by Linnea May
But I have cooked plenty of meals for my girls down here. I enjoy cooking, and it’s gratifying to prepare a meal for someone else, someone who’s giving so much of herself to me.
Ruby looked exhausted and starved, and she needs a proper breakfast to fuel her with new energy. I prepare her a good-sized portion of buttered whole grain toast, two scrambled eggs, bacon strips and half an avocado topped with some fresh fruit on the side because I know these women always ask for something fresh. She doesn’t strike me as someone who eats a dish like this on a regular basis, but I’m sure she’ll appreciate it now.
However, when I bring the plate up to her room, I don’t find her eagerly staring at the door awaiting my arrival. Instead, she’s curled up on her bed, still on her leash, and fast asleep.
She looks so peaceful, so unbelievably beautiful. I don’t have the heart to wake her up, but instead I leave the plate on her nightstand, carefully placing the blanket over her naked body before I retreat, trying to make little to no sound as I close the door.
Chapter 22
Liana
I wake up confused and disorientated for the third time in the last twelve hours, but this is the first time that I find myself comfortable.
I’m lying on the softest bed I’ve ever rested on, nestled in warm, slippery silk sheets in pastel colors and covered by a matching blanket that hugs my body like a gentle lover’s arms, as soft as cashmere. Only when I try to move am I reminded that this is not an ordinary bed or an ordinary bedroom. The leather collar cuts into the skin of my throat, choking me as I try to turn my head to the side, painfully jerking the leash that’s attached to the bed frame.
I have a look at the clasp and realize that I could probably unfasten it on my own, but something tells me I shouldn’t. He has me chained here for a reason, and he said that I was not allowed to take the collar off. This probably goes for the leash, as well.
Luckily, the leash is long enough to give me some leeway so that I can sit up straight. The room is brightly lit, a stream of New England’s brilliant sunshine breaking through the sheer curtains, immersing the room in a warm glow. I have no way of telling what time it is because there’s no clock in this room either, but the gurgling growls coming from my stomach announces a dire need for food. It’s been so long since I’ve eaten a proper meal, that I have trouble trusting my eyes when I notice the tray to my left. There’s a giant plate filled with fluffy scrambled eggs, perfectly cooked bacon, buttered toast, a sliced avocado, a serving of fresh fruit salad, and a bottle of spring water. I quickly reach for the water, as my thirst overpowers my hunger by far. After emptying half of it a few greedy gulps, I turn my attention back to the food.
Did he make this for me? How come I cannot remember him bringing this in here? Was I already sleeping? And he didn’t get mad at me? I remember just wanting to rest my head a little. After all that had happened this morning, I just needed a moment to rest. And the sheets were so inviting, so soft.
I don’t waste any more time thinking, and instead reach for the plate so I can place it on my lap to eat. As I pick up one of the crisp bacon strips, I cannot help but laugh. This is so absurd. The whole situation, this scene. Me, sitting in a lavishly made bed, naked, a leather collar around my neck, and my ass cheeks still burning from the beating I received earlier, digging into one of the best homemade breakfasts I’ve had in weeks, maybe months. I haven’t been eating right since my relationship went to shit, and it only got worse after what happened to Professor Miller. This is the first time that I’ve been able to enjoy food in days.
Here of all places, and now of all times.
I still haven’t figured any of this out, though. I don’t understand why I’m here, and I don’t understand why any of this is happening, a twisted dream – a fantasy – coming true in its darkest form.
Maybe that’s what it is? A dream? Maybe someone drugged me while I was at that bar, slipped something in my drink when I wasn’t looking?
Just as I get caught up in my paranoid stream of thoughts, the door opens and he walks in. He has changed his clothes and is now wearing butt-hugging black jeans and a gray cashmere sweater over a white collared shirt. His dark hair is gelled to the side, and he looks freshly shaved, baring his angular jaw. I freeze mid-bite, watching as he approaches the bed taking deliberate steps, his arms crossed in front of his chest.
“I see you’re enjoying your breakfast,” he says.
I lower my eyes, very aware of the fact that I’m still naked, my hair ruffled, and God knows what my face must look like with all the smeared make-up. I feel inferior to him in so many aspects, causing me to question if I’m even worth being kidnapped by a man like him. Couldn’t he have found someone so much better than me for himself?
And why does a man like him even see the need to kidnap a random woman off the street? From the looks of it, he could have anyone, any beautiful woman he wanted, a luscious chic in a fancy dress and stiletto heels, parading her immaculate body, and perfectly dolled up to the nines to please him. Like that Barbie doll at the bar.
The Barbie from whom I stole that red fur coat.
What if…?
“You better finish all of it,” he says, interrupting my inner ramblings.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, casually supporting himself on his left hip as his eyes wander back and forth between me and the plate in my lap. I notice his eyes. They’re not dark brown as I thought before, but rather they’re hazel, a dark hazel. I’ve never seen eyes like his – they’re not a conventionally pretty color, but seem to be as complex as the man trapped behind them.
“I will,” I say. “I was starving. Thank you, Master.”
It feels strange to thank him for this, after all that has happened, and all that he has done to me. His mere presence is exciting and intimating at the same time. He radiates a heated promise just as much as he does a chilling threat. I wouldn’t dare not finish the breakfast he prepared for me. I’m sure there’d be another punishment attached to that.
I continue to eat under his watchful eyes, still troubled by questions I don’t dare ask. He gives me a few moments to finish eating before he moves the tray off from my lap, telling me to present myself to him.
“What do you mean?” I ask, honestly bewildered at his request.
He rolls his eyes.
“Move the blanket away,” he says. “I want to see what’s mine as I talk to you.”
I know he won’t accept any kind of backtalk, so I just do as I’m told and move the blanket aside, exposing my naked body.
A pleased smile appears on his handsome face.
“Good girl,” he says, placing his hand on my knee and slowly caressing up along the inner side of my thigh, moving toward my center.
I tense up, not ready for another round of his confusing treatment. Is abuse the right word? I’m still unsure.
“Let’s clarify a few things before we go on,” he begins. “You should be familiar with the basic rules, and understand the consequences of your transgressions by now, but I will summarize them for you, nonetheless.”
He pauses, his eyes fixated on me to make sure he has my full attention.
“This is where you will stay, always. Unless you fail to obey and displease me. The punishment you received earlier was just a small taste of what else I have in store for you, but those punishments are only for the transgressions that happen naturally during your training, when you forget things, act clumsily, or misunderstand an order,” he continues. “If, however, you openly refuse to follow an order, you’ll lose your privilege to stay here.”
My privilege to stay here? Is he fucking kidding me?
My frowning eyebrows cause him to interrupt his little lecture, casting me a warning look.
“It means you’re going back to the attic,” he clarifies. “For however long I decide, and it won’t matter how much you scream or bang against the door. Understand?”
I nod. “Yes, Mast
er.”
“Good,” he says, getting up from the bed, ready to leave.
“What do you mean by training?” I hurry to ask. “You keep saying you’ll train me. For what?”
He looks at me as if the answer should be clear to me by now.
“For my pleasure,” he says. “You’re my pet. It’s what pets are for, to be trained by their masters.”
I wrinkle my eyebrows and instinctively cross my arms across my chest, closing my legs to cover my nakedness.
“Will I get my clothes back?” I ask.
He shakes his head no.
“Unless there is something specific you’d like to have?” he wants to know.
I’m confused by his question, but since he’s asking, I’ll answer.
“My purse, with my phone,” I say. Obviously.
He laughs. “You know you can’t have that.”
“Why? Are you afraid I’d call the police to get me out of here?” I dare to ask. I know I’m playing with fire here, and his look only confirms that.
“You know that’s not happening,” he snaps at me. “So, is there anything else you need to have with you?”
I hesitate. I don’t understand why he keeps pressing me on this. If he wants me to have my stuff, why not just give it to me?
“The coat,” I finally say. “I want the red coat.”
He sighs. “Fine.”
My surprised gaze follows him as he walks toward the door. I didn’t expect him to grant me that request.
He puts his hand on the doorknob, but before he leaves, he turns around to me one last time.
“I’ll be back later,” he says. “Get some rest, but don’t get any ideas.”
I meet his look with narrowed eyes.
“Afraid someone will hear me if I scream and bang against the door?” I ask.
His face remains stoic.
“No,” he says. “No one is here. No one will hear you.”
With that, he opens the door and walks out the room.
Chapter 23
Joseph
There are a lot of things that I can put on hold for thirty-nine days, but some things are out of the question. This includes the weekly phone call from my grandfather, Joseph. I’m not only named after him, but also turned out to be the son he never had, considering that my father grew to be the biggest disappointment to him imaginable.
I don’t know where I would be if it wasn’t for this man, so I’d never reject a call from him or my grandmother. They practically raised me, even before the untimely death of my parents. I was twelve when it happened, a boy about to start junior high school, when my father drove the car into a ravine, killing both him and my mother. They were both drunk at the time. They had been out on another binge, leaving me home alone. I was used to it, even at that young age. I didn’t even notice that my parents didn’t return that night, because I was already fast asleep. When the police woke me up at five in the morning by ringing the doorbell and banging on the door, I was too scared to open the door for them. It wasn’t the first time that police had paid an early morning visit to our house, but this time I was afraid. I knew right away that something must have happened, and I knew right away that it must be something really bad, because they took of their hats when I finally answered the door for them. When they asked if my babysitter was home, I didn’t even understand the question, and when I told them that I was by myself, they exchanged a knowing look.
It’s funny how people always talk about life being unfair, about kids having unequal chances at life, about how privileged those born into rich families are. While all of that may be true, parents like mine often get overlooked. My father was privileged, sent off to the country’s best business college to learn how to run the family’s real estate empire built by my grandfather. But the responsibility and lack of choice that comes from being one of the privileged overwhelmed him from the beginning. He was more than just a rebel, he was angry, violent, and he hated his parents for inflicting this pressure on him. He vowed to never do it to his own son, and I can give him that. He never put any pressure on me, but that was mostly because he barely acknowledged my existence. He and my mother got married because he knocked her up when they were both still in college, and both their families pressured them to do the right thing and get married. At least they had something to connect over - a joint hate for their families, and a joint love for drugs and alcohol.
My grandparents sought legal custody of me several times, but they never succeeded.
Until my parents died.
It was as if they’d gotten another chance at raising the son they always wanted. They cared for me, they fostered me, they nurtured me, and they poured all their hopes and dreams into me.
And I didn’t mind. On the contrary, I drank it all in as if I’d been dying of thirst for years. The love, the hope, the pressure, all of it was new for me, and I loved most of it.
But I was still my father’s son. I’ve inherited some of his most loathsome traits. I’m cursed with the same rage, the same inability to control my anger when it overcomes me. Despite everything my grandparents did for me, I remained a trouble maker. Though that word may be a little too cute to describe myself.
Just like most retired elderly people, my grandparents have a pretty set schedule. They’re the most predictable people I know, the only constant in my life that never changes. They call every Sunday, right after lunch, which is around 1 p.m. I don’t know why they decided to make this their time to call, but that’s what it is. I’ve not only grown accustomed to it, but made it an integral part of my week. No matter if there’s a girl in the house or not, I’ll be sitting in my office early Sunday afternoon, ready to pick up the phone.
It’s usually my grandfather who calls as the classic patriarch of the family. But today, I hear my grandmother’s voice when I answer the phone after letting it ring just one time.
“Joseph,” she greets me with glee. The smile is palpable in her voice, I can practically see her face beaming in front of me. “How are you? Is it as cold up there as they say on the news?”
“It’s gotten pretty chilly,” I tell her. “I bet you guys don’t have to worry about that down there, do you?”
“Oh, no, no,” my grandmother replies. “Been more worried about the gators lately - Grandpa swears he saw one in the backyard this week!”
I laugh at her excited voice. I’m pretty sure that they don’t actually have to worry about alligators in their wealthy gated community, but my grandparents like to create adventure where there’s none.
I engage in a little chit-chat with her, getting reassured that both of them are doing fine, something that cannot be taken for granted at their age.
After a while, she hands the phone over to my grandfather, thus shifting the conversation to an entirely different topic. My grandparents are not afraid to be the perfect stereotype when it comes to certain things, and while my grandmother prefers to talk about the weather, my health, and random gossip about people that I don’t even know, my grandfather is all about the business.
“Things going good?” he asks as soon as he’s handed the phone, and I know he’s not talking about me or my health, but about the business he left me in charge of.
“Yes, everything is running smoothly,” I assure him. “Flipped the Lincoln properties last week, so those are finally off our hands.”
“Good, good,” my grandfather agrees. “Anything new on the horizon?”
“Not right now,” I tell him. “I’ll pick up some negotiations with those law firms in town. They have been back and forth with us for months now, and I wanted to give them some time to think things over and come up with a good proposal before I sit down with them again.”
“In Boston?” he asks.
“Yes, in Boston,” I say.
“Good, always good to be close to the client,” he concludes.
“I know, you’ve taught me that,” I remark.
My grandfather has taught me a lot of things, most of them business-related, of course. But even though he doesn’t know it, he also taught me quite a lot about human psychology.
Years ago, that day when I went too far, when my fists destroyed lives, that was when he realized how dangerous I’d become, both to myself and others. That was the day he sat me down and told me I had to do something about it, I had to change something in my life.
“You need an outlet, son,” he told me. “A hobby, sports, martial arts. Anything that will keep both your mind and your body focused. Something that captivates and controls you, something that channels all that violent energy into something less harmful, even useful.”
Of course, he had no idea where I would go with his advice. I tried different things, I tried Tae kwon do, Jiu Jitsu, boxing. It helped my physique, but none of it could tame my mind.
Nothing worked as well as this.
I found my outlet in women, not in their embrace, but in their terror. They may only play a role for me, but their faces, painted with both agony and bliss are what keeps me sane.
And so far, none of them have done the job as well as Ruby.
Now as I look at her on one of the screens in my office, I can’t help but feel a warm wave of gratefulness flooding my entire being.
She’s tied to her bed, her naked body hidden under that red fur coat, the one thing she needs to protect herself from me. It’s been two days, and I still haven’t fucked her. I’ve never waited this long, because no one has ever made me wait this long. Ruby makes me want to take my time with her, she makes me want different things. I’ve spanked her, tied her down, and I’ve made her come again and again, and not only to gain her trust so it’ll be easier to control her.
No, it’s not just that.
I just enjoy watching her. I can’t get enough of her beautiful face, her enticing body, her expressive reactions.