Ashley nearly leaped out of her skin.
“Okay, okay,” said the Englishman, “enough nonsense. Andrea, how about we go in back for some fun, eh?”
“Party time!” the Aussie yelped, throwing his hands in the air.
Before Ashley could mount any objection, they were shepherding her though the crowd, one each on her arms, the third in front to clear the way. She was able to see a lot more things now, close up, and they were none too reassuring. One girl, wearing a leather bra, had a chain on her neck, a long one, the end of which was wrapped round the fist of the man she was sitting with. He was some kind of punk rocker, and he was sound asleep, leaning against the wall. Another woman, with a tattoo on her backside was doing some sort of dance with a man, one that involved him smacking her ass repeatedly with his hand.
On stage now, there was a brunette, tied to a chair as two other girls tickled her with feathers. That wasn’t too bad, she thought, as they led her to what looked like an exit door guarded by an even bigger Hell’s Angel. This time, there was no talk of IDs. A large bill was produced from the Aussie’s wallet, and the man moved to the wall to punch in a code on a keypad. Just as the lock released, there was a voice behind them.
“Is everything all right here?”
The three men had their backs up at once. The newcomer was older than them, close to forty-five by Ashley’s estimates, and though he was sharply featured and quite healthy, he lacked their bulk.
“That depends on you, my friend,” the Wrestler told him, pointing a beefy finger.
The man smiled thinly, unperturbed by the vast sea of testosterone around him. “My concern is the young woman. How about it?” he asked Ashley. “Are you okay?”
She met his gaze. It was deep, complicated, penetrating. For a split second she wanted to start crying and say no, it wasn’t okay, it was all a terrible, awful mistake, and she shouldn’t even be here at all. “I’m okay,” she said at last.
He considered for a moment, then inclined his head to the three. “Very well, then.”
Ashley was still looking at him over her shoulder, with his silk pants, open shirt and elegant jacket. There was a trace of silver in his hair, which she found attractive. The eyes were silver blue, with flecks of light in them. The accent was very faint. He might have been an Englishman like the balding man, though he’d probably lived abroad many years. His eyes were still on her as the steel door slammed shut behind them. It was dark, except for emergency lights along the wall. Ashley shivered in the damp, cool air. It must have been some kind of service way. She could hear the hum of machinery.
They hustled her down the corridor, which was rounded and made of something like concrete. There were doors along the way, all windowless, to the left and right, with numbers spray painted above them.
“Got to love this dungeon effect,” the Australian commented, as they stopped in front of one of them.
“A bit gimmicky if you ask me,” the Englishman sniffed as he punched in a code on yet another keypad. Ashley watched the display message change from ‘unoccupied’ to ‘occupied’.
The Wrestler, who talked like he was from Chicago or New York, was the first to open the door.
“Whatever,” he grumbled. “Just get her in here and get her freakin’ clothes off.”
The Australian hustled Ashley forward over the threshold, with a cupped hand on her buttocks. “You heard the man. Start stripping, sheila!”
Ashley gasped audibly when she saw what was inside. It looked like some kind of torture chamber, complete with a rack, chains hanging from the ceiling and some kind of padded table with straps on it. There were even whips on the wall, big ones like you saw at the circus. In the far corner, looking very out of place was a brass bed, with fresh sheets. It might have been humorous, seeing something so incongruous, except that it wasn’t funny, considering what it implied under the circumstances: namely that they intended to hurt her and then have sex with her. Three of them on one girl.
“Like the bed?” the Aussie crooned in her ear from behind, his hands up under her dress, creeping down into her panties. “It was my idea. A little touch of class, right?”
The Wrestler was in her face, looking mean and apparently trying to play some version of bad cop worse cop with his buddy. “Yea, it’s a friggin’ bed, but you got to earn the right to be used on it, capeesh?”
His hands on her breasts were foul, invasive, and yet she was still not resisting. What was she waiting for? Was she going to follow Andrea’s path to the end, letting herself be scarred, defaced or even worse?
“You like that?” he demanded moving one hand to her bare thigh. “Does that turn you on?”
“Of course it does,” snapped the Englishman, already stripped to his briefs. “That’s why she’s here. Now are we going to get her on the rack, or what?”
The Wrestler cast a hard glance. “I’m doing something here, you mind?”
The Englishman threw his hands in the air in disgust. “Bloody wonderful! I’ve a raging hard on and I’ve got to go and bloody draw the short straw!”
The Wrestler chuckled, enjoying the role of king of the roost. Rubbing a beefy finger on Ashley’s cheek, he sneered, “Now where were we?”
Ashley felt the blood pounding in her head. The Wrestler had been on the verge of invading the veneer of her panties. Had he done so—much to her horror and confusion—he would have found dampness. Sexual heat.
“You were going to make her take her clothes off,” the Aussie said, or rather drooled, his still sheathed cock prodding her from behind. “And if she doesn’t, we’re going to have to punish her.”
“Blah, blah, and fucking blah!” she heard the Englishman call out, apparently dissatisfied with the direction of the evening. “Enough talk. When are we gonna get some action going?”
A chill went down Ashley’s spine as she saw him idly flicking a very long whip, like a coiled snake, practically fondling the thing in the process. Clearly he intended to subject her to it, to strike her with it, perhaps until she cried for mercy.
The Wrestler grabbed Ashley’s cheeks between his fingers, forcing her to look back at him. “Don’t worry about him, okay? I’m the one to worry about. You do everything I say, when I say, and I’ll make sure you don’t get hurt, okay?”
Ashley nodded.
“Terrific game, isn’t it?” the Aussie whispered enthusiastically, continuing to caress her bare ass under the imported silk panties.
A game. Was that what it was? Of course it was; these were law abiding men, playing by rules no doubt set by Andrea herself. Only she wasn’t Andrea.
“The dress. Take it off, now.”
The final command issued, the Wrestler folded his arms, waiting. He did not seem like a man used to hearing no from anyone, especially not from a female. He’d been patient with her so far, really he had. From his perspective, he was dealing with a woman who’d already given herself, allowing her body to be seen and played with and abused. Now she’d come back, displaying herself in scanty clothes. They were men. They had rights and they wouldn’t expect to be ignored or made fools of by a mere girl.
Besides, her panties were wet. For whatever reason, it was true. And when they found this out, if they had to strip her by force, they’d be angry, on account of her holding back, acting aloof, when moisture in the crotch was an established sign of her complicity. Ashley had the hem of the dress in her crossed hands, ready to pull it over her head when she heard the door open.
“What the—?” The Wrestler pushed Ashley aside, moving to confront the invader. The others were right behind him.
When Ashley turned, she saw it was the man from upstairs, the silk shirted gentleman pirate. Her heart did a little flip. Had he come all this way for her?
“Look, pal, I don’t know who you think you are,” the Wrestler menaced, “but you’re about to be a dead man!”
“Forgive the intrusion,” he said, his stance as unwavering as his eyes. “But I have come to re-pose my
question to the lady.”
Ashley rushed forward, falling head long against his chest. “Yes!” she cried. “I mean, no, in answer to your question before, I’m not okay now. I’d like to leave.”
“Unbloody believable!” the Englishman roared, throwing up his hands again. “Can you believe this?” he asked the Wrestler, who was standing very still.
“Calm down, will you?” the Aussie said. “Just let her go.”
“Not so fast.” The Wrestler was moving to grab Ashley’s arm, but the silk shirted stranger moved faster than anyone anticipated. Lashing out with a flying sideways chop and kick, he knocked the Wrestler to his knees. When the others moved in to defend him, they too found themselves promptly on the ground. Dazed and confused, they just glared at him.
“No harm done,” the man said graciously, though his stance was still all business. “Provided that is, you gentlemen move along quietly.”
The Aussie laughed nervously, rising to brush off his knees. “No problem, mate. We were fancying a round of darts elsewhere, anyway.”
The Wrestler scowled, but he hadn’t a word to say on his way out. The Englishman was right behind him, still trying to put on his trousers.
“Unbloody believable!” he kept saying all the way down the hall.
“Oh, sir,” Ashley exclaimed after they were gone. “How can I ever thank you?”
He shook his head. “It isn’t necessary to thank me. I apologize for not coming sooner. It wasn’t till I spoke to the doorkeeper about your license that it became apparent to me this was a case of mistaken identity. The man may seem slothful, but he never forgets a face, or a name.” He extended his hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Simon Rice. And you are—I believe—Ashley, are you not?”
She laughed, her face reddening at his good-natured treatment of the mix up. “I am, yes,” she agreed, giving him her hand. “Do you know my sister, then?”
“I’ve not had the pleasure, though I’m told she is your spitting image. But tell me, are you injured in any way?”
Ashley swooned at the feel of his hand still grasping hers. “Hmm? No, no,” she managed, feeling a bit lost at the sensation of having his strong yet surprisingly gentle fingers wrapped round her own more delicate ones. “They didn’t hurt me. It was my fault, you know. They thought I was her – Andrea.”
Simon’s brow furrowed. “Even so, there was no cause for laying hands on a woman against her will. None whatsoever.”
She blushed again, this time because of his piercing gaze, the unflinching power of his stare.
“Are you in need of a ride home, Ashley?”
“I have a car, but I don’t want to go home.”
He smiled very slightly, straightening the cuff of his shirt. “I would offer to buy you a drink, though I think that would be inappropriate under the circumstances.”
“No! It wouldn’t!” she blurted, drawing a curious look. “I mean, I would love to have a drink with you, Simon. In fact, I should buy you one to say thank you!”
“Agreed,” he said, holding his arm out for her. “Shall we go, then?”
Ashley tucked her arm in his, delighting at once in his lean physique. They continued in light conversation as they walked, his each remark more wonderful than the last. If there was ground underneath them on the way to his limo, she never felt it.
An hour later, the time melting like snow in spring, Ashley found herself tucked into a corner nook at an all night café, gazing over candlelight telling her life story to a stranger. She even shared things no one else knew, like about Tom and Andrea and her mother. Why did she trust him this way? Was it because he’d rescued her, or was it something deeper—like maybe he reminded her of her father, or what she imagined a father of hers should be like? But there was more to it; hot little feelings, like pin pricks on her bare arms, feelings born of the way he made her laugh and how he was so protective, feelings that were not paternal at all.
“More wine, please,” she said effusively, somewhere in the middle of a discussion of the best ski resorts in Switzerland.
His brow seemed to knit ever so slightly and he grew strangely somber.
“Tell me, Ashley,” he said at last. “What is it you want from life?”
“What an odd question,” she laughed. “Where on earth did that come from?”
He shrugged. “Idle curiosity, I suppose. Then again, don’t you find it interesting that you talk about everyone else in your life as though they were doing things to you over which you have no control?”
Ashley felt herself redden. How was it he could see so deep, so fast? These were things she didn’t like to think of, let alone speak about. She took a gulp from her glass, emptying it. He’d caught her off guard. Up to now he’d been the perfect listener, making no judgments at all, even when she’d told him the terrible secrets of her family. She’d felt safe with him, dammit, and now he was starting to pry.
“I wanted wine,” she said curtly. “Are you going to order me another glass or not?”
“No.”
Ashley gasped. The word struck her like a ball of heat, landing in her gut, but racing downward, settling in other parts. She put down her glass. “Are you telling me I can’t have anymore to drink?”
Simon regarded her impassively, his dimpled chin firmly set. Ashley’s own chin was tremoring. A whole river of conflicting emotions surged through her – resentment, anger, betrayal and hurt. What nerve he had to imply she was some kind of lush. Cutting her off like he owned her!
Then again, weren’t you the one complaining that your boyfriend wasn’t strong enough to make you stop drinking at Andrea’s party? And didn’t you fantasize on the way to the club tonight about finding someone who would?
Ashley frowned. She hated her conscience, she really did.
“I’m ready to go,” she announced, planting her drained glass on the center of the table as conspicuously as possible.
Simon made no move to rise. “Put your hands on the table, Ashley. Palms up.”
She blinked. Had he heard nothing she’d said?
“Were my words unclear?” he asked.
She shot him a hateful glance. “No,” she said, putting her hands where he wanted them.
“Towards the center of the table. Lean forward. Good.”
Ashley had to press her belly against the edge of the table. The position rendered her breasts painfully vulnerable.
“I want you to shut your eyes, Ashley. Good. Now I want you to begin to pay attention to your breathing. Block out every sound but the tone of my voice. Can you do this?”
“I’ll try,” Ashley whispered, not at all sure why she was doing this.
“You are on an island, washed ashore from a shipwreck, Ashley,” he told her, placing his hands over hers, his fingers tracing lines on her open palms as his voice began to work its melodious charms. “A storm crushed the bow of the ship and you barely escaped with your life. Around you, you saw men die, strong men. The sea took everything – every hope, every dream. You are lucky to be alive, Ashley, lucky to be breathing, wet and grateful, barefoot on the shore.”
“Barefoot,” she whispered, slipping off her pumps, the texture of his voice, his probing fingers having become her world.
“What are you wearing, Ashley?”
She licked her lips, wriggled her stockinged toes. She could feel it, see it, as if she were there. “A dress,” she exclaimed. “Long and flowing, but it clings to me now, because it is wet.”
“Wet from the sea. Damp and salty. I want you to taste the saltwater, Ashley. Can you taste it?”
“Yes.”
“Your hair hangs limp about you, you are barefoot, defenseless, scarcely clothed, and you have lost everything. Your family, your betrothed, your dowry, all of it was upon that ship, bound for the New World. You are alone, utterly alone. Exiled by the sea, by the thundering waves, which rose to swallow your life, but then spared it, inexplicably. Choking waves, killing waves, but they have spared you. An eye in the m
idst of the storm. Tempest encircles you, girdles you. You wade onto the land, waves lapping at your thighs, and then your knees, and finally your calves. Thirsty, hungry, Ashley, breathless, glad to be alive. The beating sun, and the wind, lightly caressing your pale, unaccustomed skin. Green everywhere, trees and raw vegetation. Nothing at your back but the sea wall, and in front of you warmth and greenery. Under your feet there is only sand.”
“Sand,” she whispered. “I think I can feel it, on my toes.”
He seized her hands. “Don’t think anymore, Ashley. Don’t speak. Make it real. The sea. The sun, beating on salty damp skin. The waves, caressing your calves, your thighs. Everything else is behind you, nothing is left. Stop looking back! There’s something on the island, what is it?”
Ashley tried to free her hands. She wanted to please him, so much, but if she said the wrong thing again he would be mad at her.
“Ashley! Quickly what do you see? There. Coming out of the trees. Can you see?”
It was Simon’s voice, but a deeper one in her own soul was echoing the words. She had to go back into the ocean. The storm might kill her but better to die than to look any further. She was running, the hem of her dress high in the air, back into the surf, the waves crashing on her tender breasts, the salt wafting into her mouth, choking her. She screamed, as a white cap crashed over her head. She was drowning, gurgling.
Ashley, why do you run? What you will see if you turn back to the island is going to be whatever you want to see. The choice is yours and yours alone. It is going to be whatever you most want, whatever you most fear.
Ashley clamored for the dry land once more, arms and legs flailing. She was exhausted, going under, but at the last second, under her belly, the dress torn and useless, she felt the sand once more. She’d been washed ashore. Laughing, crying, she rose to her knees, shaking the spray from her hair and looking to see what it was she would see. She laughs like a girl, so free. She can see whatever she wants.
Ashley sucked in her breath.
Backwater Bondage Page 23