by Violet Heart
"Why is it dark in here? Where are you?" he asked. He reached his hands forward.
She took advantage, clapping the cuffs on his wrists. Jerking the connecting chain, she had him off balance and easily sent him stumbling across the room to a retainer bar.
"What the—" he hollered.
With the speed that came from a year's worth of practice, she attached the bar's runner lock to the cuffs' chain, turned the key before popping it from its hole, and retreated out of range. On her way out, she turned on an already plugged in nightlight and called out, "Sweet dreams."
Chapter 6
Chip tried to stand as the door closed, but the new restraint wouldn't let him bring his hands higher than his knees. He sank to the carpet and studied the cuffs in the faint light. He tested the chains. They were the real thing. He moved his attention to the cord and lock attached to the cuffs. Clear rubber tubing encased steel wire, the same kind he used to lock his bicycle, and a dura-loc secured it. Too strong.
Running a hand along the bar, he checked the texture and where it attached to the wall. Soft, thick terrycloth covered a pad. He could peel the material where it fastened with Velcro, but the neoprene pad didn't budge. Grasping the bar, he gave it a shake. It moved just a hair at the wall bracket. Hope breathed new life in him, like a cool breeze on a humid day. He rattled the bar with all his strength. It didn't give. He slid his legs underneath and braced his feet against the mirrored wall. He pulled. Pouring his might into the task, he grunted with the effort. Nothing.
"Hey!" he yelled.
Silence.
"Melony! This isn't funny!"
Silence. Chip took a moment to glance around. The room was the size of a second bedroom or home office. A row of shelves displayed shadowed shapes of whips, harnesses, chains, and other instruments of torture he had only seen in movies. A single, straight-backed wooden chair sat in a corner, and on the far wall, a sound system and speakers filled a glass-fronted case. Other than the sheet mirror behind the bar, nothing hung on the walls.
"Let me out of here!"
No response. No hint of movement.
He bellowed until his voice broke, but she didn't come. He remembered the glass of water she had brought. If it still sat on the ledge, she might come get it. Maybe he could reason with her. Almost afraid to look, he cut his gaze sideways and peeked. Gone. The water was gone.
"Damn it." His voice had lost its strength, and he could manage no more than a rasp.
He stared at his petulant reflection. Quiet permeated the room – a living, throbbing, oppressive nothingness. No noise from neighboring apartments. No traffic sounds. Just his own breathing. Then it occurred to him. She had soundproofed his prison.
* * * *
Melony set the last hot roller on her vanity counter and ran fingers through her hair to separate the curls. The rich scent of fresh coffee wafted to the master bedroom. She headed to the kitchen and poured the steaming brew into two cups. She grabbed a loincloth from the counter on her way to continue Chip's training. As an afterthought, she collected his collar and leash from the coat rack. Part of her dreaded seeing him, yet part of her looked forward it.
Inside, she set the cups on the ledge, put the neck restraint on a shelf, and went to where he slept, stretched on the floor. After getting home from buying him loincloths from the Pink Banana Boutique last night, she had checked on him. She had covered him with a soft, fleece blanket before going to bed. Now, only a corner of it rode over the curve of his hip to cover his privates.
She drank in the sight of him. His peaceful features, so boy-like in slumber, tugged at her and contradicted the manly build below. Unable to deny her attraction, she let her eyes worship his broad shoulders, thick chest, chiseled abdomen, and narrow hips. The same black hair lightly swirling over his chest formed a line that disappeared under the blanket from his bellybutton. Lower, more graced his long, well-shaped legs and peppered his toes. Damn, he was sexy.
Her body responded to him in a way she had never experienced. She despised men. Feared their strength and aggression. Subjected them to servitude when given the opportunity. But this one she desired. Looking at him made her want to touch herself. Made her want him touching her. A chill raised the hairs on her arms, a combination of thrill and threat.
He lay naked at her feet, impotent thanks to a restraint system guaranteed to prevent him from causing her harm. She could have her way with him. She suspected he would offer only a cursory reluctance, but she wasn't prepared. Not ready. She wondered if she'd ever be ready. Besides, after last night, she doubted he could handle it. The first night was always the worst.
Stripping away the blanket, she went utterly still. Her lungs clamped onto her last breath. His cock stood at the ready, more perfect in form than the chocolate she had tried to enjoy at the meeting. Straight, hard, and bouncing slightly in time to his heartbeat, it begged her to wrap her fingers around it. Test its size. Feel its texture. For the first time in her life, she wondered about its taste. It appeared sort of glossy, smooth, the blue veined ridges adding contour. She wanted to know how it would feel on her tongue if she licked it.
What was happening to her? Her own thoughts contradicted all she believed, all she stood against. But he looked so delicious. She moistened her lips and raked him with her gaze once more. What could it hurt to look? Her palms itched to touch his skin, learn the shape of his muscles, see if the hair on his chest felt soft or wiry. Oh, God, she had to get out of there.
Dropping the loincloth over his hips, she faltered backward. Her foot landed wrong, and the high heel of her boot turned her ankle at a painful angle. Not taking her eyes from his face, she covered her mouth with her hand, horrified he had brought her to this. Weak, questioning, wanting. Her legs gave out and she sank to the floor. She hated him. She wanted him. Confusion turned everything inside out.
* * * *
Coffee. Chip smelled coffee. And something coarse felt scratchy on his back and legs.
Stirring, he rolled and realized he lay on carpet. Then it came to him in a rush. Melony in leather. The kiss. Frank. Cuffs.
Popping open his lids, he found her in the middle of the room on her knees, looking ready to cry but still dry-eyed. Suddenly, nothing mattered but her pain. He opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. Her eyes, so tormented, pleaded with him. This was no diversion. This was no game. Her face twisted and contorted through a variety of dark emotions. This was the hell where she lived. This wasn't his prison. It was hers.
"I have to pee," he said, more to break her free from whatever thoughts had brought her low than to state his discomfort.
Melony blinked. She moved her hand from her mouth to her ankle. She was so beautiful. Pale curls fell around her bare shoulders, and a black leather bustier decorated with delicate pink bows barely contained her lovely breasts. Thigh-high leather boots creaked as she brought a leg around and plopped to her rear.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his ravaged voice not much more than a whisper. Using the bar, he sat and noticed a brown scrap of cloth in his lap.
All expression melted from her features and she shook her head, but a pink blush washed across her chest and traveled upward to tinge her cheeks.
His hard-on grew harder, and he winced. "I really have to pee."
She shook her head again.
"Melony. You're killin' me. I gotta go, and I don't want to ruin your carpet."
"Fine." Her voice sounded strained. She removed her boots and limped out of the room.
She was hurt. "Where are you going? You've got to unlock this thing," he called.
She returned with a pail. "Here you go." Setting it under the bar, she hobbled back and crossed her arms.
"Get real," he said.
"It doesn't get any more real than this."
His bladder protested. "Why don't you stop this? You don't have to pretend to be so strong."
"I'm not pretending." She frowned.
In as gentle a tone as he could muster
, he said, "The look in your eyes tells me otherwise."
She touched fingertips to her face, dawning disgust contorting her features.
"You've got problems. I get that. But don't take it out on me. Set me free and I'll help you." If he didn't relieve the pressure, he would either embarrass himself or sustain an injury.
"I don't need the kind of help you're offering," she said, snide acidity dripping in her voice.
He'd get nowhere with her in this mood. "At least turn your back."
"You don't get to tell me what to do. I tell you."
Clenching his jaw, he bit back a retort. She struggled under some kind of emotional battle, and having grown up living with three older sisters, he knew better than to engage her. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and concentrated on releasing it slowly, willing his erection to relent. Melony's nearness made it more difficult, but he met the challenge. He turned away enough to remove her from his vision, got to his knees with the cloth sliding off his lap, and maneuvered his cuffed hands to direct his flow of urine into the pail. When the discomfort abated, he sighed with relief.
"Better?" she asked.
Don't talk to me right now. He squeezed his eyelids together, still working on emptying his bladder. When he finished, she took care of the pail then gave him a cup of coffee and took a position at the center of the room.
"I like cream," he said.
"Don't care. You want to stay naked, or do you want to wear the cloth?" She took a sip of her own coffee.
She seemed implacable, cold as ice. She gave a good show. He had seen what lay beneath, however. He had to figure a way to tap into her vulnerability. When she lowered her gaze to his crotch, he caught a flash of fear. Or was it curiosity? Either way, he recognized her weakness. "I'm fine as I am," he said.
She pressed her lips into a line, the only sign she didn't like his answer. He hid a smile behind the rim of his cup, pretending to drink.
"Suit yourself," she said with a shrug.
When she turned her back and headed for the sound system, kicking her discarded boots out of the way, he got an idea. Last night, she had said he needed to learn it was all about her. He would make her the focus of everything he said. If he succeeded, he would meet his goal—release from that room before dinner.
* * * *
Melony got her favorite Mozart CD going, set her cup on top of the case, and moved to the shelves. Her ankle ached, but it would be fine and no longer made her limp.
These strange sensations he inspired had no grounds in reality, and once she had him tamed and humble, she'd see his true colors. He'd turn out the same as every other slave. Pathetic and worthless.
With careful consideration, she chose her favorite tool, a long, brown braided whip. She had worked for months perfecting her skill, and took great pride in her ability. Pivoting on her heel, she expected him to show either fear or defiance. Last night had a toll on him. His voice proved it. His character would dictate how he paired it with her promise of domination.
When she met his gaze, however, he smiled and set his coffee on the floor at his hip. "Are you hungry?"
What? She held out the coiled length and cocked him a smug smile of her own.. "For your flesh."
He smiled bigger, putting her off her guard. "I make a mighty fine omelet."
Melony's stomach answered with a growl. Damn him. He leaned back, propping his elbows against the bar, and splayed his legs. Putting it all out there, Chip left nothing to her imagination. She braced her feet apart, locked her knees, and let the tip of the whip drop to the carpet. Even without her boots, her reflection in the mirror revealed an intimidating, dangerous dominatrix. He seemed unaffected.
"Really," he added, tilting his head to the side and giving her a wink. "I'd be happy to make you one."
With a flick of her wrist, she cracked the whip. The loud pop reverberated around the room. She appeared tough, unyielding. Inside, however, he turned her to marshmallow.
"Or maybe I could rub your back. You look pretty tense. I give a great—"
She sent the tip to his shoulder, a perfectly administered lash to shut him up. It left a tiny welt which would disappear in minutes. He sucked in a breath, his elbows coming off the bar.
She rejoiced in her victory, but carefully schooled her features. She kept a deadly serious expression as he lifted his cuffed hands and touched a finger to the pink mark.
His eyes spoke volumes, but he said nothing. Begrudgingly, she admired his control. It turned her on, and she wanted another fix. Anxious to see what he would do, she cracked the whip. He didn't flinch. Instead, he lowered his hands to his middle and watched the braid droop from the handle. Impressive. Her nipples hardened.
"You're pretty good with that," he complimented.
She sent the tip to his other shoulder, giving him a mark to match. He didn't move. His muscles didn't tense. He showed no pain whatsoever. Between her legs, she began to throb. Between his, however, his dick lay flaccid. How disappointing. By now, George would have been ready to cum.
As though he read her mind, he said, "I don't get off like this. Unlock me and I'll show you what turns me on."
Her heart began a marathon. Not because he scared her, but because she actually had to fight the temptation to do just that. Taking a backward step, she sent the whip to the arch of his foot.
"Ow!" He jumped and pulled his foot in then scowled at her.
"Careful," she warned, "or I'll make you pay for that look."
He laughed. Not a forced, faked chortle. No, he laughed in earnest, as if entertained. "Aw, c'mon. May I cook you breakfast?"
This wasn't working. She had to come up with a different plan. Coiling the whip, she returned to the shelf. She put it away, turned off the music, and went to the door.
"Aren't you forgetting to let me off this bar? I can't make an omelet like this."
She cast him one final glance then shut the door and fell back against it. She didn't want him to cook for her. She wanted him to kiss her.
Chapter 7
Guilt wracked Melony. She reached into the breadbox for a bag of large croissants from the French bakery down the street. She had kidnapped her boss, kept him restrained all night, and subjected him to humiliation this morning. All without his consent. Granted, Frank had forced him on her, and she had brought him home to protect his life, but he had not agreed to any of the abuse she had heaped on him.
Still, he made an effort to remain sporting. She set out two plates. On each, she arranged a roll, three strawberries, and a dollop of whipped cream cheese. She would reward him. Though, she had to admit, the reward she had in mind would equally benefit her.
The doorbell rang as she placed the remaining croissants in the breadbox. With ideas forming for Chip's reward, and her resulting anticipation building, she didn't have the patience for interruption. Though in the light of the previous night's events, she didn't dare ignore it.
At to the door, she looked through the peephole and sighed. Frank. She'd expected he might check on her, but she'd hoped he would call. Opening the door, she smiled. "Good morning."
"Hi, sweetheart. How's our boy doing?" he grated, his voice more gravely than usual. Apparently, he had come right over after waking.
"We're in play," she said, standing in the doorframe.
"He's bound? And you're not with him?" His disapproving tone chastised her, and he glanced over her shoulder into the apartment.
"Not with rope," she assured. "He's cuffed to the runner cord on my training bar."
"Okay," he said with a nod, appeased and relaxing. "I see two plates. Care to make it three?"
Her stomach twisted. The bouncer had asked her on two occasions in the past year if he could watch. This was his way of asking once more. She couldn't. The others practiced bondage, dominance, sadism and masochism for entertainment. For enhanced sexual experience. Melony was different. She had never desired a mutual sexual exchange with any of her partners. Until Chip. She sure as hell wasn't shar
ing it with Frank.
"He's still in training. I don't want to compromise my authority by bringing in a third party this early in the play," she said, aiming for diplomacy and hoping he would accept it without argument.
His intense stare crackled the air between them, and she braced for his verbal attack. He surprised her by beaming a toothy grin and patting her on the shoulder. "Good girl. Call me if he gives you any trouble. Velma's working a double shift today to make extra spending money for vacation, so I'm just hanging out."
She stepped back and offered a little wave. "Sure will, Frank. Thanks for coming by." She closed the door. It locked automatically, but for extra measure, she secured the safety chain.
Balancing both plates on one arm like a waitress, she went to the playroom and found Chip trying to get into his loincloth. His squirms, twists, and huffs amused her, and she stood to watch for a second.
"Can I get your help with this?" he asked, giving up and letting the material hang from one hand.
She took it and set it on her shelved bullwhip. "You won't be needing that."
His mouth quirked to one side, making him appear undecided. He didn't argue. Another two points for the slave.
"Did something happen while you got that delicious-looking food? You seem less tense." He leaned his butt against the bar.
"Careful," she warned. "Taking liberties with your speech could cost you your breakfast." She held his plate out of reach and moved it back and forth, teasing.
"You're cruel." His eyes didn't leave the food.
"Compliments will get you nowhere." She smiled, enjoying his company. Something she hadn't thought possible with a man. She handed him the plate. She set hers next to her coffee on top of the entertainment system and fetched his collar and leash.
He took one look at the restraint and held up a hand. "Oh, no you don't. You're not getting that back on me."