Dedication
To Nicole, the girl whose head is as fucked up as mine. This one’s for you. You put the ‘whore’ in whoreable.
Copyright
Trapped: Her Love Story
Copyright © 2017, Shannon Youngblood
Editing by Nicole Davis
Cover Design by Shannon Youngblood at Bitches N’ Books Blog Blitzes
Self Publication Date March 23, 2017
https://www.shannonyoungblood.com
All Rights are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. The unauthorized reproduction of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher's permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, Characters, Businesses, Places, Events, and Incidents are either products of the author's imagination, or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Published in the United States by Shannon Youngblood
ISBN 978-1-365-80633-9
Prologue
The fact I am wearing no clothes should frighten me. The vulnerability most ordinary people have when naked and exposed to the world is an emotion I’m not accustomed to any longer. Preston made sure of it, just as he had made sure I was properly trained, properly mannered, and properly subservient to only him. You would think forty-five degrees without a scrap of material to cover my raw flesh would cripple me. You would believe that, but you would be wrong.
As every car passes me by, I do what I’ve done for the past sixteen months, two weeks, three days, and four hours. I count. I count the number of cars, the number of trucks, the number of vans. I count the red ones, the green ones, the black ones, and the silver ones. I notice every passenger. The brunettes, the blondes, the red heads, and the balding. I count them all. Just as Preston taught me, and although he’s driven away, and I don’t know if I will ever see him again, I know without a doubt I must follow his rules. If I fail, he won’t love me back, and if he doesn’t love me back, I will die. And although death will afford me the peace I’ve dreamed about for nearly two years, I cringe knowing no one will mourn the loss of the nameless, soulless girl who fell for the man that broke her.
.
Chapter 1
“Don’t remove the blindfold,” a deep, husky voice invaded my hearing through some sort of speaker, my remaining senses attempted to grasp the severity of my situation. The voice was rough, aggressive, and held back an all too familiar rage. Four words were all it had took to throw me into a past I had no desire to return to. Although the voices from my past memories were vastly different from this new voice; I knew an angry inflection when I heard one, and this man was irate.
I lowered my hands to my side and shook off the bad memories, blindly taking in my surroundings. First and foremost, I was naked. The cold air had pebbled my small nipples, and the goosebumps peppering my skin made the hair on my arms and neck stand at attention. I could feel the silkiness of the satin sheets cocooning my body, adding to the chill encompassing my entire being. I was lying perfectly flat, my head cushioned by a single pillow. I assumed I was on a bed. An incredibly plush bed. This didn’t feel like it matched the rest of my current environment.
I appeared surprisingly calm to the outside eye. Anyone who approached me right now might think I was sleeping. On the inside, though, I could feel the turmoil and fear churn my gut, threatening to spill out, and reveal my secrets. Knowing my luck, though, I’d probably end up choking on my vomit, given my current horizontal state.
The last thing I remembered before now, was being in my cardboard fort on the corner of 45th and Baker, snuggled between my collapsible walls, hoping the coming rain storm wouldn’t penetrate my pseudo-home. I could recall the first few drops hitting my exposed feet and soaking through my blue nightgown, but nothing after. It was as though a dark fog had washed over my memories, and no amount of wind could clear it out to reveal what had actually happened.
The bed was certainly a nice change from the homeless squalor I’d been living in for the past three months, but only God knew if my predicament was actually better or far, far worse. I assumed I would find out soon enough. Waking up, blindfolded in a stranger’s bed was enough to give me pause.
Pushing the thoughts from my head, I concentrated again on the circumferential area my other senses could pick up on. Being a runaway and part of the foster system had taught me early how to use my hearing and sense of smell when I couldn’t use my sight. I had hidden under the bed so many times in my childhood, fearful of the adults and some of the older children in my foster home, the darkness didn’t frighten me. There was a peace I found when the light was no longer visible. I called on that peace now. I needed it.
Although the space seemed as though it was cloaked in complete silence, there was always something to hear, if you strained hard enough. So far away an average person wouldn’t be able to discern it, the sound of ‘drip, drip, drip’ greeted my ears. The noise seemed to be coming from behind another wall, possibly even another room. No other sounds could be heard, except my deep, heavy breathing. I continued to listen for more clues, but was disappointed by the lack of noise around me.
Taking a whiff of the air in the enclosure, I let my nose sort out the smells infiltrating it. The scent of bleach was overpowering, and it seemed to be mixed with some kind of perfume. The floral smell would have been appealing, had it not been marred by the scent of the offending lemon chemical.
“Hello?” I croaked, not trusting the strained way the two syllables formed in my throat, the echo of the single word bounced around the walls, giving me an idea of the size of the space I was in. I assumed it was a basement of some sort, or possibly even, an above ground concrete room, something similar to what you might find in a prison or holding cell. My overactive imagination sometimes got the better of me. On more than one occasion it had gotten me into serious trouble throughout my childhood. Not knowing what was out there could prove deadly if my brain had any say in the matter.
I decided lying here wasn’t something I could continue doing. I gripped the sheet, wrapped it around me, and attempted to sit up. I wasn’t going to remove the blindfold, I would play their game, but I wouldn’t wait forever. The fearful side of my mentality was still shivering in terror and wanted to crawl further under the covers and hope the bogeyman went away. The rational side told me, whoever had put me on this bed would come back soon, and hopefully give me the answers I wanted. I forced myself to focus on my more rational side, or the fear would engulf me, making me do something stupid. Something I might regret later.
“Don’t get out of the bed, Wendy Darling,” a calm, soothing voice sounded from over the system, and it caused me to tense up momentarily. This voice was far different from the gruff, angry tone of the previous man. There was no anger, no aggression; only peace. Wendy wasn’t my name, which confused me slightly, but my new nickname was at the bottom of the list of things I needed to discover. For now, my focus had to be answers to my whereabouts.
As much as I wanted to let the tranquil feeling run over me, I knew that decision could be potentially fatal. I needed the carefully constructed wall I had built to remain intact, no matter how comforting the stranger’s voice felt. I didn’t know this man from Adam, and even the most soothing of voices could belong to the vilest of men.
Although I followed the directions and didn’t get out of the bed, I sat all the way up, my back against the chilly bars of the headboard. I could feel the cold metal dig into my already fro
zen flesh. The bites of pain coming from the scrapes they created were enough to keep me sober and alert. If needed, I would be ready to jump up and fight for my life. This would be easier now I wasn’t lying down. Of course, it would also be easier with clothes. The lack of anything covering me made me feel vulnerable. I imagined that was the point.
A sudden sound made my ears perk up, as I attempted to pick up the minuscule changes in the world around me. A creak filtered through, alerting me to a door being opened. I listened intently; it sounded heavy, scraping its way across the floor and back again, as it closed with a soft metal thud. The click of a lock confirmed subconsciously my location was probably in a basement.
This was it. I would meet whoever was responsible for pulling me away from my homeless hell. I wasn’t sure if the nervous energy coursing through me was the adrenaline, the fear, or a mixture of both, but I told myself I was ready to face my fate. My only hope was the person in the room was the man with the soothing voice — and the sweet, albeit creepy nickname — not the first man with too much anger to his tone.
The door closed. The sound of heavy feet connecting with the floor told me there was no carpet. Without moving, I attempted to pick up every sound from the way one of his feet came down just a tad heavier, to the way his breathing increased the closer he got. I didn’t know the cause, but my flight side was starting to override my fight side, my imagination revving into full gear.
Taking a much-needed breath, I sat up a little straighter as the footsteps stopped close to me, and I felt the bed dip at my feet, where the stranger sat. I held tighter to the sheet, and imagined my knuckles turning white, as I waited for him to speak. An eternity passed as my heart accelerated, and the man’s breathing grew more ragged. Soon, it would be almost impossible to differentiate my breathing to his as the flow of our breath synced together.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Wendy Darling,” the man’s voice cooed, my fingers immediately relaxed slightly. “If I remove your blindfold, will you behave?”
I nodded, not trusting my own voice, or the irrational security I felt in this man’s presence. I had no idea what he looked like, or if he was trustworthy. My mind was basing its decision of whether to trust him on a handful of words from the mouth of a man I had never met. How did I know if he was lying or telling the truth? The truth was I didn’t, but it didn’t stop my brain from believing them on faith alone.
Dragging myself back to the present, I was oddly grateful he volunteered to remove the blindfold for me. I didn’t think my hands would obey my brain, and my modesty was keeping me from letting go of the sheet.
I had smelled him before I felt him. A blend of spices and man filled my nostrils as his fingers brushed across my face, over my closed eyes, and tangled in my hair, where the bands of the blindfold nestled. His scent was intoxicating, lulling me into a confused and drunken stupor. I knew, in the back of my mind, I shouldn’t feel this sense of serenity, but I couldn’t stop it from engulfing me. There had to be some sort of drug in my system. How else could I explain this feeling of security?
When his hand pulled away, an emptiness I couldn’t describe was left behind. Even though the blindfold was gone, I kept my eyes tightly closed. I was too scared to open them, fearful of what I would find. Would the man I had placed too much trust in, be the monster from my imaginations? Would he be the hero of my fairy tales? Or, would he be the villain from my reality? I didn’t know, and I was too much of a coward to figure it out on my own.
“Open your eyes,” his voice gingerly encompassed me, his fingers brushing against my cheek, his thumb grazing over my closed eyelids.
My frame relaxed as I slowly peeled open both eyelids, letting them adjust to the harsh fluorescent lights above me, while the stranger’s hands continued to caress my face. Blinking rapidly, I avoided looking at the man in front of me, instead, looking at the space I now inhabited.
As I had suspected, I was in a cement room of sorts. Dark gray bricks made up the four walls I could see around me, and there were no windows to speak of. The only exit to this room was the door across from me. The bed I sat on was in the back, nestled up to the gray bricks. To my right, a concrete barrier, and to my left a large area sectioned off with massive black curtains. Directly in front of me was another bricked off room. The entire space was expansive, and I presumed it was the whole layout of an incredibly substantial home.
For several minutes, I soaked in as much of my environment as I could. If I ever did get out of here, I would need a detailed description of where I was being held. One positive of my sequester in foster care? I got to watch a lot of television, and crime shows were my guilty pleasure. I didn’t know if I would need the knowledge of an escape route, but it was better safe than sorry, and something told me, no matter how gentle this man seemed, I wasn’t in this bed naked out of the goodness of his heart. There was something else, I just didn’t know what yet.
“You can’t escape, Wendy Darling. It’s impossible.”
Escape. I was right. I was being held captive, but for what purposes? And why me?
“Nothing is impossible,” I choked out, finally letting my eyes fall on my captor.
His chuckle sent shivers down my spine, giving me goosebumps. “I like your fire, don’t let it die out.”
I had no idea what he meant, but at the moment, I wasn’t sure if I cared to examine it further. The man in front of me stole my words and my breath. In every crime show I watched, the kidnapper was almost always ugly; a monster. Usually, a bullied kid at school, who grew up into a lanky genius, kidnapping and torturing his former bullies, before ultimately killing them. This stranger was nothing of the sort. He was, for lack of better words, beautiful, in a manly, grizzly way.
He was dressed all in black, only his face showing. The hoodie and black jeans did nothing to hide what was underneath. He was tall, muscled, and broad. Standing, he would easily engulf my measly five-foot frame. His jet-black hair sat in disarray under his hood, and his eyes the most piercing blue I had ever encountered. His eyebrows were raised, giving him a sinister expression that startled me for half of a second., Although facial hair had always been a turnoff, his full beard and mustache added to his features, making him the most attractive man I’d ever laid eyes on. I was staring, and I didn’t fucking care.
He smiled, as though he knew his looks would be my downfall. Like he knew the current thought in my mind was not escaping him, but rather dropping the sheet and offering him my body. The realization of my ideas should have struck me as odd, but the lingering fog in my brain refused to believe I was turned on by this unwelcome stranger. My mixed emotions were starting to give me a migraine.
“Where am I?” I knew full well he wouldn't answer my silly question, but he surprised me.
“You’re in my home, Wendy Darling. And my name is Paxton,” he offered, smiling at me again, holding out his huge hand.
“I have a name,” I whispered, ignoring his greeting.
His smile vanished instantly, his face dropping. “Not anymore. From now on, your name is girl or whatever your Master decides it should be.”
Master? What on God’s green earth was this man rambling about?
“I don’t understand,” I shook my head frantically side to side, my euphoric feeling subsiding and my nerves revving into full gear.
“Hush,” came Paxton’s soothing tone, the harshness gone as instantaneously as it had appeared. “For now, you don’t need to understand that aspect. You only need to know a few ground rules for your training.”
Almost immediately following Paxton’s words the calming effect I had lost, found its way back into my nervous system. My bewildering emotions were starting to give me whiplash.
“Training?” I asked, clearly not understanding.
“Listen carefully, Wendy Darling, and pay attention. Your life depends on it. Forget your old life. Today you are born again. You will start your physical and mental training with my brother Preston. He will mold you, shape y
ou, and ultimately perfect you. To do so, though, you will undergo unpleasant tutelage at his hand.”
Pausing, I could tell he was letting his words sink in. What sort of ‘unpleasant tutelage’ did he mean? Nothing he said was registering to my troubled psyche.
“Training?” I was confused by this.
“Yes, girl. Training,” he retorted, slightly harsher than before. “Every morning you will wake with an assignment. These are for your mental stimulation and to gauge your abilities in a non-sexual fashion. Each chore done proficiently and correctly will offer you a reward. Each one you miss or fail will result in punishment. If you give it your all, you won’t fail, and I expect you not to fail.”
My brain was swimming. Did this mean there would be training in a sexual manner as well? I wanted to ask, but the lump in my throat made it impossible.
Abruptly, Paxton stood, pulling the sheet with him, exposing my nakedness to his roaming, hungry eyes. I attempted to cover myself, but I had been graced with a bountiful chest, and there was little I could do to completely cover myself from his crude albeit appreciative gaze.
With a final glance, Paxton turned his back on me and headed towards the curtained corner of the basement. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know what was behind the coverings. What sort of training materials would he expose? What kind of assignments would I be forced to do? He had said non-sexual. Was there a classroom hidden behind the sheets? My pulse accelerated to an unhealthy rate as different images popped in and out of my head, making me see things that weren’t really there.
After Paxton disappeared behind the curtain, I frantically looked around again, hoping to find another way out. I didn’t care what kind of assignments they wanted me to complete. For once in my life, I found myself wishing I was back on the streets in my cardboard home. Being homeless wasn’t a cakewalk, but I’d never experience fear like this, being hungry and cold. The worst that would happen to me there was dying in my sleep. At least then I didn’t know it was coming.
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