Captive Beauty

by Natasha Knight

  I draw her hips backward, raise the dress up along her thighs, over her hips, up her back. She’s wearing panties. A lacy black pair. I draw them down to mid-thigh, look at her perfect ass. At her bent over like this. She’s almost more naked for the underwear.

  Raising my hand, I bring it down on her hip.

  She gasps, spins around, hands on her ass. “What did you do that for?”

  “I told you no panties.”

  She studies my eyes, doesn’t battle me with words.

  “Turn around, get your elbows down on the desk and be grateful I’m only punishing you for the panties.”

  She hesitates, but a moment later, does as she’s told. I arrange the dress high on her back. The panties have slid to the floor and pool around her ankles. I raise my hand and slap her ass again. She grunts, but holds still while I continue spanking her. Ten times on each cheek. I know it stings from the way she wriggles around, and I have to lay a hand on her low back to keep her in position, but this is nothing to what I can do. Nothing to how I can punish her.

  When I finish, I cup both reddened cheeks. They’re warm. I rub the sting from them.

  Cilla cranes her neck to look at me.

  “Next time, I’ll use my belt.”

  I can’t read what’s in her eyes but she swallows hard enough for me to hear. I lean over her and push a few buttons so the camera switches to the one in her room. When she turns to the screen, she recognizes the setting. I push another button to take us back to two nights ago.

  “You watched me.”

  When I don’t reply, she shifts her gaze to me.

  “You watched me, you sick bastard.”

  “I like watching.”

  Slowly, I move to my knees behind her. The look in her eyes changes and she licks her lips.

  I’m holding her thighs, I kiss her hip, draw my hands up to splay her open.

  “Getting your ass spanked gets you wet, Cilla.” She doesn’t reply, only tenses up a little. “Are you wet like this for the others?” I ask, licking her once.

  She sucks in a breath, arches her back.

  “Are you?” I ask again, licking again, this time letting my tongue circle her asshole.

  “No.”

  “Just for me.” I glide my tongue over her pussy, then her tight little hole.

  “Just…for you.”

  I kiss her pussy, her ass, lick her, dip my tongue inside her, taste her while I listen to her moans, her want, her desire. When she’s close, I draw back, rise to my feet, one hand on her hip to keep her in place while I reach to the desk drawer with the other.

  She watches me take out a small container of lube, watches me open it. The video on the screen starts over again, Cilla sliding her hand beneath the covers. Cilla rubbing her clit. Cilla making herself come. I turn the volume up before drawing her hips farther back. I pour lube onto her lower back so it drips a little down the cleft of her ass. I take that lube and begin to rub her asshole.

  Cilla moans. She arches her back. “I want to hate you,” she says.

  I slide my thumb into her asshole and she lets out a deep sigh.

  I say nothing. Instead, I undo my belt and pants, free my cock, grip it.

  “Are you a virgin here?”

  She nods.

  I slide my cock into her pussy and draw my finger out of her ass, gather more lube onto two fingers and slide them into her tight hole.

  She pulls away, gripping the edge of the desk. I draw her back toward me.

  “Your ass belongs to me, Cilla. Be still now. I’m going to fuck it. I’m going to fill you up with cum and you’re going to drip down your thighs when you take me.”

  “It hurts.”

  “The best things do.”

  I draw my fingers out and slide my cock, slippery with her juices, to her asshole. I rub the rest of the lube onto it, my eyes on her tiny little asshole as she waits obediently to take me. She’s gripping the desk when I push the head of my cock against her ass.

  She wriggles, lets out a groan of protest.

  “Shh. Relax.” I slide one hand around to her clit and begin to rub and when I do, she relaxes a little and I push, entering her slowly, taking my time, feeling her warm and tight around my cock as she stretches.

  I begin to move, her clit between my thumb and forefinger, and I take a little more with every one of her moans.

  “Kill—”

  “Come, Cilla,” I say when I’m about halfway in. I won’t last long, she’s so fucking tight.

  She’s an obedient girl when she wants to be and she comes, laying her cheek on my desk, moaning, her fingers clawing at the oak, and I watch her and slide in deeper, pumping slowly in and out of her until I’m fully seated. I still there, for one moment savoring this, me inside her, her tight and warm and holding me. I only move again as she comes down from her climax, taking her clit between thumb and forefinger again. She’s ultra-sensitive now and panting, begging me to stop, begging me for more. I fuck her harder, her passage opened to me, taking me and when she comes again and her walls throb around me, I thrust one last time and my cock pulses as I bury myself inside her, emptying inside her, filling her up, owning one more piece of her.

  15

  Cilla

  Kill has barely pulled out of me when the elevator doors slide open and that horrible man, Hugo, walks in.

  I gasp, straighten, try to cover myself, but my panties are at my feet and Kill’s cum is dripping out of me.

  Hugo stops, clears his throat, turns away. “Apologies.”

  Kill buttons his pants and wraps his hand around the back of my neck. “I didn’t say you could get up.”

  “What?”

  He pushes me back over the desk, pinning me to it with just a little pressure on my neck. That’s all it takes to keep me down.

  But when he raises my dress to expose me again, I cry out for him to stop. To let me up.

  He leans over my back. “Stay. Down.” My cheek is plastered to the cold wood of his desk and his face is so close to mine that I feel his breath on me. “Obey me, Cilla,” he whispers his warning. “Or I’ll whip your ass while Hugo watches.”

  I have no doubt he will. I blink, tears of shame burning my eyes. I close them, my acquiescence. He straightens.

  “No problem, Hugo,” Kill says and I feel him walk away. Neither Hugo nor I speak, but I hear water go on in what I assume is the bathroom.

  I stay where I am. Bent over. Ass bared. Cum dripping down my thighs. Mine and his. And I hate myself for it. Because a moment ago, I told him I wanted to hate him. I wanted to. But I don’t. I despise myself instead.

  “What is it?” Kill asks, returning to the room.

  “Benji’s here.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yeah. But he’s drunk as a skunk.”

  “Fuck. Keep an eye on him. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  I hear the elevator doors slide open, then close, and still I don’t move. Ice clinks in a glass and I open my eyes to find Kill leaning against the bar watching me.

  “Bathroom’s through that door. Get cleaned up. Stay here, don’t mess with any of the equipment and let that play.” He gestures to the monitor that keeps repeating the image of me playing with myself, the sound turned up so I hear myself come over and over and over again. Hugo would have heard it too.

  I’m humiliated. I straighten slowly, bend to pick up my panties, very aware by the soreness of exactly how I was penetrated. Of how he claimed another part of me.

  Kill turns to the elevator where the doors slide open.

  “Why did you do that?” I ask.

  He doesn’t turn around and doesn’t answer my question. He says one word instead.

  “Warm.”

  “What?”

  “Warm. It feels warm. The blood. There’s a lot of blood. I cut into his stomach, carved out a pound of flesh. I weighed it to be precise.”

  “Oh my God.” I’m going to be sick.

  “That’s why the papers called me a mo
nster. A beast.” He’s silent and I wonder if he’s reminiscing on this horrible act. “I did it so he’d bleed out slowly. Painfully. I stood and watched the life literally drain out of him.” He pauses, meets my horrified gaze in the mirror. “I used the knife my sister used to cut out the bastard he put inside her.”

  I cover my mouth. He steps onto the elevator and turns to face me. “Get cleaned up and stay here until I’m back for you.”

  He doesn’t wait for me to answer and the doors slide closed behind him.

  My mind a blur, I go into the bathroom. It’s fully equipped with a stand-up shower. I strip off my clothes and switch it on, wrapping my hair on top of my head, using a rubber band I find in one of the drawers to hold it in place. I wash myself, wash him off me, feel him still sliding out of me.

  I’d never been fucked that way before. It requires giving up my power. Trusting the man doing the fucking. I’ve never come close to allowing anyone that kind of power over me. Kill, he took it. But I didn’t fight him. Didn’t fight it. I can tell myself it’s part of the deal all I want, but I know that’s not all there is to it. As much as I want to hate it, hate his domination, hate my submission, it turns me on. He makes me come like I have never come, not with a man, not with my fingers. He makes me come in a way that I lose myself.

  Maybe I need those moments. Maybe I need to lose myself a little. But before that loss, I’m laid bare. It’s like being skinned. Everything is exposed. Everything hurts. But then there’s release. Is that why, in a way, I want this?

  I shake my head, switch off the shower and grab a towel from the rack to dry off. The heat of the shower has fogged up the mirror so I wipe it with my hand.

  My reflection is obscured in the steam but I stand looking at it, trying to recognize the woman looking back at me. It’s weird to know your face and not really know it. To feel like a stranger in your own skin. I don’t know who I am. It’s been eight years since we left that house. Eight years since anything bad has happened to me. I want to say eight years since anything bad has happened to Jones, but I don’t think that’s accurate. I sometimes don’t know if, even though he walked away, if he wasn’t too broken already. If all these years, I’ve been lying to myself, trying to put on a front, unable to face the reality that he’ll never be okay. Never be whole.

  Maybe it’s because I need to believe he is so that I can pretend to be whole myself.

  And maybe I’m selfish to not let him go.

  “Warm. It feels warm. The blood. There’s a lot of blood. I cut into his stomach, carved out a pound of flesh. I weighed it to be precise.”

  I look down at my hands, clean, fingernails polished. I imagine the warmth of blood as it runs over them. As I plunge my hands into Judge Callahan’s belly.

  I want a pound of flesh. I want a hundred pounds of flesh. Two hundred. Enough to wipe away any trace of the man. Enough to erase history. To make me forget. To make Jones forget.

  A tear drops onto my palm and my head snaps up. I take a deep breath in, fix my features, harden my face. I get dressed and walk back into Kill’s office. Without hesitation, I pick up the glass of whiskey he left behind and swallow it, then pour myself another and do the same before pouring a third. I sit on the couch for a long time watching the images on the various screens but not seeing anything. I drink.

  I have to force myself to stand. To walk to his desk, carrying both bottle and glass with me. I’m alone and I need to take advantage of that. I drink a little more. Refill my glass. I want to smash the bottle against the screens. I can’t stand it anymore, seeing myself, hearing myself. But instead, I switch that one off and sit in his chair, letting the big chair engulf me. It’s like it’s holding me, like I’m safe.

  The container of lube sits open on the desk. I take it, close it, put it back in the desk drawer. I go through each of them in turn, methodically, nonchalantly. I’m not afraid, for some reason. Maybe it’s stupid. He just told me how he’d punish me the next time, but I’m not afraid.

  Because Killian Black may be the answer to everything.

  Because Killian Black can help me collect my pounds of flesh.

  But I can’t tell him why. I can’t ever tell him what happened. We promised each other, Jones and I, that we would never tell.

  Shame gurgles in my belly, threatening to paralyze me. I forego the empty tumbler and bring the bottle of whiskey to my mouth. The stuff burns, but it works faster than the wine. My head’s already fuzzy. I force another long swallow, then set it down. Close my eyes against the shame. Squeeze the heels of my hands into them.

  When I open them again, I see how my mascara smears them black. I don’t care though. I open another drawer, the last one, and inside it, light catches the black metal of a pistol, making it shine bright. I look at it for a long minute. Reach down for it. Wrap my trembling hand over the butt of it.

  The steel is cold to the touch. Solid in its weight. In its promise.

  I set it on the desk and stare at it. Hate fills me, rage creeps along that hate. Years of it. Years of being powerless. I sit up straighter and a plan begins to take form in my head.

  Killian Black is the answer.

  There’s no such thing as coincidence. Everything happens for a reason. This is why I’m here.

  I glance up at the monitors. The one set to the restaurant shows Kill sitting at a table with Hugo and a man I don’t recognize. The man is smaller than both of them. He has his head in his hands and is shaking it. Kill grips a handful of his hair and tugs it back. My curiosity grows and I watch, wishing I could hear but this camera doesn’t have a speaker. At least not one that I can find. The man nods something and Kill releases him. Hugo takes him by the scruff of his neck and stands him up. Kill gets up too, but then a woman stops him. She puts her hands on his shoulders and Kill smiles at her. It’s a smile I haven’t seen, there’s something almost tender about it.

  I lean in to watch, looking closer, recognizing her as one of the strippers. Brandy, I think? She’s the wannabe lawyer. Lawyer my ass.

  He gestures for her to sit. She does and so does he, motioning to the waitress to bring them a drink. They talk for a minute, then the waitress brings them their drinks. Champagne for her. A bottle of it. An expensive one. Whiskey for him. He’s still smiling while she talks. She’s very animated and I hate her and her pretty blonde hair and her perfect stripper’s body. And the more he laughs at what she’s saying, the more relaxed he appears, the more I hate her.

  I lean back, still watching, eyes narrowed on her. I reach for the bottle of whiskey and take another swig. But when she leans in and takes one of his hands in both of hers, I’m done. I get up, pick up my purse. It’s ridiculous I brought one. It’s empty but for the tube of lipstick I was allowed. I don’t even have my wallet, my driver’s license. I have nothing. I am completely at his mercy. But if he thinks I’m going to sit here while he’s down in the club flirting with a stripper after fucking me, he’s got another thing coming.

  At the elevator, I realize something. There’s no button to push. There’s a key pad. And I don’t know the code.

  “Fuck!”

  I turn back around to his desk, switch off all the damn monitors because fuck him. I don’t want this. He doesn’t need me. He can fuck his stripper. His strippers. He doesn’t need to keep me locked up.

  I pick up the gun. I’ve never fired one before. I’ve never even held one. I take it in both hands like I’ve seen in movies and aim it straight ahead at the elevator. I imagine Judge Callahan’s face there. I put my finger on the trigger.

  Just when I do the doors slide open and Kill’s surprised face comes into view.

  “What the—”

  I’m just as surprised as he is, but his reaction comes much more swiftly than mine. I swear it takes him all of a millisecond to lunge to the desk. To get behind me as I stumble. To catch me. Disarm me.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he roars.

  I’m on the floor and he’s looming over me and it’
s like all that whiskey hits me at once.

  He’s checking the gun. Taking something out of it. I guess it was loaded.

  “Cilla, what the fuck are you doing?” He sees the bottle of whiskey, turns back to me with a raised eyebrow.

  I try to stand, but it’s too hard, so I decide to lay down instead.

  “I don’t know why you want me here,” I hear my words slur together. “I mean, you have Brandy. Brandy? Whiskey? Bourbon? What’s her name again?”

  “Did you drink all this?” he asks, pointing to the half empty bottle.

  I blink up at him. He’s a giant and from down here, he looks a hundred feet tall. “You don’t scare me, you know.” I roll onto my side. I need to sleep. I am so tired all of a sudden, it’s like my eyelids are sticky with glue.

  I hear a chuckle, feel his strong arms lift me, turn my face into him and smell his cologne. I force my eyes to open and point a finger into his chest.

  “Do you fuck her?” I hear myself ask.

  “What are you talking about?” He’s still holding me and dialing a number on his cell phone at the same time.

  “I saw you. Ordering champagne,” I drag out the last word, try to roll my eyes but it hurts my head and they just close instead. “See, that’s what I mean. I mean, you can fuck anyone. Why do you want me?”

  “I need the car around back, John. I’ll be down in a minute,” he says into the phone. “And get Cilla’s coat out of coat check.”

  He sets me down on the sofa and I look up at him. He’s taking off his jacket, wrapping it over my shoulders. I can’t even keep my head up and feel it loll into his chest when he lifts me up again.

  “I’m sleepy.”

  “I bet you are.”

  We get into the elevator. I just keep my eyes closed as we ride down, my face buried in his chest. I keep it that way when I hear the music. We’re on the main floor. But a few minutes later, a door opens and a sudden gust of wind makes me shiver.

  Kill unloads me into the backseat of a sedan. He gets in beside me. “Penthouse.”