by Linnea May
He pauses, relishing the moan that escapes my lips when he reaches between my legs to find my wet, hot, and throbbing core. I know I’m wet as fuck, and it happened within seconds after his threats started to get to me. That’s just who I am. I’m fucked-up. Being terrified turns me on, pain turns me on, being at a man’s mercy turns me on.
“Most of all,” he continues, drawing circles around my wet clit. “Each and every single one of your orgasms will be mine.”
I gasp when he parts my lips and forcefully shoves a finger inside of me, first one, then two. I instinctively start grinding on his skillful fingers, but he keeps me in place.
“You don’t get to decide,” he repeats. “You are not in control.”
I whimper, closing my eyes as a blend of agony and pleasure travels through my body, taking over every single part of me, my core, my limbs, my mind. His hand is still wrapped around my neck, choking me ever so slightly, but not enough to cut off my air. He fucks me with two fingers, and I nearly lose it when he uses his thumb to massage my clit.
“You like this, don’t you?” he hisses, moving closer, his face now so close to mine that I can feel his hot breath on my skin.
I want to reach up, I want to touch him. I yearn for his impeccable body and his undoubtedly massive cock. But I keep my hands in place, just like a good girl should. This is what he wants, and for once, I actually know what to do and what not to do.
“You have no fucking idea.” His deep voice cuts into my dazed thoughts with a daunting echo. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but whatever fucked-up things you’ve done so far, you can rest assured, it won’t live up to this.”
I groan in response, too aroused to make sense of his words. He’s playing me like an instrument. My climax is imminent and the only thing I can worry about right now is whether I’m allowed to come or not.
“You think this is a game, don’t you?” he piles on. “You think I’m joking. You think I’m going to let you go once I’ve fucked you senseless.”
I pant, trying to hold back the first waves of my orgasm, as I feel them approaching in violent crescendos. But he’s making it impossible. He adds another finger, stretching me so much it’s almost painful, while he continues to play my swollen nub.
I’m not easily scared. Not really.
But I’ve never heard anything more terrifying than his sinister and triumphant laughter when I explode in a mind-numbing rapture on his hand.
10
Loran
I’m so badly prepared, I don’t even have proper food for her. After her climax, my toy almost collapsed into my arms, managing just in time to pull it together and straighten herself up before I had to tell her to. Again, she looked at me with those expectant eyes, awaiting commands like a trained puppy.
When I asked her if she was hungry, she shyly nodded, and it wasn’t until I left the basement to rummage through my kitchen that I realized I have very little to offer her. However, she happily accepted the bag of potato chips and the very basic sandwich I provided for her.
I leave her alone once again because I have things to attend to, and ordering food is but one of those tasks.
I head up to the second floor to the bedroom that serves as my office when I’m here. When you’re in my position, work never really stops, vacation or not, slave in the basement or not. I’ll have to make sure that none of my responsibilities are neglected while she’s here.
I’ll also have to think of a plan for afterward, when I’m done with her. I can’t possibly kill her, but if I just let her go like that, I’ll be in bigger trouble than I ever was. One thing is for certain: she can never know who I am. She has seen my face, but she has no way of knowing my name, and I intend to keep it that way.
I jump at the sound of my cell phone ringing. I didn’t expect any calls today, and when I pick it up to see who’s invading my dark space, I knit my eyebrows.
“Joel,” I say, greeting my older brother with the same tone of annoyance he deserves. “Didn’t expect to hear from you today.”
“Trust me, I wish I didn’t have to make this call,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m in trouble, man.”
I sigh. “What else is new?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, I already owe you big time. You don’t have to rub it in every time we talk-”
“Yes, I do,” I cut him off. “Because your memory fails you often enough. You don’t just owe me, brother. You wouldn’t even be able to make this call if it wasn’t for me.”
He groans. I know the facts pain him, but I’m the only one who can force him to face the truth, the harsh reality that I took the blame for something he did and still came out on the other end as the winner. His wealth and standing is only based on our family’s fortune, and by now it’s just a fraction of my own. He knows it, I know it, my not-so-beloved parents know it. But no one ever speaks of it.
“Dude, I’m aware of that,” he says. I hate it when he calls me that. Even if we were closer than we are, I’d still despise this word. It’s the vocabulary of a low-life. “Listen, they are after me again, and I fucking need your help.”
“They?”
“Investigations,” he says. “I thought they had dropped the case, but it looks like they’re still not done with that bullshit.”
I let out a deep sigh. How is this even possible? And why would they still go after him?
“Why are they on to you again?” I ask. “What the hell did you do, Joel?”
I can hear him inhale in exasperation.
“What makes you think I did anything, I-”
“You must have,” I insist. “And I won’t—no, I can’t - help you if you’re lying to me. You can lie as much as you want to our parents or your poor wife, but you can’t fucking lie to me, if you want me to help you out. Again.”
He sighs.
“I wasn’t even doing anything wrong,” he begins. “It was just a little fiddling, just a little something to save us some money.”
I groan in anger. That fucking idiot. Sales tax evasion was what got him in trouble to begin with. When he talks about ‘saving money,’ it’s safe to assume that he’s been messing with his taxes again, either his own or those of our family’s company. Oh, I fucking hope it’s not the latter.
“Really, Joel? How can you be that fucking stupid?”
“It was different this time!” he insists. “It wasn’t even illegal - or so I thought.”
“Don’t tell me over the phone,” I say. “We’ll have to meet.”
“Yes,” he says, sounding relieved. “Yes, sure. That’d be great.”
That’d be great? I sure as hell hope he has more than that to offer. I’ve taken the blame for him more than once, and I’m beginning to think that my failure of a brother is merely using me to compensate for his own deficiencies.
“Can you come over today?”
“No, I can’t. It’ll have to wait until after the weekend.”
“What?! But it’s very-”
“Monday - or not at all, Joel.”
He groans angrily. “Fine. Monday. Lunch at Clark’s?”
“Your treat,” I say, ending the call. I don’t need my useless brother buying me lunch. This is merely a matter of principal.
He’s three years older than me, married, with a child on the way. Yet I’m the one who constantly has to clean up his messes. He’s always been bad at what he does, a terrible business man. The only reason he’s in the position he’s in, as the leading CEO of our family’s corporation, an endeavor started by my late grandfather, is the fact that he’s oldest. My father never even questioned his decision to make Joel heir to his position, even though he has been given plenty of reasons to do so.
His biggest blunder was listening to the wrong guys, men he met while out on one of his drunken gambling tours. Sales tax evasion is a serious offense, and it’s even more serious when it’s done on such a large scale, as he’s done for years. When he got caught, I was the one who helped him out. I took th
e rap for his misconduct, especially in the eyes of my parents. It was a secret agreement between the two of us. We silently signed over a few major accounts into my name, and I could quickly turn most of the money into innocent income through money laundering. I’m not saying my methods were any more legal than his, but they were definitely smarter and cleaner. The prosecution was led to me, but they were too slow to act before I’d cleaned my accounts. I almost despise how easy it was.
But of course, the investigators have been on to my brother ever since, and I told him more than once to be fucking careful in the future. What I meant was for him to continue business without using any sketchy measures, but he apparently took it to mean just conducting his deeds on a smaller scale.
I rub my temples, trying to get him out of my head. I can’t focus on his bullshit right now. There are more important things I need to take care of.
My toy.
11
Ruby
He doesn’t tie me up this time. Instead, he hands me a bag of potato chips and a sandwich. He seems to ignore my blushed cheeks, and I drop my eyes to the floor in an effort to hide my shame from peaking so easily at his command, and as soon as he sets the food down in front of me, he leaves the room.
I’m curled up on a love seat in the far corner of the basement. It’s the only upholstered piece of furniture in this room that allows for comfortable sitting. I have nothing to wear, since he tore the clothes off my body, and I’m naked with nothing to cover myself with but the big bath towel.
I also don’t have my purse. He must have taken it away from me when I was unconscious. This needs to be rectified. The contract explicitly indicated that I’m allowed to bring one personal item with me, something that can calm me when the challenge of being with him becomes too overwhelming. He’s aware of that because he agreed to the terms, which is why I’m sure he’ll return it to me when I ask him about it.
My eyes study the room as I munch on the potato chips. After he left, I opened the curtains to allow in a little daylight. Anything so that I can switch off that damn ceiling light. It’s way too bright, almost clinically so. The room is only dimly lit now, but it’s still more pleasant than it was before. Next to the stretching bench and the St. Andrew’s Cross, I notice there’s an upholstered bench that I know is designed for bondage and spanking. I’ve been tied up on one of those before, but I didn’t enjoy it very much.
The dark walls are lined with a variety of sex toys on open display: paddles, riding crops, whips, chains, and cuffs. I leave the potato chips behind and get up from the love seat, wandering over to peer curiously into the glass cabinet at the other end of the room next to the St. Andrew’s Cross. Vibrators, dildos, gag balls, and things I can’t even describe are displayed in an orderly fashion. Everything is sparkling so brilliantly that they appear to have never been used.
My heart is racing. I wonder if he’ll use all of these on me? What will he start with?
I flinch and jump away from the cabinet when I hear the door opening behind me.
His dark smile greets me when I turn around. He’s still wearing dark blue jeans and a simple white shirt. The fabric stretches seductively over his strong muscles.
Butterflies. I never understood what people meant about having this sensation of butterflies fluttering in one’s tummy. Maybe this is what they meant, the twisting turmoil that spreads through my center like a rocket whenever he approaches me. It’s not just fear, but excitement - and a strong desire to be closer to him.
“Curious?” he asks, nodding toward the glass cabinet behind me.
“Is that wrong?”
He shakes his head and reaches forward, loosening the towel that’s wrapped around my naked body. I watch as it drops to the floor.
“I want my purse back,” I say in a low voice, without looking up.
“No,” he replies, his tone allowing for no back-talk.
I look up then defiantly to meet his dark gaze. “Yes, you must return it to me. It has my special item.”
He knits his eyebrows together, tilting his head to the side with an expression of confusion on his face.
“Special item?”
“You know...,” I murmur. “The one that I was allowed to bring with me. It’s a bracelet.”
“The one you were allowed to bring with you?” he repeats. “Allowed by whom?”
I fixate my defiant stare on him for a few moments, trying to figure out whether he’s messing with me. Why does he keep doing this? I was told that this assignment could only work if certain terms were agreed upon beforehand. It would destroy the whole arrangement if I was forced to verbalize the contract now that I’m here. He must know that, especially since he agreed to the terms?
“Please,” I repeat. “Just give me my purse. Or at least give me back my bracelet.”
“Bracelet?”
I sigh. “It’s my special item. I want to have it.”
The agency told me that I was allowed to ask for my bracelet at any time. I didn’t need to give a reason why I wanted it, I didn’t need to launch into a full discussion, all I had to do was ask for it. I wasn’t wearing it the night he took me because I was afraid of losing it during the struggle, the struggle I was expecting but never happened. It’s not worth more than twenty dollars from a monetary perspective, but the personal and sentimental value to me is priceless.
The bracelet was given to me by my friend Isabel, the only true friend I ever had, and the only person who stood by me the entire four years I fought my way through college. Isabel was also the one who introduced me to this line of work. More than that, though, she was the one friend who shared my desire to get an education, against any and all odds. We exchanged matching bracelets on the day we graduated from college, each one having two charms that mean the world to us, two little black hearts, just like our own.
It’s my one big reminder that I’m more than this, more than just a high-class escort, and that it’s okay for me to be both the only girl with a college degree in my family, and the person who likes making a living by selling her body to men. It’s two distinct worlds clashing, one never accepting the other, but yet my heart continues holding on to both.
“You still don’t understand,” he says, placing his hands firmly on my shoulders. The look in his eyes is unyielding and cold, but his touch feels warm and oddly comforting. “You don’t get to decide, and you don’t get to ask for favors.”
I gasp.
“This is not negotiable,” I insist. “That bracelet. I’m allowed to ask for it, no ifs, ands, or buts.”
He chuckles. “Says who?”
“It was in the contract!” I blurt out. I don’t care if I’m breaking the rules here, because so is he. He started it by belittling me like this.
He fixates on me through narrowed eyes. “We never signed a contract, toy.”
My heart feels like it stops beating for a few seconds as I process what he just said. Is this another game he’s playing with me? Does he get off on openly acting as if this was a real kidnapping and I’m being held here against my will?
“Get down on your knees.”
His command hits me like a slap to the face. My legs bend on instinct, but I fight the urge to obey. I can’t, I shouldn’t. This is not okay, and as much as I wish I could just ignore the fact that he’s obviously unwilling to stick to the most basic rules set up between us, I just can’t.
“No,” I tell him. “I want my bracelet.”
“Stop being ridiculous, toy,” he hisses, closing in on me. I’m torn between the desire to touch him, to please him, to be pleased by him - and the knowledge that doing so would hurt my credibility and what little dignity I manage to preserve through all of this.
“If you’re not going to play by the rules, then neither will I,” I huff, and for once, my voice carries conviction.
12
Loran
Her words are as confusing as they are unequivocal, but then realization strikes me like a bolt of lighting.
It all makes sense, especially if what she told me earlier is true. She never specified the conditions under which she was supposed to meet this client of hers, but it’s not out of the question that her client hired her for this exact thing - to be kidnapped and turned into a slave—except it was to happen according to strict terms that had been agreed upon beforehand. Terms that she keeps refering to, but which are unknown to me.
I stand before her, confronted with her determined anger. She’s clenching her fists and pressing her lips together, still insisting that I abide by a set of rules that I know nothing about.
I don’t know what to do. If I tell her that I’m not who she thinks I am, would she even believe me? Is there any way I could use this misunderstanding to my advantage?
I need time to think, that’s for sure.
“You want your bracelet,” I repeat her demand.
“Yes,” she says emphatically. “It’s my special-”
“Your special item, yes,” I cut her off, turning around on the spot and leaving her alone again as I quickly slip out of the room, closing the door behind me.
I head upstairs, thoughts running wildly through my mind. I find her purse right where I tossed it in my office. Its contents are pretty typical and what one would expect to find in a young woman’s purse: make-up, a small mirror, lipstick, a wallet with only a couple dollar bills, her cell phone, a handful of tissues, and a small jewelry box. I empty the contents onto my desk, scanning one item after another. The bracelet is inside the jewelry box. It’s a simple silver chain with two little black hearts. It doesn’t look like it cost a lot, so I imagine the value is mostly sentimental in nature. I put the bracelet back in the box, and place it inside the pocket of my jeans. Just as I’m about to turn around to head back downstairs, I pause, my eyes glued to the other items still lying on the table. I focus on her wallet.