Own This Body

by Reese Gabriel

  I threw myself forward, desperate for escape. “You can’t make me do that. You haven’t the right.”

  He watched me struggle and strain for a while, my nude flesh helpless against the cloying strips. I stopped, eventually, having caught on to the fact that the only thing I was accomplishing was giving the man a free show. “You won’t get away with this,” I huffed, straightening myself with as much dignity as could be managed by a cum-soaked, bound and sweaty girl with a washcloth shoved between her splayed legs.

  “I already have,” he winked. “I already have.”

  Chapter Five

  I was on a plane back to LA the next day. Technically, I was not under arrest, although Agent Reynolds had made it abundantly clear that I was in no wise a free woman. Since being released from the duct tape last night, he hadn’t once let me out of his sight. Even my well-deserved shower was taken in the man’s presence. The whole time I soaped and rinsed my aching, sex-charged body, he was watching me through the open shower door. The enforced exhibitionism infuriated me, but I caught myself aroused as well. A part of me wanted to scratch the bastard’s eyes out, but another part of me, equally strong, wanted to display myself to best advantage.

  It’s no secret that every woman uses her sex at times, especially if she is even halfway attractive to men. Ever since puberty, when I’d had the dubious blessing of early breast development, I’d known how to get men to do what I wanted. Men liked to be teased and fussed over by girls and they were pushovers to be manipulated. Even when a man thought he was in charge, you could still call the shots and get what you wanted. The boys in college were like that and it was no secret that the games we played were all my idea or Jennifer’s. I had to admit that where Jeremy Rich was concerned, I’d had ulterior motives, and yes, I had used my body as bait.

  With Reynolds, however, everything was different. If he was interested in me, it didn’t show. I looked desperately for signs—hard-ons and so forth—but never found any. Not even my filmy soaped up body, beaded up with water and dripping white sudsy foam seemed to hold appeal.

  When I asked him to help dry my back, he told me I was a big girl and could take care of myself. Nor did he pick up on my subtle and not so subtle attempts to brush up against him. I would almost have chalked him up as gay, and yet he seemed intent on putting me in compromising positions again and again.

  After I’d showered, for example, I was allowed nothing by way of night clothing. Instead, I was made to stand nude at the foot of my bed whereupon he shackled me hand and foot by means of a complicated chain arrangement of the type used with dangerous prisoners. A pair of shackles went on my ankles, connected by a narrow chain. From the center of the chain ran a long lead that attached to a belly chain and pair of wrist shackles. Reynolds made me shuffle this way to the bed, then made me lie down for the night. No matter how I positioned myself, I was unable to cover all of my body with the sheet and worse still, every time I moved, the lengthwise chain would jam itself into my crotch.

  Reynolds, consummate pig that he is, lay down with me, fully clothed. Thus did we sleep together, him snoring peacefully, and me tossing and turning through the night, trying to repress the moans that threatened to issue every second or so from my hot, half-opened mouth. Didn’t he realize the effect on me, leaving me chained and nude, helpless beside him?

  At one point I seriously contemplated shimmying down to his zipper and opening it with my teeth to get his attention. I opted to blow in his ear instead, a strategy for which I was rewarded with exile to the floor. Using an extra pair of cuffs, he attached me to one of the legs of the bed. When I threatened to scream for help he put me on my belly and delivered a sound thrashing with his belt—three harsh blows to my twanging buttocks.

  With me steadily sobbing and whimpering for background noise, Reynolds returned to sleep. I finally fell unconscious around dawn only to be reawakened about an hour later with an unceremonious nudging at my midsection with the toe of his shoe. I sulked through breakfast, keeping up the silent treatment throughout the morning’s errands.

  Among our stops had been a trip to a prestigious clothing store where I was made to try on all manner of outfits until Reynolds had amassed a suitable wardrobe befitting the appropriate piece of live bait. The man took every opportunity to humiliate me, forcing me to bend and pose in various slinky costumes all the while asking the sales girl questions as though I weren’t even in the room.

  “Does that make her ass look too big?” he’d wanted to know of a particularly tight skirt and “haven’t you any tops that show off the tits better than this?” My opinions were neither asked for nor offered. Despite the young clerk’s aghast looks, I maintained a stoic, graceful silence, playing the part of the elegant whore or courtesan. Not even the underwear modeling threw me, though at a certain point as he was putting me through paces in a pair of red silk panties and demi-bra with matching high heels, I’d had an almost irresistible urge to go to him on my knees and tear open his trousers to get at his cock. I’d have sucked him then and there, right in front of the clerk. For as long as he wanted, till he either came down my throat or ordered me into some other position.

  Seated beside him on the plane now, freshly attired in the skirt suit and black underwear he’d picked for me, it was all I could do not to hop onto his lap. At the terminal he’d joked about handcuffing us together, and though I pretended to laugh, I was wishing he had and that right now I had been left no choice but to be that close to him, breathing his air, surrendering myself to his steel, his arrogant power.

  Blast these first class seats, anyway. Too much distance between us. Should I just recline my seat and let nature take its course? He’d resisted every opportunity to fuck me on the ground; maybe the mile high club was more his speed.

  “Reynolds, you asleep?”

  He had his eyes closed, fingers interlaced in his lap. “Yep,” he grunted, though I knew there wasn’t a ghost of a chance he’d let himself be anything but alert and ready to spring on me or anyone else he thought posed a threat to his precious mission—whatever that was.

  I turned towards him, my cheek on the soft leather. “You haven’t told me your first name,” I pointed out in a vain effort to make conversation.

  “That’s correct,” he nodded, eyes still closed. “I haven’t.”

  I sighed, opting to curl my legs up underneath me. “Have you ever been married…Agent Reynolds?”

  “I’m not the type.”

  No, I supposed, not. My finger trailed across the edge of his armrest, as I asked “What type are you then?”

  “The type that doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

  I was silent for a while, till my own thoughts—and fears—began once more to overwhelm me. “Reynolds?” I whispered, my voice soft and little girl like.

  “Mmm.”

  “You are sure about this…that I’ll be safe…right?”

  “You’ll be under my protection,” he grumbled. “That’s all you need to worry about.”

  A few more minutes elapsed, corresponding to however many hundreds of miles the jet could fly in that length of time. It was a big one, about the same size I’d flown east in with Rene and Marie. That flight seemed ages ago now. The girl who’d gone so easily to the bathroom for sex games was younger, somehow. More naïve. What had begun as an idle flirtation with bondage and domination was rapidly becoming a reality; first with Harold and Rolf and now with the very domineering Agent Reynolds.

  What was it about me that was attracting such men? Was it just coincidence or was I giving off some sort of scent, a submissive pheromone of some kind? I took my pulse, confirming its unusual rapidity. A cold sweat was breaking out on my forehead and I was battling, once again, a pair of stiff and eager nipples.

  The arousal of my body seemed to match the throbbing in my behind, a residue of my earlier disciplining. Reynolds hadn’t beaten me hard, but efficiently, pointedly. I had no doubt he could make a woman scream and beg, though. Three blows were all
I’d taken; wordless, sexless with no emotion, no passion. Whipped like a cur, and left to lie quietly.

  How infuriating this man was in his indifference. Did he have that many women to choose from? Was I of that little interest? No doubt they lined up, the little sluts and whores, the petite, tight-bodied airheads wanting to spread for him and fawn on him and feel his muscles.

  My next move came instinctually; the hot words whispered in his ear, my fingers splayed on his chest, my breasts straining to reach him across the armrest. “I’m scared, Reynolds. I need you.”

  Who knows where it came from. Call it Stockholm Syndrome or the thin air of the pressurized cabin. A pair of strong hands held me at bay. They were fighting hands, hands that had held weapons and caressed countless females as well. “What you need is some sleep, Raven. You look like hell.”

  “On your lap, then,” I pouted, stunned by my own boldness.

  Agent Reynolds scowled, even as he relented to my feminine charms allowing me to lay my head on his lap. “You’ll have to stay still,” he warned. “I don’t want you squirming the whole time.”

  “Yes,” I heard myself answer. “Sir.”

  Reynolds’ lap was as secure a place as I’d known for years. It was like being a child again, under the protection of my father. It was an illusion, of course, but a welcome even necessary one at this point. Within minutes, I felt my breathing slow. My eyelids felt weighted; I couldn’t keep them open. Everything was so dreamy: the motion of the plane, the soft, luxuriant seats, the reposed feel of the man’s body, tawny like a lion, heavily muscled under his trousers.

  Eventually I felt his hand on my head, lightly stroking. Was it my imagination, or was he comforting me? He feels something, I told myself the way women do when they are giddy and desperate. He cares for me and he’s going to protect me. Maybe even love me.

  ab

  Six hours later we were in a Ferrari convertible climbing a steep, rocky hill somewhere above the San Fernando Valley. The hot, dry air licked at my face, refreshing me. The sleep I’d gotten on the plane had been the best in weeks. Even Reynolds had seemed different by the time we landed. More tender and solicitous. Opening doors for me, carrying my bags, making me feel more like his girlfriend than a prisoner.

  This was a pipe dream, I know. But Southern California is the land of fantasy, so why not indulge?

  Reynolds had changed clothes as soon as we got to the car, trading the button down shirt and tie for a sexy Hawaiian shirt, the loud, brash kind not all men can pull off. I hadn’t asked, but he’d volunteered that we were heading for a makeshift field office, an undercover headquarters for what I had learned was being called Operation Sweetmeat.

  Given my central role in the whole affair, I had a pretty good feeling I was better off not knowing the meaning of this particular moniker.

  Our destination was a hangar at a small, seemingly abandoned airfield. Reynolds pulled up to the large door and honked the horn thrice in succession. This was the same number of times Rene had knocked on the door so I could let him into the cramped, stifling airplane bathroom to have his way with my naked body.

  Men with machine guns were waiting as the corrugated steel door slid open. They wore casual clothes, too, and a number of them had gold badges on necklaces. Whatever this place was, it wasn’t on any of the tourist maps. Reynolds was received with grins all around, along with chants of, “long time no see, Johnny Boy,” and “hope you brought enough tail for everyone, Johnny.”

  The tail was obviously a reference to me. Behind my blush was a secret pleasure, however, at having gained one bit of intelligence, albeit a small insignificant piece. I now knew Agent Reynolds’ first name.

  Reynolds returned the ribbing with good-natured jibes all around and a series of back slaps. I remained in the car, feeling suddenly small and very female amidst this whirl of testosterone.

  “Well, well,” chimed a female voice, accompanied by the clicking of stiletto heels on the cement floor. “The prodigal returns at last.”

  A gorgeous brunette was standing in front of the Ferrari, arms folded, her hip turned in a show of pure sensuality and power. She was wearing white slacks, blouse and pearls, the jacket cut low enough to reveal some rather stunning and seemingly natural cleavage. The heavy bosom and wasp waist were intensified in their contrast and sensuality by the presence of a holster, made of shiny black leather from which hung a black metal gun, large and square and no doubt loaded.

  Johnny grinned at her in a way that made me distinctly jealous. Could it be they were lovers?

  “I always do, chief.”

  I cringed at the title. As if I didn’t have enough reasons to hate this bitch already.

  “Let’s have a look,” the hot-to-trot chief inclined her head in my direction.

  Reynolds snapped his fingers, like I was a dog. “Raven, out of the car.”

  I’d half a mind to tell them to fuck off and slip over to the driver’s side, re-start the engine and take off. Given that I was surrounded by a dozen heavily armed Federal law enforcement officers, however, this was probably not a great idea.

  “Hmmph,” I snorted, making a point of slamming the door behind me. Standing in perfect emulation of the chief—all hip and attitude—I sent a clear signal that while I had to play ball I didn’t have to do it quietly.

  There was immediate laughter among the men.

  “You didn’t do a very good job taming this one,” one of them howled.

  “Give her to me,” called another, “I’ll teach her some manners.”

  The chief raised her arm, silencing the lot. I held my ground as she walked up to me, removed her dark glasses to look me squarely in the eye. I felt sized up, almost the same way as you do when a man gives you a visual working over.

  “What’s the deal, Reynolds?” she asked at last, once again acting as if I were some sort of dumb animal. “Have you been fucking her or what?”

  This time I lost it. “Excuse me,” I blurted, “but I really don’t think that is any of your…”

  I was in a chokehold before I could complete the sentence, spun around, the chief’s arm holding my neck, ready to snap it as if it were a three-day-old wishbone. “Around here,” she said to me, addressing the words very deliberately into my ear. “You’ll speak only when spoken to. Understood?”

  “Yes,” I gasped, fearing the immanent collapse of my lungs.

  She released me, throwing me forward.

  “No intercourse, yet,” Reynolds answered her, oblivious to the trauma I’d just suffered. “Just a little light bondage.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight, sweetheart,” menaced the brunette chief, not a hair on her head out of place. “As far as any of us are concerned, you’re a felon. You ought to be behind bars, and I don’t mean in some frigging country club Camp Fed, either.”

  “She means that you should be in one of those prisons for women in the movies,” grinned a smooth-domed muscular man with a goatee, a pistol clipped to his waist. “Or maybe in some shit hole Third World country where the guards give it to you up the ass day and night.”

  “Give it a rest, Petrelli.” This from Reynolds, coming to my rescue, albeit belatedly.

  “I’ve seen a million sluts just like you,” the stiletto-heeled, shapely leader was harping, indicating she at least was not going to be resting much of anything. “And I know how to handle your type, believe me.” Her hand was under my chin, fingers lifting it in a grip of steel. “You use sex to get your way; well that’s all come to an end. You’re ours now, got it?”

  My jaw tightly pressed, I was unable to nod. “Yes,” I assured her, through closed teeth.

  The chief continued to glare at me for several moments, her eyes searching for any sign of defiance. “Rosco,” she called at last, “toss me the dress.”

  She caught it without looking. It was red, a mere scrap of cloth in her hand. “Shall we try it on?” she cooed, smiling cruelly.

  I swallowed hard as she dangled the dress i
n front of me; a mockery of a garment, barely fit for a twenty-dollar whore. “Is…is there a dressing room?” I managed meekly, hoping against all odds there’d be a window to crawl out of.

  “You’ve got to be kidding?” the chief laughed, enjoying my obvious discomfort. “There’s no modesty for you here, slut. Whatever you have—and I’m sure it’s not much—is for all of us to see.”

  I looked to Reynolds, my eyes pleading.

  “Do it,” he replied flatly. “You haven’t got any choice.”

  The chief was far less gentle. “Strip!” she commanded, slapping me across my cheek.

  The pain was a wake-up call. Fingers trembling, I undid the buttons of my suit jacket and slid it from my shoulders. Likewise the blouse, the tiny round buttons like pearls, slipping through the slits in the material. My brown, flat belly was the first thing to be bared as I parted the separated halves, though it would hardly be the last.

  An unexpected moan, tiny and soft escaped my throat as I saw Reynolds watching with a feverish intensity, his eyes hot and proprietary upon my compromised flesh.

  I risked a shy smile and as my pretty new blouse fell to the dirty floor, I told myself that I was doing this just for him. In my mind, we were alone and afterwards he would take me in his arms and we would make sweet love.

  “Keep your eyes on me, slut,” snapped the chief. “You’ll have plenty of time to beg for cock later on.”

  My cheeks burned with shame. The men were snickering. Degradation turned to rage. Blinking back tears, defiant to the last, I unsnapped my bra, pulled down the cups, and thrust out my proud tits at the sorry ass Ice Queen with a badge. Have a look at perfection, my every motion telegraphed.

  My skirt was next and I made a show of this, too, slithering down the zipped and wriggling free my panty-clad ass. The bitch had no expression on her face, and for a split second I imagined I’d actually beaten her at her own game.