The first time he’d placed the blindfold around her eyes, gagged her and tied her to the bed, she’d pretended to be upset and begged him to let her go. Consequently he used that to punish her, never knowing she looked forward to the serenity and peace it afforded her.
It was his threat to harm her young nephew, Nicholas, that had controlled her. She simply couldn’t take the risk that Connor might make good on his hateful promise, but what Connor didn’t know was that her sister, Aveena and her husband, Thomas, took Nicholas to Brazil every year in October, and they always left on the fifteenth, staying for a month. It was already the seventeenth, and Gabriela could safely assume Nicholas was out of danger, at least for the moment.
Things in the Tudor house were questionable at best, and she was convinced Connor’s frustration with her had reached its peak. Though she had been methodically planning her escape, she believed she was running out of time.
Connor could only fire up an erection when she called him Master and claimed to need him and his money, but he’d only been successful the first week or so she’d been there. Ever since, though she’d be bent over, skirt up and wearing no panties, it didn’t matter how many times she’d repeat the words, he would end up screaming in frustration and marching away.
His other bizarre habit only lasted the first few nights of her captivity. She was made to wear a plain cotton nightie, open the top buttons to expose her breasts, and after tying her arms above her head he had slathered them with whipped cream and lapped it up. She’d hated it, and during a particularly grotesque episode she had snapped her head down on to his, viciously head-butting him.
Screeching in shock he had leapt backwards, then lunging forward struck her across the face. She had sported a painful bruise for some time, but he never attempted to devour her breasts again.
It had been weeks since he’d attempted any lewd attention at all, and while it was a relief it was also a worry. Would he simply let her go, or was there a greater threat?
The sound of the garage door snapped her from her reverie; it was lunchtime and Connor was home. His habits were chillingly consistent. Every day he would arrive at 12:10, sit at the table while she served him a small steak or chicken breast, steamed broccoli and brown rice. It had to be followed with a cup of coffee accompanied by steamed milk in a small jug, and during the silent meal she was required to stand next to him.
In the early days his hand would move under her skirt and he’d fondle her bottom, but even that had stopped. At the time she would close her eyes and imagine it was Zander caressing her, finding the idea of serving her handsome Dominant delightfully alluring. Escaping into her romantic fantasy, she’d been able tolerate the disgusting grope, pretending it was Zander’s tender, warm caress.
The sound of the powerful Porsche engine abruptly stopped, and a moment later Connor marched through the kitchen door and headed straight to the table. Gabriela was already taking his plate from the oven, and she hurried across to place in front of him.
“Permission to speak, Sir,” she said softly.
“What?” he snapped.
“It’s time for a grocery run, Sir.”
“The list?”
“Kale, apples, broccoli, milk, eggs, laundry detergent, bleach and there is only one steak left, Sir.”
“You’ll leave at 3 and be home by 3:45. Every minute you’re late will be ten minutes on the bed.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Don’t forget, you try anything and I’ll know about it, and that snot nosed brat will be the one who pays,” he snarled.
“No, Sir, I won’t forget,” she replied, hoping the fabricated tremble in her voice was convincing.
“Bring me the envelope,” he ordered.
Every two weeks he would give her $200 in a white envelope, and every time she shopped or picked up his cleaning the money was paid out, the receipt placed in the envelope.
It was kept in a kitchen drawer, and walking briskly she retrieved it and hurried it back to him, but he continued to eat, ignoring her until he’d finished, then leaning back in his chair he looked up at her. She was supposed to look away but she never did, and he had long since given up any attempts to make her obey the edict.
“Table,” he snapped.
Placing the envelope on the table next to him, she picked up his empty dish and cutlery and made her way to the dishwasher, then began to steam the milk for his coffee. When she returned he was holding two twenty dollar bills in his hand; the envelope was closed, sitting where she had placed it.
This was a shift in their routine. Normally he would count the money, check the receipts, and hand the envelope back to her. She felt a small flip in her stomach; something was wrong.
“Make this be enough,” he warned.
“Yes, Sir,” she dutifully replied.
“Remember, the cab picks you up at 3 p.m. and you’re to be home by 3:45.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“That means you tell the cabbie to pick you up at 3:35.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He placed the two $20 notes in her hand, and stuffing them in the pocket of her skirt she stood quietly as he finished his coffee. Rising from the table he grabbed the envelope and started towards the garage to leave, but at the door he stopped and turned.
“Open your shirt.”
Her fingers hastily traveled down the buttons, flipping them open, exposing her naked breasts.
“Take it off.”
Pulling the shirt from the waistband of her skirt, she slipped down the sleeves and stood topless, holding the blouse in her hand.
“Stay that way until you dress to leave,” he ordered, then pointed up at the camera positioned near the ceiling in the far corner of the room. “I’ll be watching.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Turning on his heel he walked quickly through the door, and a moment later she heard the roar of the Porsche as he revved the engine. She knew the instruction to remove her shirt was simply his way of showing he still had control. To her it seemed feeble, but he needed to exert his authority like he needed to breath, and any demonstration of his power over her, no matter how small, mattered to him.
There were cameras all over the house and she assumed he watched from his office, but she had always been intrigued by the large, flat screen TV in his bedroom. Knowing she may not have another chance, she was determined to find out if it doubled as a monitor in the home.
Using a telephone book in the grocery store she had uncovered the address of his office; it was at least fifteen minutes away, which meant she could count on a ten minute window while he was driving there.
Bolting from the kitchen and up the stairs, she raced into his bedroom. Twice a week she had to change the sheets on his bed, and she had spied the remote control in the drawer of his nightstand. To her relief it was there, and frantically grabbing it she scanned the multitude of choices.
The red button marked ‘PLAY’ seemed the most obvious, and she pressed it but nothing happened.
“Shit! Turn the bloody thing on you idiot,” she shouted, and finding the power button, she held the remote in the air and pressed again. There was a click, and a moment later a paused frame appeared on the oversized television.
Eyes wide she stared in disbelief. It wasn’t her image she saw frozen on the large screen, but a young blond woman, spread-eagled on the same bed in which she slept every night. The girl was in the nightie, her breasts exposed, but her face was contorted in pain, and moving closer Gabriela saw the source of her suffering; two large clothes pegs were cruelly clamped to her nipples.
Unable to stop herself she hit the PLAY button, and watched in horror as the grief-stricken victim writhed in agony. There was no sound and for that she was grateful, the sight alone was stomach churning enough. Turning off the dreadful scene she threw the remote in the drawer and ran back to the kitchen.
Shaken by her discovery, with trembling hands she hurriedly cleared the table, wiped it down, and started the dishwas
her, then pulling the cash from her pocket she stared at the two twenty-dollar bills. It was the first time he had taken the envelope with him.
Does he know I’m about to bolt? Is that why he took the money? Surely he wouldn’t let me out of the house if he thought that, but he never breaks from routine. Never. I have no choice. I have to try to make my escape now and just pray that I’ll be able to reach Zander.
Not wanting her behavior to appear any different she set about her chores, but it wasn’t easy; her mind was racing. If Zander was out or couldn’t be reached…but as her doubts surfaced she pushed them from her mind.
She had to vacuum, then polish the wood floors, a regular chore she had to do every other day. His need for perfection knew no limits, and everything in the house had to sparkle. By the time she was finished it was almost 2:30, and she made her way to her bedroom to shower and change.
As she buttoned up her shirt, she couldn’t stop her fingers from trembling or her heart from racing, and she was terrified that Connor would see her nervousness. Though she never knew when he was watching her, she did know he tracked her everywhere; along with her phone she was convinced he had GPS chips sewn into her clothes.
Knowing the taxi would soon be arriving, she picked up her bag and moved downstairs to wait. He always ordered the pickup, but it was her responsibility to make sure her return was correctly timed. She assumed it was just another control game he liked to play, knowing she would be constantly checking her watch to make sure she wasn’t going to be late.
She glanced around the living room, silently bidding it a grim farewell.
If I do end up back here, God only knows what will become of me.
An ominous chill shuddered through her veins, and heart thumping, she walked out the front door.
On the other side of town, Connor Matthews had renovated a Victorian home that he used as his headquarters, and in a small room next to his office monitors were showing him exactly what Gabriela was doing. He would miss the first twenty minutes after leaving the house, which he always found annoying, but she had no idea where his office was and he had told her many times he was only five minutes away.
In spite of using every nasty, manipulative, cruel trick he knew, she had not cried or looked at him in fear. Contempt, yes. Disdain, yes. Hatred, yes. He had seen moments of fear, but not the kind of fear he fed on, the kind of fear that made his other slut-slaves shake, the kind of fear that told him he had truly terrorized them.
Even when he’d threatened to hurt that brat nephew of hers, she’d not shown fear. The threat had controlled her, but her eyes had told him she didn’t quite believe him. She was almost right. Hurting a kid could be tricky. Not that he had any qualms about it, but kids kicked up dirt. Too many questions, media, whatever, but she couldn’t take the chance and they both knew that.
Those fucking eyes of hers. Those eyes that conveyed so much. She would challenge him with those eyes, and he would slap her face with fury, but did she cringe, did she cry out, did she fight back? No, she did nothing, except stare those eyes right back at him.
Physical coercion he’d given up fairly quickly, finding it had no affect whatsoever and there was no gratification if she didn’t react. The mental manipulation that he enjoyed so much, the profound verbal humiliation and degradation that had made other girls cringe and cower, appeared to bounce off her.
He would debase her, call her every ugly, demoralizing name he could think of, he would ignore her, deprive her of food and sleep, and still she would just stare back at him.
There had been many times he’d wished he’d walked away from Willows and forgotten she even existed, but that would have been impossible. No slut was going to make a fool out of him and get away with it.
Initially the challenge had been stimulating, and he’d derived pleasure from the hunt, the many hours he’d spent stalking her, biding his time, and when she’d left town he’d searched her house, taking delight in slowly going through all her things. When he’d discovered where she’d gone, but found no evidence as to her return, he’d bugged her house so he could snatch her the minute she got back.
She had fought like an alley cat when he’d placed the chloroform rag across her face. That had been tremendous fun, but as the weeks had gone by and she’d refused to yield, she had become nothing but a boring pain in the ass. The weeks had become months, and now she was just a tedious nuisance.
All the girls who had come before, every last one of them, he’d managed to break in a couple of weeks. Some of them just days. Such joy it was, to see them frightened, crying and sniveling, He would use them until he grew bored, then throw them away like the garbage they were, standing triumphant as they promised to never, ever, tell anyone about what he’d done and who he was. Threatening their loved ones or their pets always worked. It was how he controlled them, even after they’d been discarded.
“I have many identities in the chat rooms,” he’d snarl, “and I cruise Facebook constantly, so be warned, you’ll never know who you’re talking to. You know me as Black Porsche 007, but I have many aliases, and if I see one single word from you, even a hint, about what we did together, it won’t be you who will suffer, though you will of course, when you see the pain I’ll inflict on the person you claim to love so much.”
He would bask in his victory, knowing they would be true to their word. They left terrified, heartbroken and crushed.
Gabriela, though, Gabriela was different, and he didn’t know how to get rid of her. Gabriela would blab. Gabriela would spread the word. Gabriela wasn’t afraid of him. She should be, she should be very afraid.
It seemed to him there was only way to deal with Gabriela, and it wasn’t through the front door, but he hadn’t quite figured it all out, and it was troubling. Not only was he eager to bring a new slut-slave into the house, he was convinced the Brazilian Bitch was up to something.
In recent days she’d been far to obedient, far too pleasant, the nasty stares and rebellion had subsided, but he didn’t believe her good girl routine for a minute, though he found it hard to believe she’d risk any harm coming to her nephew. He smiled, confident that she was still under his thumb, but her behavior was odd, and odd made his radar beep.
Watching the monitors he saw the taxi arrive, watched her walk down the pathway to the curb and climb in the back seat.
Turning to another computer, he tuned into one of the several trackers she was wearing. They were the latest devices on the market, and he had one in the base of the bag he made her carry, another in the lining of her only coat, one in her phone, and his favorite place, on her head.
She looked so much better as a blonde.
Following the red dot, it was clear she was headed straight to the grocery store. It was only a few minutes away, and when the pulsing spot came to a halt then moved slowly forward he was satisfied she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
Blondes. They had to be blonde, and he had originally thought of bleaching her hair, but that would have been messy and she’d have to keep doing it every week. No, far too much trouble. Wigs! Wigs were the answer, and a very convenient place to hide one of his trackers.
Knowing she was safely doing the shopping he reached for his phone. It was time to touch base with Abigail, the foolish tart who would be his new resident slut-slave as soon as Gabriela had been disposed of.
“Hi Connor,” Abigail greeted him, her enthusiasm radiating through the phone.
“I don’t warrant ‘Sir’ today?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Hello, Sir,” she breathed, instant heat permeating her sex.
“Are you being a good girl?”
“Yes, Sir, trying to be.”
“Have you touched yourself?”
“Um…”
“That’s a yes. You must be punished. Your pussy is mine now, unless you don’t want it to be.”
“I do, I do, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…”
“No excuses. Give me your address.”
&nb
sp; “I’m at work.”
“Of course you are, I am too. I will be at your apartment at 7 p.m. to spank you.”
Her excitement crackled through the phone. Her place was probably a mess and she’d have to scurry around to clean it up before he arrived, just another manipulation to keep her off balance.
“Abby? Is there some reason you don’t want me to come to your place?”
“No, it’s just not very big, or-”
“I wouldn’t expect it to be,” he interrupted. “You’re a receptionist at a dentist’s office. I can’t imagine you make much money. I’m not coming over to look at your place, I’m coming to smack your butt. Now give me your address or you won’t be able to sit at your desk tomorrow.”
He had it of course, and he idly glanced across at the GPS screen as Abigail slowly gave him the redundant information. Gabriela was still in the store, all seemed to be status quo.
“Be waiting for me on your knees, eyes closed, wearing only a blouse. Leave your door unlocked.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He hung up the phone, knowing the new slut was sitting at her desk, her pussy soaked and her pulse racing. The last hours of the afternoon would seem endless, and he could easily imagine her watching the large clock on the wall as the minutes ticked by, anxiously waiting for the moment she could rise from her boring job and race home to ready herself for him. Fresh meat. Even if they were all predictable, there was nothing like it.
Satisfied that Gabriela wasn’t going anywhere she shouldn’t, and knowing that he’d be spurting over the new slut’s ass before going home for dinner, he turned his attention to his work. Connor Matthews was a very important man, and while his clients were patient he didn’t like to keep them waiting too long, it simply wasn’t good for business.
He checked his watch. 3:15. Gabriela should be leaving the store in twenty minutes. Clicking the alarm on his watch, he focused on his work.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Building an office park with a condominium community was exciting and challenging, far greater in scope than any of Zander’s previous projects. While there were numerous hurdles, he was energized by the growing realization of his vision, but not everyone was enamored of the development.
The Romantic Dominant Page 7