Stockholm Syndrome

by Brooks, JB

  ***

  The irony of the situation didn’t escape Mason as Evelyn impaled her lush body on his throbbing cock. He was getting what he wanted, but he couldn’t take it. His self-imposed restrictions absolutely precluded him from being anything more than a recipient. It was being given to him, no doubt with strings attached.

  So he sat gripping the damn chair, and suppressing every natural inclination that he possessed.

  Dominance wasn’t a lifestyle choice for him. It wasn’t about exchanging power and scenes in dungeons with the associated accoutrements, although he’d indulged in more than his share of that over the years. It was an absolute necessity, a part of his identity, a facet of his personality. Attaining sexual satisfaction hinged on the submission of his partner, or partners. The more complete it was, the more intense his pleasure, and the better he could attend to the titillation of his sub. Nothing else worked.

  But Evelyn was dominating him. She’d taken on the role of aggressor and seen it through without hesitation. He couldn’t believe that she’d gone so far as to actually fuck him! He would have bet good money that she’d chicken out from his lack of encouragement or her own wavering commitment, but she’d been like a firebrand—uncontrollable and hot. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it!

  Now she plunged up and down on him with intense concentration, her inner muscles squeezing and contracting around his cock as she strove toward orgasm. She dug her nails into his pecs, her eyes so unfocused and hazed with lust that he was sure she was oblivious to everything but her quest for fulfillment. A red flush spread over her breasts, up her neck to her cheeks as she strained over his hardness, and the visible, uncontrived evidence of her extreme arousal was as erotic as hell.

  He looked down to where they were joined. At that moment she leaned back, propping her hands on his knees behind herself to support her weight, giving him an unrestricted view. Her juices had drenched his groin. She was stretched over him so tightly that the lips of her pussy were spread wide, her glistening, swollen clit jutting forward, vulnerable and exposed. When she raised herself, he could clearly see the skin around her opening, pulled taut where his girth split her flesh apart.

  He had only a split second of warning before her climax hit. Her eyes squeezed shut, her head rolled back, and she held her breath, mouth gaping in a silent scream. She crushed his cock with her inner muscles, the contractions pumping the essence from him as he joined her in involuntary paroxysms of pure, carnal sensation.

  ***

  Mason pushed his chair back from the desk and stretched, flexing the muscles in his shoulders. He’d spent the last couple of hours researching Stockholm syndrome on the Internet. It had been an exercise in frustration. While there seemed to be consensus that the condition existed, it was not formally classified. One problem was that there was no ethical way to conduct clinical studies on it, since it was impossible to humanely kidnap and traumatize people to investigate the effects. Another was the small number of actual case studies that existed, and of those, their experiences had differed so vastly that no conclusive evidence as to the triggers and course of the disorder could be obtained. He’d waded through psychological terms and medical definitions, and wrapped his mind around evolutionary theories and Freudian explanations, but nowhere had he found what he wanted—a neat checklist of causes and symptoms that would tell him, beyond doubt, whether Evelyn had Stockholm syndrome or not.

  What was he to do?

  Mason was no fool. He could read people. It was part of what made him a successful businessman. His ability to suss out what people wanted, individually and en masse, had helped him develop one award-winning software application after another. His talents hadn’t hurt in the sexual arena either. Understanding what his partners needed, sometimes better than they did themselves, had made him an exceptional Dom.

  Right now, his instincts told him that Evelyn wanted to escape and see him punished for what he’d done to her.

  He also understood himself well, and viewed his own motives with an uncommon objectivity. He acknowledged and accepted all that he was, strengths, weaknesses, and the stuff of humanity in between. His guilt over what had happened with Evelyn was a weakness. Because he wanted her forgiveness so badly, he was predisposed to believe in anything that might indicate a softening of her feelings toward him.

  Armed with this knowledge, and his sound instincts, he thought himself immune to any manipulation on her part. Or he had, until that morning. Now he was confused. Her passion had been real. She’d wanted him. She’d said that she’d forgiven him, and had proceeded to show him exactly how much she liked him. Oh, how tempted he was to believe her!

  But he still held back, remembering, uncomfortably, the last time that he had made a poor judgment call. He’d trusted Bianca, his sub for more than four years. He’d asked her to marry him, and he’d fallen in love with her. Then she’d cheated on him in the worst possible way, betraying their sacred trust with another Dominant, and annihilated his heart so badly that he’d sworn off love forever.

  Yes, where women were concerned, his good sense flew out the window as soon as his heart got involved.

  He needed to test Evelyn.

  ***

  When Evelyn awoke the next morning, she saw no reason to hurry out of bed. Mason would be out most of the day, riding around the perimeter of his land with George, repairing fences, checking on his horses and his small herd of livestock and generally doing what she sarcastically thought of as “Lord of the Manor” activities.

  He’d explained this at dinner the night before. The meal had been uncomfortable, filled with awkward silences and a painful undercurrent of lust tarnished with mistrust. They’d eaten quickly and retired to their separate rooms early, leaving a distressed Edna clucking over the untouched dessert.

  The awkwardness had begun the moment she’d disengaged from Mason’s stiff, unmoving body on the armchair. He’d left without saying much and she hadn’t seen him again until Edna had called them to dine. She’d gone to bed miserable, fearing that her campaign to escape was already in tatters.

  Today, with Mason gone and the mood between them soured with doubt, her body felt tired, sore, and used, and a depression hung over her like a low gray cloud. She wondered at the strength of the passion that had overtaken her, because now she felt so cold. The hours of the day ahead seemed interminable, and she didn’t know if there was any hope left to cling to.

  Edna arrived a little later with her breakfast. The food was delicious and Evelyn ate well, despite her melancholy, which made her feel a little better. Then, when she returned to collect the tray, Edna had good news.

  “Mason said to tell ya that ya don’t have stay locked in your room today, sweetie. You’re allowed the run of the house, but ya mustn’t go outside.”

  “Oh, has he already left?” She didn’t show how delighted she was, for fear of making Edna suspicious. Maybe Mason had decided to trust her a little after all. Whatever his reasons, she was grateful. The thought of another day spent cooped up in her bedroom had been unbearable.

  “Him’n George left ’bout six this morning. George just phoned me now to give the message.” She tapped her ample cleavage where she kept her mobile tucked into her bra.

  “Okay. Can I go anywhere in the house?”

  “Yeah, just not outside. I’ll be going down to the cottage after I clean up these breakfast things. I need to do some planting in my veggie garden.”

  Her heart thumped. She would be on her own in the house, at least for a while. Maybe she could find a phone.

  Edna waddled out with the tray, and Evelyn leaped up to dress. Fifteen minutes later, she opened her door and ventured into the hall toward the kitchen.

  “Edna?” she called loudly, looking around. Only silence answered. She was alone.

  She didn’t bother with the kitchen, lounge, and other living areas in the central part of the sprawling house. She’d spent enough time in those rooms to know there was no phone t
here, or anything that might be of help to her. Instead she set off for the part she’d never seen. Mason’s wing.

  The uneasy sense of entering a forbidden sanctuary was strong as she crept down the passage to his rooms. She passed his study, a spacious, bookshelf-lined room with a huge desk at one end and a comfortable reading nook with two armchairs at the other. The passage ended in an entertainment room, with plush seating, a gigantic wall-mounted screen, and other expensive-looking high-tech media gadgetry. The man clearly loved his toys. In the opposite wall was another doorway, and a quick peek through confirmed that his bedroom lay beyond.

  She decided to start in the study, since it was most likely to have a phone, or maybe a computer with Internet.

  The high-backed, padded chair dwarfed her small frame as she slid into it behind his desk, the leather cool against the exposed skin of her legs below her shorts. She surveyed the polished work surface, populated only with a sliver-thin notebook computer and a giant screen. The notebook was closed, and the screen dark.

  The drawer on her right slid out to reveal neatly arranged stationery—monogrammed pen sets, a stapler, a wicked dagger-like letter opener, and an incongruous pad of bright-yellow sticky notes. The left-hand drawer contained portable hard drives, flash sticks, chargers for various gadgets, a selection of computer cables, and…a car key. On a leather and stainless steel key ring, sporting the instantly recognizable Land Rover logo, the chunky key with its integrated remote-control buttons could only belong to Mason’s Range Rover, which was parked right outside the kitchen door.

  Evelyn stared at the key, frozen with indecision. Her fingers burned to pick it up. She could be on her way long before anyone even realized that she had left the house.

  But something made her hesitate. She sat back in the chair, arms folded to keep her itchy fingers in check, and stared at the key. It seemed to be such a simple solution, but if anything went wrong… If Mason caught her, somehow, before she got away, all her plans would be undone. He would know beyond doubt that her claim to have Stockholm syndrome was nothing but a ploy, and he would never trust her again.

  Could it be a trick, a test? She didn’t think so, but on the other hand, he’d been so careful until now, that to leave the key where she could find it so easily, seemed suspicious… Although it was tucked away in his drawer, not out on the hall table where he should have left it if he’d wanted to trick her. But he’d gone from locking her in her room to leaving her alone to explore the house. Even if it was a test, what good would it do him to find out that she’d lied after she made her escape?

  Damn it, her mind was spinning! She closed the drawer firmly. She could debate all day and never figure it out; there were just too many buts! She’d think about it, although for now, her time would be better spent trying to find a phone.

  Internet would work too. She opened his notebook, but a login screen appeared and required a password. She couldn’t begin to guess what it might be and she didn’t want to experiment, in case his system kept a record of failed attempts. There was no option to use the computer as a guest. She sighed and closed the screen again.

  There wasn’t much else to see. He was a neat freak, that was certain, but all his personal and business information must be on the computer, because she didn’t notice a single document or piece of correspondence anywhere.

  His bedroom was the next-best bet, but as she left the study she heard the faint sounds of footsteps on the gravel driveway, so she ran back to the kitchen. Peering out the window, she watched Edna stumping toward the house. Damn! She hadn’t been gone for very long. Evelyn quickly topped up the kettle with water and switched it on.

  “Hi, Edna,” she greeted as the woman came in the door. “I was about to make some coffee. Would you like a cup?”

  ***

  Mason checked his watch. It was half past four, and time to head back to the house.

  He and George were sitting on camping chairs in a leafy grove of trees next to the dirt lane that ran between Brady Ranch and the main road. A blue Esky stood between them, which, at this late hour, contained only empty beer tins, crushed water bottles, and the torn packets from their lunchtime snacks. Two saddled horses on long leads grazed peacefully nearby, and George’s big white ute stood in the middle of the road, where he’d parked it late the night before. They’d chosen their spot with care; the lane was narrow, with steep embankments on both sides, and it curved so that the vehicle would not be visible to anybody driving from the house until they were within twenty meters or so from the improvised roadblock.

  They’d ridden out early that morning, keeping up the charade in case Evelyn was awake and listening for them. When they’d arrived at the barricade and set up camp, he’d been utterly certain that Evelyn would appear within a few hours, driving his Rover, attempting to escape. He’d strained his ears for the sound of the engine and walked up the road frequently to look toward the eucalyptus forest that shielded the house from view.

  But as the day wore on and the temperature rose, his confidence had waned. He’d whiled away the hours reading and surfing the net on his iPad, and chatting to George, when he could distract him from the three-day-old newspaper that he was so engrossed in.

  It was finally time to pack up, forced to acknowledge that he’d wasted the entire day.

  Maybe she hadn’t found the key. Deciding where to put it had been tricky. Too obvious and she’d suspect a trap. Intelligence gleamed in her blue eyes, readily apparent every time he spoke to her. He’d have to be subtle to catch her out.

  “Ready to go home?” asked George. His voice was neutral, but Mason knew he was gloating. George hadn’t thought much of his plan.

  “Yeah. I’ll bring the horses in.”

  They packed up and George drove off in the ute. Mason followed slowly, riding one horse and leading the other, lost in thought all the way to the stables.

  Later, after he’d showered and changed for dinner, Mason went to his study where he removed the SD card from the tiny motion-activated spy camera concealed on the bookshelf. He slotted it into his notebook, and watched the silent video of Evelyn searching his desk and trying to use his computer. He hit repeat several times then sat staring at a frozen image of her looking into the open drawer.

  She had found the key. She hadn’t used it. Did that mean that she wasn’t trying to escape? But if she didn’t want to escape, if she really wanted to stay because she had feelings for him, then why had she searched his desk at all?

  He frowned, dragging his hands through his hair, trying to figure it out. The evidence seemed to support her story about Stockholm syndrome, if only because he so wanted to believe her. She hadn’t tried to escape when she had the chance, and judging by her actions of the previous day, she certainly felt desire for him, if not the misplaced emotions of love and empathy that sufferers of the condition supposedly developed for their captors.

  But maybe she was a much better actress than he gave her credit for. Desire could be faked, especially if the person you were trying to fool was compliant and accepting… Letting you do what you wanted without interfering… Making no demands, and posing no threats.

  Yes, it was time to introduce his little drama queen to Mason the Dom. She’d had it all her own way last time, pulling the puppet strings and orchestrating the seduction to suit her ends. It wouldn’t be so easy to keep up a facade if she had to submit to his will.

  He smiled. It would be nothing too extreme, of course, just a taste of what he liked. Something a little…different. He was in the mood for a picnic tomorrow.

  ***

  For dinner that night, Edna had set one end of the long dining room table with gleaming white dinnerware, crystal wineglasses, silver cutlery, and candles. Lots of candles.

  Mason sat at the head and Evelyn to his right. She studied him in the flickering light. Like her, he wore shorts and a vest, looking so intensely masculine with his broad shoulders and muscular arms leaning lightly on the white tablecloth. The soft il
lumination turned his body into a wonder-scape, a textured maze of planes and ridges that called to her like an uncharted land to an explorer. He looked barely civilized, a caveman, with his unshaven cheeks and shaggy hair, primitive firelight glimmering over the hard angles of his face. He should be wearing the pelts of beasts he’d hunted—an immodest covering that could be effortlessly tossed aside when he wanted to claim his woman, taking her down to the gritty floor beneath him, or mounting her from behind like an animal…

  “Evelyn?”

  She blinked. Oh god, how long had she been staring at Mason? Edna stood next to her, hesitantly proffering a plate. She hastily sat back so that the older woman could place it on the table in front of her. She’d soaked her panties again. In fact, she hoped she hadn’t made a wet patch on the damn chair! Could Mason see her blushing in the candlelight?

  She concentrated on her food. It was a starter of Parma Ham and melon, refreshingly delicious. It appeared that, for reasons of her own, Edna had decided to make dinner into an occasion.

  They didn’t say much, but every time she glanced at him, he was watching her. His intensity disconcerted her, and she felt flustered, all thumbs as she handled her knife and fork.

  It was a relief when Edna brought in the main meal and served it to them. She’d made grilled salmon with aioli sauce, homemade chips, and a delicate, herbal salad, simple but tasty fare, and they complimented her lavishly. She left the room beaming.

  But as soon as they were alone again, Mason resumed his observation of her, a strange expression in his eyes, as if he knew something that she didn’t. After a few minutes, she couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s rude to stare?”