Tricked

by Claire Thompson

  For all she knew, she’d done it wrong. Her very limited experience with the BDSM scene had been virtual, gleaned from fiction and the websites she had visited. Maybe it was bad form for someone outside the Master/slave relationship to intervene. Even if they’d been a little suspicious at first, Damon had been so smooth and persuasive, easily dismissing their concerns with his false kindness and suave reassurance.

  She stiffened as she heard the sound of the bedroom door opening. A moment later, Damon pulled open the closet door, flooding the dark space with light. Callie squinted up at him as her eyes adjusted to the brightness.

  To her vast relief, he didn’t look furious, nor was there a weapon in his hand. In fact, he grinned down at her as he released her wrists and hauled her upright. Gently, he pulled away the tape from her mouth. He caught her in an embrace and lifted her off the ground, whirling her in a circle before dropping her on the bed.

  “We showed those two players a thing or two, didn’t we?” he said with a laugh as he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it over a chair. “I don’t know why they cut the evening so short, but whatever.”

  He shrugged, leaning down to pick up a tumbler that contained several inches of what looked like whiskey. He took a long drink, smacking his lips. “They like to think they’re so edgy and daring, but in the end it’s all just a game to them. Imagine if they knew you were truly my slave.”

  He frowned, adding, “That little German twat had a lot of nerve, questioning me about your treatment. If I owned her, I’d soon beat that impertinence out of her.” He drank the rest of the whiskey in one long gulp.

  Had Greta said something to him before leaving? Not that it mattered, Callie thought with despair. They were gone—never to return. She was on her own again—that small window of hope once again firmly closed.

  Damon kicked off his loafers and removed his pants and underwear. Naked, he sat on the bed beside her. He lifted his hand and she winced involuntarily, expecting a slap in the face. Instead, to her confusion, he gently cupped her cheek.

  “You did good tonight,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “I mean, yeah, you made a little noise during the caning, but you didn’t try anything stupid.”

  Callie felt almost sick with relief. He hadn’t seen the hand gesture. But then, apparently no one had.

  “Too bad they’re leaving town tomorrow,” he continued. “I would have liked to invite them back. They’re into blood play. That would have been fucking awesome.” He shrugged again, adding more to himself than to her, “Though it’s probably a good thing. It was risky to let them see you. But hey”—he shrugged, flashing a grin—“I’m never a man who shied away from risk. And Christ, it was such a rush.”

  He lay down on the bed beside Callie and stretched out. Lifting his hand again, this time he placed it on the back of his neck, wincing as he rubbed it. “That session took it out of me. I must have pulled a muscle or something.”

  Oh, poor baby, Callie thought with savage sarcasm. Strained a muscle while flaying me alive.

  She swallowed her rage as a crazy idea leaped full-blown into her mind. She was tempted to dismiss it at once. It was hugely risky and probably impossible to achieve. On the other hand, time was running out—she was sure of it. He’d been dropping more and more hints lately as to his intentions. She was pretty sure he was either going to kill her or sell her to a sex trafficker in the very near future.

  Either fate was unthinkable. She needed to seize this rare moment when he seemed kindly disposed toward her, the whiskey further lowering his guard.

  Girding her courage, she dared, “Perhaps I could give you a massage, Sir? I could use some of that massage oil you keep in the bathroom.”

  He turned to regard her with a quizzical smile as he searched her face.

  Callie did her best to keep her expression submissive and subservient, with a touch of the coquette thrown in. She looked up at him through her lashes, pursing her lips in what she hoped was a sexy pout. “If that would please you, Sir.”

  She held her breath, her life hanging in the balance as she waited for his response.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” he responded. “Go get the massage oil. Oh, and bring a large towel.”

  Yes!

  Hope and terror collided in Callie’s gut. Was she out of her mind? Was she really going to try this?

  There was no choice. This was her best hope—her last chance.

  “Yes, Sir,” she replied softly, hoping she sounded calm, though her heart was hurtling at a hundred miles an hour. “Right away.”

  Callie rolled from the bed and made her way back to the bathroom. Avoiding her image in the mirror as she always did these days, she grabbed the bottle of oil from the bathtub ledge, along with a large bath towel.

  When she returned to the bedroom, Damon was lying on his back, hands behind his head, legs casually crossed. The ever-present gold chain hung around his neck, the keys to her freedom resting against his smooth, muscular chest. He gestured with his head toward the mattress beside him. “Spread out the towel so we don’t get oil on the sheets.”

  Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Oh, my god. This will never work. It has to work. It’ll never work. Shut up. It has to. You will do this thing, or die trying.

  Praying her face didn’t betray the turmoil going on in her brain, Callie set down the bottle of oil on the night stand. She smoothed out the large towel on the bed beside Damon. He rolled lazily over onto it so he was lying on his stomach, his head cradled in his arms, his eyes fixed on her.

  “Bring it on,” he said.

  Her eyes fixed on the trio of keys resting on their chain against the mattress just beside his head. What luck they were visible, instead of trapped between his chest and the mattress. Was it a sign from the universe that she had to seize this chance? Did she dare…?

  Forcing herself to focus, she squirted a small amount of oil into her palm and rubbed her hands together. Leaning up beside him, she pressed her fingers into the small of his back, kneading gently but firmly.

  “You can press harder. It feels good.”

  She obliged, adding a little more oil as she moved her hands slowly up his back. Her own body was rigid with tension as she feverishly went over and over the details of her insane plan. Slowly, she inched her hands up his back. When she got to his shoulders, he sighed with pleasure, his eyelids fluttering closed.

  “Hmmm,” he murmured. “That’s nice. You’re turning into a good little slave. Too bad I can’t keep you forever.”

  Callie’s heart thudded painfully as she moved her fingers to his neck, her eyes glued to those keys. Taking a breath, she blurted the words she’d been silently practicing for the past twenty minutes.

  “Excuse me, Sir. I don’t want to get your beautiful gold chain oily while I work on your neck. Did you want to remove it during the massage?”

  She held her breath, every ounce of her being willing him to agree.

  “Nah,” he replied breezily. “It’ll be fine.”

  His words were like a sucker punch to the gut. Tears filled her eyes as her spirits plummeted down to her toes.

  She forced herself to continue the massage, her mind reeling.

  “Too bad I can’t keep you forever.”

  For all she knew, tonight might be her last night alive. She had to come up with another plan. She just had to.

  Damon yawned noisily and then stilled again, his breathing perceptibly slowing. “That single malt packs a punch,” he murmured, slurring his words.

  The whiskey. The massage. His evident fatigue. He seemed to be drifting off to sleep! This was the first time he hadn’t cuffed her and forced her to the bottom of the mattress before settling in for the night.

  Hope ballooned once more inside her. Maybe, just maybe, she could resurrect her plan.

  Trying to contain her rising excitement, Callie refocused on kneading the taut muscles beneath his supple flesh until they loosened, yielding to her caress. Gradually, she lightened her touch, gen
tly stroking his oiled skin until a small snore issued from his parted lips.

  Heart leaping, she willed herself to remain calm. She continued a light massage for another several minutes. When she was certain he was in a deep sleep, she slowly, carefully lifted the chain just enough to get a grip on the clasp. With trembling fingers, she somehow managed to get it open.

  Stay asleep. Stay asleep, she silently begged as she set the ends of the chain carefully down on either side of his neck. He was snoring more loudly now, his body a deadweight on the bed.

  With agonizing slowness, she pulled the keys carefully from the open chain. All the while, she kept her eyes fixed on Damon’s face for the slightest sign of a reaction. Her heart was beating so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

  Finally, all three keys fisted in her hand, she slowly, cautiously, climbed off the mattress. She froze in place beside the bed for several seconds, terrified he would leap up and lunge for her.

  But he didn’t move a muscle. The guy was apparently down for the count.

  Holding her breath, she crouched in front of the night stand. Silent as a mouse, albeit a trembling one, she managed to lift the lockbox from the shelf while still keeping the keys in her hand. Holding the box against her chest, she speed-walked to the bathroom.

  He was still snoring as she silently closed and locked the bathroom door. She felt sick with adrenaline, her heart leaping spasmodically in her chest.

  Setting the lockbox on the counter by the sink, she unlocked and lifted the lid. There it was—her salvation, if she could just keep her nerve. She stared down at the gun, jittery with anticipation. There was a small box of ammunition beside it. She lifted the weapon carefully from the box and examined it.

  It was a basic handgun, similar to ones she was familiar with. After a moment, she found the button on the side of the hand grip to eject the magazine. Sliding the ammo box open, she removed a bullet with trembling fingers and inserted it into the magazine. She added another bullet, and another, until the magazine was full.

  All was still quiet on the other side of the door, but he might wake at any moment. Quickly, she reinserted the magazine, pushing it briskly and firmly upward until it clicked into place. Then, using her palm to pull the slide to its rearmost position, she slid a round into the chamber.

  The keys. She needed to bring those along, but they would interfere with the gun. If only she had her own clothes—something with a pocket. She glanced around the bathroom. Something of his would have to do. Moving quickly to the clothing hamper, she found one of his button-down shirts with a front pocket, along with a pair of running shorts.

  Setting down the gun for a moment, she pulled on the shorts, put on the shirt and buttoned a few of the buttons. Taking the keys from the counter, she slipped them into the shirt pocket.

  No longer trembling, she released the safety, moved toward the door and turned the lock.

  Chapter 21

  “Wake up, asshole.”

  Callie had the gun aimed at the back of the bastard’s head. She had imagined, if and when the time ever came, that she’d have no trouble pulling the trigger. But the thought of his blood, bone and brains splattering over the pillow and headboard turned her stomach. Not to mention, it would definitely complicate matters with the police.

  No. She would not let this monster turn her into a killer, even if it was clearly self-defense.

  “I said, wake the fuck up.”

  “Huh?” Damon slowly lifted his head, fixing Callie with a bleary-eyed gaze. Then his eyes widened, his mouth gaping open. “What the fuck?” he demanded, shifting quickly to a sitting position, his eyes fixed on the gun. “How did you…?” His hand flew to his chest, fingers scrabbling for a chain that was no longer there, his face flushing with anger. He moved as if to lunge for her. “Give me that, you fucking cunt.”

  Callie took a quick step back, the gun still trained on his face. “Don’t move! You try anything stupid and I’ll shoot,” she shouted, surprised that her voice was strong despite her jangling nerves.

  She half expected him to ignore her command, convinced he could overpower her as he always had before. But she hadn’t had a loaded gun aimed at his face before.

  “You wouldn’t dare, bitch,” he snarled, but he made no move to rise.

  “Wanna try me?” she retorted.

  A small, mean smile lifted the corners of his mouth, though his eyes remained hard and cold. He held out his hands in a placating gesture. “You don’t want to do this, Callie,” he said in a wheedling tone. “You don’t even know how to handle a gun. You’ll end up shooting yourself.”

  There were six bullets in the magazine. Making a split-second decision, Callie shifted her stance slightly, and fired at the lamp beside the bed. The bulb exploded and Damon screamed.

  “What the hell? What the fuck!” he cried, wrapping his arms around his torso. “You said guns scared you. You tricked me!”

  “How’s it feel, cocksucker?” she snapped, enjoying this way too much.

  He didn’t reply.

  “Get up,” she continued, nearly levitating with adrenaline and her new sense of power. “We’re going down to the basement. You first. You make any sudden move, and I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”

  He rose slowly to his feet. “Can I put something on?” he asked.

  Seriously?

  A bitter laugh burst from her throat. “No. You’ll stay naked.”

  He glared at her, rage radiating from him like an aura. Though she had the weapon, he was still a lot bigger and a lot stronger than she was.

  She waved the gun at him. “Put your hands on your head, fingers laced together,” she commanded.

  With obvious reluctance, he obeyed.

  “Let’s go. You walk in front of me, keeping your hands on your head the whole time. You try anything—anything at all, and I’ll shoot.”

  “This is crazy,” he tried, the insincere smile again twisting his lips. “Things got out of hand, I admit. But I can make it up to you. I have a lot of money. Come on, babe. Be reasonable.”

  “Don’t call me babe, you son of a bitch!” Callie shouted. Her index finger actually trembled on the trigger, aching to squeeze. It would be so easy…

  Calm down, she ordered herself. Don’t let him get to you. You have the power now.

  Feeling more in control, she said, “Here’s the deal. I don’t want to hear another fucking word out of your mouth. Now, march.”

  He started to say something else, but apparently thought better of it. Pressing his lips into a thin line, he turned and walked toward the bedroom door.

  Callie followed him down the hallway to the basement. “Open the door. Then put your hands back on your head and keep them there. Go down the stairs. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Damon pulled the door open. He twisted back his head to glance at her.

  “Move it,” she ordered.

  Facing forward again, he put his hands back on his head and began his descent. Callie followed, two steps behind, the gun trained on the middle of his back.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she said, “Let’s see how you like spending some time in the punishment closet.”

  “Callie, please. This is nuts. I—”

  “Shut the fuck up,” she shouted. “And do what you’re told.”

  Her hand was shaking now, not with fear, but with excess adrenaline. Her trigger finger still ached to squeeze.

  Just get him in the closet. Lock the door. Call the police. Get yourself free.

  He stared from the gun’s muzzle to her face and back to the gun. Then, with a shrug of his broad shoulders, he turned and walked through the basement toward the tiny closet where Callie had spent so many miserable hours.

  Skirting around Damon, Callie opened the door, the gun still trained on him. “Get in and face the back wall, hands still on your head.”

  Damon’s expression was mutinous, but he did as he was told.

  Once he was inside and facing the back wall,
she slammed the door shut. With her free hand, she reached into the shirt pocket, fumbling for the right key. Her hand shook as she tried to insert it in the lock.

  All at once, the door flew open, knocking her backward. The closet key fell to the concrete. Callie stumbled but managed to right herself before she fell. The gun was still gripped in her hand, the safety off.

  Damon burst out of the closet, his handsome face mottled with fury, his hands outstretched. “You fucking bitch,” he shouted, spittle spraying from his lips as he hurtled toward her. “You’re gonna pay, you stupid fucking cunt!”

  Instinctively, she leaped aside. He caught her with the side of his hand, hitting her hard against the side of her head. She fell to one knee, nearly stunned from the blow.

  “Get away,” she cried in a quavering voice as she hauled herself to her feet. She still had the gun. She waved it toward him. “I’ll kill you. I swear to god, I will!”

  “You don’t have the balls,” Damon snarled, again lunging for her.

  He leaped on her and they both fell to the floor. In the process, he got a hand around her throat. He was heavy on top of her, and her left arm was twisted painfully beneath her.

  Her gun hand was caught between them, the muzzle pressed into Damon’s thigh. As his grip tightened around her throat, pure instinct took over.

  Callie squeezed the trigger.

  The gun’s report cracked like a sonic boom between them, followed by Damon’s high-pitched scream. He slumped against her, his hand slackening on her throat.

  Her ears rang from the blast. Horror pervading her entire being, Callie wriggled from beneath the inert man and rolled away. Her fingers were clenched so tightly around the gun that she couldn’t have dropped it if she’d tried.

  “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck,” she babbled, backing away. “I killed him. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck!”

  But then Damon rolled over, both hands pressed over his left thigh, blood seeping through his fingers. “My leg,” he wailed, his face twisted in agony. “You fucking shot me! I’ll kill you for this!”