by Linnea May
The only thing that’s missing are her heels. She’s so much shorter than I thought she’d be, judging from when I saw her striding down the street. Seeing her standing in front of me in nothing but her sensuous stockings only increases the vulnerability that surrounds her this morning.
“Do you want me to do it?” I ask her, slowly stepping closer.
The question is meant to be a warning, but she doesn’t take it as such. Instead, she smiles up at me and nods. That little freak.
“Yes, I think I’d like that.”
8
Ruby
I didn’t expect him to jump at me like this. It’s almost as if he’s been waiting for permission to finally touch me. I could see the generous bulge in his pants last night, and I can see it again this morning. He wants me, he wants me bad, but for some reason, he’s hesitant to take what he paid for.
Despite the scenario we’re playing, I figured that he might be waiting for something like this, for a sign, a gesture, or a verbal invitation. He likes to play the bad guy, the kidnapper, but he doesn’t want to fuck a woman who doesn’t want him to.
I get it. I’ve been with enough men similar to him to understand how their minds work. They may be wrecked, fucked-up in their own way, but they’re still not the guys who end up behind bars for their desires.
Or so I want to believe.
I yelp in surprise when he charges at me, even though I’m not completely surprised by it. His hands are on me within seconds, and just like most men, he hungers for my tits the most. Fair enough. I used my first bigger paychecks from this job to get them done, not only because I knew it would help me attract the attention of more generous clients, but also because I’ve always wanted to do it. I’ve had my artificial curves for about three years now, and can barely remember a time without them. The sight of them jumping free as he pulls down my halterless dress excites me almost as much as it does him.
Unlike many other men, he doesn’t pause here, he doesn’t lean forward to suck on my nipples, he doesn’t even touch my bare skin. Instead, he continues to pull my dress all the way down over my ass, before letting it drop to the floor, where it pools around my feet. I step out of it, instinctively sucking my tummy in and straightening my back, like a good girl.
He notices my efforts and regards them with a generous smile, before he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me closer until our bodies meet. I’m met with a wall of muscle, and his hard length poking into my belly.
“Happy?” he asks.
I blush, but the smile that completes my reaction doesn’t sit well with him.
“You’re fucked-up,” he hisses, before hooking his fingers beneath the garter belt around my waist. He rips it apart in one swift motion, and I mourn the loss of one of my finest pieces of lingerie, only to have the sacrifice doubled when he continues by ripping my thong with an equal measure of aggression.
I don’t understand him. Instead of touching me like any other man would, instead of digging his greedy hands into my flesh, he barely seeks contact with my skin. Instead, he’s focused entirely on ripping off my attire, finishing the deed by tearing my stockings as he pulls them down in one brute motion.
I stand there, naked and confused, when he turns away to attend to the tub. He adds two bath bombs, and we both watch as they dissolve and form colorful mountains of soap suds at the surface. He stops the water flow once the tub is about halfway full and turns around to me.
“Get in.”
His eyes are on me the entire time as I climb into the admittedly beautiful and luxurious hot tub. All of my clients have been financially well-off - otherwise they wouldn’t be able to afford the services my agency has to offer - but this must still be the nicest bathroom I have ever found myself in. The room itself is pretty big, entailing a lavish rain-shower next to the hot tub, a particularly beautiful vanity with a mirror spanning almost the entire wall to my left, and golden fixtures on white marble all around. And it’s only the basement bathroom! I can’t even begin to imagine what the ones upstairs look like. I wonder if I’ll ever get to see them.
The water is very warm, but not too hot, perfectly comfortable. I can’t help but let out a soft moan as I sink down into the welcoming valley of bubbly warmth. The water feels good against my strained muscles and sore skin. I have no idea how long he left me alone in the dark, tied to that horribly uncomfortable bench, but it felt like an eternity. It was a terrible experience, and probably one of the worst things anyone has ever done to me. The dark is one of my biggest enemies. But I’m a warrior by nature, so I refused to let my anxiety win out over me this easily. I remained calm, enduring the blindness, the solitude, the uncertainty. Still, it didn’t take long for my monsters to find me. Tears came, and along with them, horrid desperation. I alternated between a sad sob and angry wailing. Time dragged along, but it did pass, and by the time he finally showed up to rescue me, my biggest problem was no longer the darkness, but the call of nature that threatened to humiliate me even further.
But despite my desperate pleas and the dried tears, I felt pride trumping every other emotion. When he opened the door to untie me, he found a different person than the one he left behind. A stronger person. Challenges like this only boost my fortitude.
I didn’t even notice that I closed my eyes, until I feel his hands on me and I jerk away. He’s kneeling next to the tub, holding a little washcloth and reciprocating my questioning look with determination.
“You’re mine,” he simply says, before draping the washcloth along my shoulders.
“What do you want me to do?” I whisper.
“I want you to hold still,” he replies. “And turn around to me so I can see those beautiful tits of yours.”
I do as I’m told, grimacing as the warm water caresses a sore spot on my back. As soon as I’m facing him, he reaches forward, cupping my boobs and gently kneading them. It feels good, so good that another faint moan escapes my lips.
“Do you not understand what’s going on here?” he asks.
I look at him, my mind already dazed by the warm water mist and his sensual touch. He narrows his eyes, looking displeased.
“You don’t, do you?”
I shake my head. “You kidnapped me. I’m yours now.”
He huffs. “And you accept that? Just like that?”
I don’t know what he’s trying to do. Is he trying to get me to act more scared? Why is this so hard? I thought things would pretty much just develop naturally. I thought he’d be louder, more aggressive. I thought he’d hit me, scare the shit out of me, so it’d be easy to be afraid.
But he’s so... calm. Calm and creepy seems to be his thing. And he wants me to fear this side of him just as much as the violent brute I’m sure he can be.
“Do I have a choice?” I ask, locking onto his gaze. “Would it help if I screamed? If I tried to hurt you? If I kicked you? Anything?”
He holds my gaze, his black eyes hiding whatever turmoil might be brewing inside of him. Maybe he’s doing this for the first time? It could be. He’s so young, so handsome. Why would a man like him even need to buy women?
Because he’s twisted, I have to remind myself. He’s not normal. He doesn’t fuck like a normal guy. For him, I’m merely an object, a toy to be played with, a possession, something to use until the time set out in our contract is over. Thirty-nine days, it said. Thirty-nine days and I’ll be paid an amount of money that is too big to grasp.
An amount that will allow me to stop doing this job forever. If that’s what I want.
“It wouldn’t, would it?” I add. “If I tried to fight you, it would only make things worse - for you and for me.”
The expression on his face barely changes. He’s impossible to read, which doesn’t make this any easier.
“You’re right, it wouldn’t help,” he says. “But you seem oddly accepting of all of this.”
Because you’re paying me to fucking be here.
I thought neither of us was allowed to add
ress any of this? Why is he saying these things?
“What do you want me to do?” I repeat my earlier question. “Tell me and I’ll do it.”
He huffs again, and I yelp when he closes two fingers around each of my nipples and squeezes them, hard. The pain leaves a throbbing aftermath when he removes his hands.
“I’d be careful with those words, toy,” he says. “I will ask a lot of you in the time to come.”
He reaches for the washcloth and continues to let in travel across my skin. I hold still and let him proceed, obediently moving and positioning myself as he pleases. He’s thorough, and so gentle. He even shampoos my hair and takes a little extra time to clean my face, making sure that none of the carefully applied make-up from last night is left on my skin. It irritates me that I took this much effort, only to have him remove it all, my clothes and my make-up, without ever truly appreciating it.
When he’s done, he tells me to stand up and get out of the tub, where he greets me with a big, plush towel. But before he wraps it around me, he drinks in the view of my naked, wet body. He’s hard, I can tell by the unmistakable bulge at his crotch. Judging from what I can see beneath the thick fabric of his jeans, he must be huge.
It may be instinct, it may be occupational habit, but when I’m close enough, facing him as he wraps the towel around my shoulders, I reach forward, gently caressing his impressive bulge. I bet he wouldn’t say no to a blow-job; they never do.
But he confuses me yet again. Instead of moaning and leaning into my touch, he jerks back and slaps my hand away.
“Slut!” he hisses at me. “Have I given you permission to touch me?”
I look up at him, the same confusion painted across my face that has become a constant companion since I got here.
“No, but I thought-”
“You don’t get to decide!” he interrupts. “You don’t get to decide or control anything. Do you fucking understand?”
This is the first time that he’s raised his voice to me. My heart is fluttering.
“Do you understand?” he repeats, his dark eyes on fire.
“Yes,” I hurry to say. “Yes. I understand.”
But I don’t. I really don’t understand.
9
Ruby
I’m mad at him. I’m mad at him for not appreciating the effort I’ve shown to impress him. I’m mad at him for being this way, for leaving me in the dark about his plans and his ideas about how this is supposed to go down. How am I supposed to please him if he doesn’t tell me what to do? So far, he seems nothing but displeased with me, and I have no idea why.
Well, that’s not exactly true. I have a vague suspicion that he’s not happy with my acting. I’m not scared enough, not desperate enough. He finds fault with my lack of struggle, my lack of screaming and crying, and even when he found me this morning, a pathetic pile of misery with dried-up tears crusting my eyes, a silent plea on my lips, even then he wasn’t happy.
This night was horrible. I hate the dark, always have. But I recovered from it just as quickly as I tend to recover from all the mistreatments I’ve endured throughout my life. I’m a fighter. I bounce back quickly and come out on the other side a stronger person. I’ve always been that way; I’ve had to.
But I can tell that he wants me weak, scared, and broken, losing my mind in a furious fit while pointlessly lashing out at him.
That’s just not who I am, and I don’t have the acting skills to pretend I’m that kind of person.
After he wrapped me up in that gigantic towel, the gentle treatment abruptly came to an end. He led me out of the bathroom, and as he pushed me forward, I feared that I’d end up on that damn bench again. There was no other surface to lay on, which is probably why he placed me there while I was still unconscious.
But he’s not pushing me toward the stretching bench again. Instead, we’re heading toward an open area in front of a St. Andrew’s Cross that’s nailed to the wall.
“Down, on your knees,” he commands, and I comply immediately, like the good slave I know I can be.
I tilt my head back into my neck, my gaze searching his for approval.
“Spread your thighs, palms on your knees,” he orders, and I follow suit. This is a common slave position, and I’ve been asked to present myself like this before. The towel that’s been wrapped around my body falls down as I spread my legs, but I don’t bother picking it up.
He pauses for a few moments, observing as I present myself in the way he asked. Then, he drops down on his knees in front of me, coming almost to eye-level with me.
I withstand his strong gaze, almost proud of my endurance. His look is intense, especially coming from a man as handsome as he is. No client has ever turned my insides the way he does, and no one has ever confused me this much, on so many levels.
And as it turns out, he’s only going to make it worse.
“Who the hell are you?” he asks, catching me off guard with that unexpected question.
Do I have to come up with some elaborate background story about the character I’m playing? If so, why was I never instructed about this?
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He groans, knitting his eyebrows once again.
“Well, my name is-”
“I don’t need your fucking name,” he interrupts. “Your name is ‘toy’ while you’re with me. That’s all I need. Do you understand?”
I nod, boiling with anger inside.
“Yes, I understand,” I respond. “And what am I to call you? Since you don’t like Sir...”
“Master,” he says. “You’ll call me ‘master’.”
I nod again. “Yes, master.”
His next question baffles me even more.
“Are you a whore?”
I gasp. Why the hell would he ask that? He knows that I am, even though I despise the word.
There were no instructions about any of this. I have no idea what to do, except to stick to the truth.
“Yes, I am,” I nod, emphasizing every syllable and adding weight to my words, as if they were new information for him.
“That explains your fucking get-up,” he says. “You looked like the perfect fuck doll.”
“Thank you.”
He chuckles. “Why do you think that’s a compliment?”
“I take it as one.”
“Were you waiting for a client?”
I look at him, letting a few seconds pass before I dare reply.
“Yes, I was.”
“For several days?”
“Yes.”
“I never saw you with anyone,” he continues. “Did he not show up?”
I take a deep breath and lift a hand to touch him, but I withdraw it just as quickly. No touching. I remember. I retreat and place my hand back on my thigh, where it belongs.
I lower my eyes before I give him a reply.
“He might have,” I say in a low voice.
“Might have?” he probes. “You mean after I took you?”
I look up to meet his eyes again. Why is he doing this? What kind of story am I supposed to tell? I don’t want to ruin this for him, because I may forfeit my payment, but I’m also lost as to how I’m supposed to answer these questions.
Lying, acting. That’s what I’m being paid for. So that’s what I’ll do.
“Yes,” I say. “My client probably showed up last night, right after my coat was stolen, right after you took me.”
He nods.
“How long have you been doing this?”
I bite my lower lip. “A few years.”
“Elaborate.”
“Four? Maybe?”
“How old are you?”
He knows how old I am; it says so in my file.
“Twenty-five.”
He licks his lower lip and scans my naked body. I flinch when he reaches for one of my boobs and twists my nipple.
“When did you get these done?”
“About three years ago.”
“For your clients?
”
I nod. “And myself.”
He sighs, placing a finger below my chin and tilting my face up to his. Our eyes lock onto each other, and again, there are moments of silence, moments that turn into seconds, seconds that feel like minutes.
“Am I doing something wrong?” I dare to ask, while he’s still holding my face in place.
He shakes his head.
“Are you not afraid of me?” he wants to know. “I sedated you. I took you to a remote house God knows where, I tied you up and left you alone in the dark - and you just silently sit there and endure it all? Not to mention, you reach for my cock any chance you can get.”
He pauses, continuing to observe me as if I was some kind of weird research project.
“That just doesn’t seem right.”
I swallow hard.
“What are you going to do to me?”
A dark smile appears on his face. Finally, it seems I’ve asked the right question.
But then he says something that I can’t let go, not like that.
“I’m going to break you,” he says. “I’m going to tear you to pieces, break any defiance, tear down any walls, and rob you of any free will. I’ll do unspeakable things to you, until you’re completely and utterly mine.”
My pulse is racing and I feel as if a clamp is closing around my throat, choking me with a overwhelming sense of fear. He’s actually scaring me with his words, and if it wasn’t for the contract laid out between us, I’d be terrified to no end.
But then it hits me.
That’s exactly what he wants. That’s what he’s paying me for. I should forget about the contract for a while. I should act as if all of this was real, as if my life truly was in danger, as if I had no idea what to expect, as if I had to fear the worst from him.
And it works. As soon as I let myself believe all those things, my breathing changes. I’m panting, and it only gets worse when he moves his hand toward my throat and actually starts choking me.
“That’s right,” he hisses, his black eyes flickering as triumph sets him on fire. “When I’m done with you, my toy, you won’t be able to do anything on your own, you’ll depend on me for every step you take, but most of all...”