to turn it off just as quickly.