As she moved around the room dusting chairs, tables and picture frames, Damon shadowed her. How she despised him. She stumbled several times, trying to stay upright on the stiletto heels of the too-big shoes. She felt weak and dizzy, faint with hunger.
Just get through this stupid little game and maybe he’ll give you something to eat, she encouraged herself. If only she could figure out what the hell he wanted from her.
Chuckling and making stupid remarks about the shy little French maid, he slapped her ass, cupped her sex and tweaked her nipples. While it was annoying as hell, at least he wasn’t hurting her. She tried to ignore him as she focused on not tripping or passing out as they moved around the room.
As she was dusting one of the night tables, her attention was drawn to what she was pretty sure was a handgun lockbox on the lower shelf beneath the drawer. There was no key in the lock. Her mind flashed to the keys on the chain around his neck. She tried to remember what they’d looked like. There had been three keys, each a different shape and size. The smallest had opened the padlock to the cage. The largest had looked like a standard deadbolt house key. Did the third key open the gun box?
If that was even what was inside. At the very least, she had to find out. Somehow, she had to get hold of the key.
In order to have the slightest chance of doing that, she had to convince Damon she had given up. He had to believe she had been brainwashed into his willing, obedient slave girl. And she had to get him to take off that chain so she could get her hands on it.
While it all seemed impossible at that moment, she was quietly, fiercely determined to find a way. The risk, of course, was huge. If he caught her trying to get the gun, he might well use it on her. But that was a risk she had to take.
She’d read enough kidnap novels to know if the captor showed his face, he planned to either kill or dispose of his victim in one way or another. Had he done this before? Were there other missing women, their families frantic with worry or destroyed by grief?
How often had he done this? And what became of the women after he tired of them? Despite everything that had happened so far, he didn’t strike her as the murdering type. So what did that leave?
Horrifying visions of forcibly drug-addicted sex workers leaped into her mind. Was that what awaited her, once he tired of her? It was a fate truly worse than death.
Come hell or high water, she would find a way out of this nightmare, or die trying.
Chapter 11
Callie looked so fucking hot in her French maid getup. Damon liked the look of the big satin bow looped around her slender waist above her cute little ass, and her welted tits looked sexy in their lacy harness. He’d gotten the idea for the whole maid thing when he’d been back at his parents’ place the past Christmas. They had hired a new live-in maid—a young Latino woman with big dark eyes and heavy breasts.
Her name was Mariela and he’d seen her giving him the once-over while serving his breakfast that first morning he’d been home. Even the hideous gray uniform his mother made all the female help wear couldn’t hide the voluptuous body beneath. He’d tried to catch her eye, silently signaling that he, too, was interested, but she’d looked quickly away.
It was several hours before he’d been able to get her alone. He’d found her in his dad’s study, bent over the huge mahogany desk, a polishing rag in her hand. He’d come up stealthily behind her and pressed his rising erection against her ample ass.
She’d gasped and whirled around, her face flushing a brick red. A flash of anger had flickered through those big, dark eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. It was replaced by a cow-like passivity that made it clear she was used to this sort of thing, no doubt by his father, a notorious womanizer.
Maids, babysitters, his wife’s best friend—no one was off limits to Bradley Franklin Carlisle III. Damon had often wondered, once he was old enough to understand, why his mother put up with it. Her fifty-thousand dollar per month allowance might explain it.
“Hey there, señorita,” Damon had said smoothly to the timid maid, pretending nothing had happened. “I just wanted to compliment you on the excellent job you’re doing for the family.” In point of fact, he had no idea what kind of job she was doing, nor did he particularly care.
“Thank you, Señor,” she’d replied in a soft, deferential voice that made his dick even harder. But then, to his annoyance, she turned and fled past him, leaving him and his throbbing hard-on all alone. What a pity it was no longer considered PC to fuck the help, and then send them packing if they made a fuss about it.
Not daring to pursue her under his father’s roof, Damon contented himself with beating off that night in his childhood bedroom. As he stroked his hard shaft, he imagined entering her room on the third floor in the dead of night. She would be naked on the bed, the covers thrown back, her bare body all the invitation he needed. He would creep over to her bed and place his hand over her mouth.
Her eyes would fly open in startled surprise. “Shh,” Damon would admonish. “Don’t make a sound, Mariela, not if you want to keep your job.”
She would press her lips together, her eyes widening in fear and desire as she took in his huge cock poking from the fly of his pajama bottoms. He would pull her to the floor and make her kneel up in front of him. Then he would thrust his erection down her throat, gripping her by the hair to hold her in place as he fucked her mouth. When he was close to the edge, he’d flip her around and push her face into the mattress. Kneeling behind her, he’d thrust his cock into her cunt, which would be soaking wet.
When he was done with her, he’d drop a few hundred-dollar bills on the bed beside her head. Feliz Navidad.
But that had been fantasy. Callie was real, and she was his personal property. Christ—he could do whatever he wanted to her, all the annoying constraints of civilized society removed. He could fuck her, whip her, starve her, cage her, even… kill her. Not that he’d do that, he quickly reminded himself. He’d never been into snuff porn. He wasn’t a monster. He just wanted what he wanted. And Callie, who had been on that BDSM hookup website trolling for a rich, handsome Master, deserved what she got.
He stroked his shaft, which was rising again as he watched her hobble around in her sexy getup. He was just deciding what he’d make her do next when his cell phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket and regarded the screen, intending to send it to voicemail. But then he saw who was calling.
Damon sighed. What did the old bastard want now? He only ever called to yell at Damon for not doing this, or doing too much of that. It was so fucking tedious. He glanced at Callie, who had turned at the sound of the phone, a sudden hopeful look on her face.
Did she think he was a fucking idiot? No way was he going to risk her screaming in the background. At the very least, it could be awkward. So he let the call go to voice mail, something he almost never did with his father. He moved to the night table on the right side of the bed and yanked open the drawer. Inside were several fetish toys he planned to use on Callie when she’d earned her way into his bed.
He grabbed the shiny red ball gag and a pair of handcuffs. Callie, not even pretending to dust, was watching him with a dubious expression. “Dusting’s over,” he informed her. “Get back in the bathroom and climb into the tub. Don’t worry about taking off your outfit. You won’t be getting wet.”
When she continued to stand there gawping like an imbecile, he strode to her in two steps, grabbed her upper arm and yanked her along to the bathroom. “You can take off the heels,” he said generously, not wanting her to break an ankle while climbing into the tub. If she got hurt, it would be because he hurt her, not because of a stupid accident.
“Sit on your butt and hold out your wrists,” he directed as she climbed gingerly into the tub.
“Please, I—” she began, but he cut her off.
“No talking, cunt. Do as you’re told.”
He quickly clipped the cuffs into place and then held the ball gag to her lips. “Open wide.” His phone began
to ring again. Damn it. He tapped her closed lips impatiently with the ball. “Open your fucking mouth, cunt. Now.”
He shoved the ball past barely parted lips and quickly buckled the straps around her head. His phone continued to ring. “Don’t make a fucking sound,” he warned, though she couldn’t do much more than gurgle with that thing shoved between her teeth.
Turning away from her, he took the call. “Hey, Dad,” he said in as casual a voice as he could manage. With a last look at the girl in the tub, he walked into the bedroom. “What’s up?”
“What’s up?” the old man spluttered. “Where the goddamn hell are you and what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
For a split second, panic washed over Damon as if someone had just dumped a bucket of ice water on his head. What exactly did his father know?
Don’t be an idiot, he reassured himself. He can’t possibly have any idea.
Still, to buy himself time as he tried to absorb the sudden rush of adrenaline zipping through his system, he asked, “Sorry, what?”
“I said,” his father repeated, in that slow, annoying way he had that always made Damon feel like he was two feet tall and had just pissed his pants in public, “where the hell are you? Today’s the annual board meeting for the Carlisle & Associates subsidiary. You’re on the fucking board, in case you forgot. While you contribute nothing, your presence is expected.”
Wait. What? That meeting was today?
In a panic, Damon quickly opened the calendar on his phone. He scrolled rapidly looking for the date of the meeting. He found it, a month from now, not today! How had he screwed that up? And how come that fucking secretary hadn’t emailed? This was her fault! Though, it occurred to him, maybe she had. He’d been so absorbed with planning and executing the abduction, he hadn’t checked his work email in over a week.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Think fast.
“I’m so sorry, Dad,” he said with as much sincerity as he could muster. “To tell you the truth, I’m down in Costa Rica. I’ve been working on a major potential investment deal and I guess I got my dates mixed up.”
His dad gave out a long, exasperated sigh that made Damon want to scream. “Damon,” he said wearily. “Spare me the bullshit. I know you too well. The only thing you’re working on is your tan. Costa Rica, huh? Brad guessed you were on a yacht in Dubai with some wealthy Arab’s wife, while Carter speculated you were skiing in the Alps with a bunch of other entitled trust fund babies.”
Damon heard the loud bray of his stupid brothers laughing in the background. They were loving this, the pricks.
“I don’t know what your grandfather was thinking,” his father continued, now on a roll. “Giving you access to your trust fund at thirty. If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be able to touch a dime of that money until you proved you deserved it.”
Thank god it’s not up to you, you spiteful bastard, Damon thought furiously. He was clenching the cell phone so tightly his fingers cramped.
“Don’t worry,” his father continued in that world-weary voice that dripped with sarcasm and disdain. “We’ll muddle along somehow without you.” There was more mean laughter. Too furious to respond, Damon ended the call and threw the phone on the bed.
Enraged, he marched into the bathroom.
~*~
Callie sat in the bathtub, her wrists manacled with metal handcuffs. The disgusting rubber ball he’d shoved into her mouth had forced her tongue far back in her mouth, and it kept activating her gag reflex. To top it off, drool was dripping down her chin.
At least there had been a break in the French maid nonsense. Weak from hunger, she’d nearly passed out several times as she waved that stupid feather duster around while Damon mauled her from behind. Her stomach had curled into a tight, painful ball. How much longer could she go on like this?
She strained to hear the conversation going on in the next room, but Damon didn’t seem to be saying much. It was hard to imagine that this handsome monster even had a father, or a mother for that matter. Yet, she’d very clearly heard him address the caller as Dad.
She caught the words Costa Rica. Was that where they were? If she could get hold of that damn phone of his, she could call for help. Did they have 9-1-1 in Costa Rica? Would they be able to track her location by pinging the phone?
She startled as Damon burst back into the bathroom, his face mottled with fury. She stiffened in fear. What had she done?
Striding to the tub, he bent down and yanked her upright by her arm, his fingers digging into her biceps. The metal cuffs tightened painfully around her wrists as he pulled her, stumbling, out of the tub.
Lifting her into his arms, he tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, knocking the wind out of her in the process. He marched into the bedroom and threw her, facedown, on the bed. Her arms were caught uncomfortably beneath her, the metal cuffs digging into her wrists.
She twisted her head, trying to see what he was doing. He went over to the huge wardrobe that flanked one of the walls and yanked open the doors. He grabbed a belt from a hook and returned to her, fire in his eyes.
Terrified, she tried to plead through the gag—to beg him not to hurt her again—but she could only make incoherent sounds.
“Goddamn motherfucking bastard,” he was muttering between gritted teeth. “And fucking Brad. He’s the one with his dick in other men’s wives, not me. And holier-than-thou Carter who refuses to touch his trust fund from Pop. Fucking pompous dickwad.”
The belt came crashing down against Callie’s already tender ass. She squealed behind the gag, instinctively trying to roll away from the stinging leather flicking against the backs of her thighs.
“Stay still, you cunt,” Damon roared, the anger in his voice frightening her as much as the belt.
Callie forced herself to lie still as the belt snapped again and again against her tortured flesh. She closed her eyes and hid her face against the soft quilt, trying desperately to conjure some kind of peaceful place in her mind to which she could escape. But it was no good.
Finally, the beating stopped. She felt the weight of the mattress shift as he fell onto the bed beside her. Though she tried to be quiet, she couldn’t stop whimpering behind the gag. Every inch of her ass and the backs of her thighs was on fire. She wondered if she was bleeding again. Just the thought sickened her.
It was hard to breathe through her nose, which had become clogged from her crying. If only she could get the fucking ball gag out of her mouth!
Finally, to her vast relief, she felt Damon’s fingers at the back of her head as he unbuckled the horrid gag. He pulled it away. “Hey,” he said, his voice suddenly gentle as he stroked her hair. “Don’t cry, Callie. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I was pissed and I took it out on you.”
Had the bastard just apologized to her? The irony of that small apology in the midst of the impossibly unforgivable situation almost made her want to laugh. Yet, at the same time, tears again filled her eyes, not from the pain, but because she was actually grateful for that small shred, that tiny glimmer, of humanity.
But the gratitude was quickly followed by rage. It was like running someone over with a car repeatedly, and then apologizing for the rip he’d caused in her stocking. Seriously?
Still, she needed to seize this brief moment of apparent compassion. In order to escape, she needed her strength. In order to survive, she had to get some food.
She forced herself to look at him, striving to keep her expression subservient and docile. He was regarding her with a soft, sad expression which she knew could vanish in the blink of an eye. Gathering her courage, she pleaded, “I haven’t had anything to eat in so long. I promise to be good from now on. Please, Sir. May I have some food?”
Chapter 12
How long had she been his captive? Three days? Five? The days had begun to blur, bleeding together into one long, endless test of endurance in the face of constant torture and humiliation. She’d been horrified when she’d caught a glimpse
of her bruised, welted ass in the bathroom mirror, the tangled mess of her hair and the hollow, fearful look in her eyes. She’d taken to avoiding the mirror, averting her gaze while in the bathroom.
It had almost been worth it to take the vicious belt-strapping she’d received after his phone call. His contrite mood had lasted the rest of the day. Granted, she’d had to endure an obnoxious game of fetch as he tossed segments of orange, chunks of pineapple and bits of cheese onto the tiled kitchen floor. He’d forced her to crawl on her hands and knees and pick up the bits of food using only her mouth.
She’d eagerly scampered after each delicious, life-restoring morsel, sucking it into her mouth as quickly as she could. She’d ignored his cruel chuckling as he amused himself at her expense. She’d ended up eating more than her shrunken belly could handle, and had paid the price with terrible stomach cramps afterward. But it had been worth it.
It had been harder to drink the water from the dog bowl he’d set near his feet. She’d made a mess of it, dunking the ends of her hair into the water and sloshing half the contents onto the floor, but she’d managed to quench her thirst.
At least he allowed her to eat regularly now, and no longer forced her to crawl around like a dog for her food. She was permitted to sit on the floor beside his chair for meals. He allowed her to feed herself from an actual plate and drink from a cup, though she wasn’t permitted utensils. Maybe if she continued to play her cards right, lulling him in the belief she’d accepted her lot, he might eventually let her sit at the table. But she wasn’t holding her breath.
Still, there were some improvements. He’d moved her from the basement to his bed at night. She’d only had to go back down there once, when the maids came in to do the deep cleaning. He’d made her go into the small, empty storage closet in the basement. After forcing her to sit down on the floor, he’d pressed a sticky piece of duct tape over her mouth, bound her hands and feet together and then closed the door.
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