by Linnea May
I nod. "Yes. It's quite a sum."
"Quite a sum!" he repeats. "This totally destroys our plans."
"Your plans?"
"Carol," he says, now in a lower voice. His voice always loses vigor when he starts talking about his wife. "She had some things planned for the house. And we wanted to buy a vacation home..."
"That'll have to wait," I say, unimpressed.
He huffs. "Yeah, easy for you to say, Mr. I-own-half-of-New-England."
Our eyes meet across the table, and it's as if we're reliving the ubiquitous rivalry of our entire upbringing in that moment. I don't even blame him for any hostility he might feel towards me, because I wouldn't want to be in his skin either. My parents never expected anything from me, I never felt the same kind of pressure that he was put under from the day of his birth. They paid little attention to me, leaving me with a kind of freedom that he never got to experience. The fact that I've also been seen as the "troubled kid" my entire life and only managed to gain their attention when I did something wrong, is an entirely different story. A story that doesn't have a bearing on him, because it's not his plight.
"Why does a single man even need so many houses?" he asks, narrowing his eyes. "I mean, I know you're swimming in money, even compared to me or our parents, but-"
"It's called making smart investments in real estate," I lecture. "It's a way of securing your wealth without getting in trouble with the government."
He casts me a dark look. "Still. So many houses? And you live in half of them and aren’t even renting them out. What the fuck are you doing with them?"
"That's none of your business," I snarl. "You’d better focus on your own shit. Do what I told you, and if your accountant keeps messing things up for you, or you feel you can only save your ass by getting in trouble with the law again, don't come crawling to me."
I get up from my seat, a motion followed by a miffed expression on his face.
"Oh, and I'm always happy to help you find a better accountant - or give you some advice on legal ways to manage your money," I say, before turning around and walking away from him.
I don't have to look back to know that his angry stare is following me all the way out the door.
Chapter 23
Ruby
A week and a half. More or less, I've spent the entire past ten days holed up in this basement, without internet, without TV, without any kind of entertainment or human contact except for him.
It's no wonder that I yearn for him to come back every time he leaves the room. I hate being left alone in here because there's absolutely nothing to keep my mind occupied. I try not to sleep too much during the day, but I find myself napping constantly, wrapped in fine silk bed sheets, yet sleeping on a mattress on the floor like a prisoner. I'm wearing my bracelet now, and he hasn‘t asked me to take it off. I‘ve noticed that he's careful never to touch it or let it become tangled up in the rope or cuffs when he restrains me.
We've fucked every single day, often more than once, and as much as it takes a toll on my body, I can't deny how much I crave it, how much I crave him. He's so good at playing me like an instrument, and he has trained me well within a short amount of time. I don't know if I'm giving him what he wanted from this, but I sure as hell know how to please him through the most simple requests.
By now, he has come up with certain positions that he wants to find me in every time he walks into the room. I expected him to want me on my knees, because that's what clients usually ask for, but he's different. He wants me standing, preferably naked, with my arms at the side of my body, my head held high and my eyes focused on him. That's another thing I noticed. He barely ever tells me to lower my eyes or forbids me from looking at him. I've had many men try to put me in my place by using such commands, but it seems he can never get enough of my eyes taking him in.
I've asked him for make-up more than once, because I feel lost and oddly exposed without it. I can't remember the last time I went without wearing any make-up for longer than a week. It must've been when I was a child. Making up my face has always been an important part of my daily routine and something I loved doing, not just for myself, but for the men I entertained. I love the effect that a well-applied mascara can have on your eyes, and your expressions. Despite my red hair, my eyelashes have always been comparably dark, but not as thick and black as I would have liked. I feel like I'm looking at an entirely different person every time I see my reflection in the mirror, now that I'm here with him and bare of any added color on my face.
He says he doesn't like make-up. He keeps saying the same things over and over again. He wants me bare, naked, exposed, and fresh-faced.
"It's a privilege to see a woman in her natural state," he once said. "Your eyes tell me so much more without that heavy frame around them."
"But isn't that what attracted you to me in the first place?" I asked. "The fact that I was so dolled-up. A perfect fuck doll, you called it."
He nodded. "Yes, but only because I wanted to strip all of it away from you and reveal the person underneath."
He's an odd man, that's for sure. But I’m still not convinced if he’s dangerous or not.
The black hearts on my bracelet tinkle against each other when I jump up from my mattress when I hear his steps approaching the door. Judging from the amount of light coming in from the outside, I'd guess that it's late afternoon or early evening, about the regular time for him to show up to bring me something to eat for dinner. I'm pretty sure he's using some kind of delivery service, because the dishes he serves are pretty exquisite, though not as fresh as a homemade meal would be.
I stand in the expected position, opposite the door, wearing nothing but a white negligé he gave me. It's the only item of clothing I received from him that is somewhat sexy, even though it's not much more than a very short nightgown with lace that shows off my legs and my tits equally.
I'm surprised to see him enter the room with empty hands. He's looking very sharp, however, wearing suit pants and a white dress shirt that hugs his broad frame perfectly. His short hair is gelled up, and he's freshly shaven, a look I haven't once seen on him since I got here.
Surprise must be written all over my face. He's smiling when he approaches me in his usual calm, confident manner.
"See, this is the kind of thing I would miss if your face was masked by make-up," he says, caressing my cheek with the tip of his finger. "That subtle change of expression, that startled glow when you see something you didn't expect."
He leans forward and greets me with a kiss, something he rarely does. My body's reaction is a clear telltale sign of how well he has me trained. There's more than just butterflies fluttering through my middle. I can't believe how much I want him, and how much that desire overpowers any aspiration for freedom I might have otherwise.
"Are you on your way to a date?" I tease, appreciatively scanning his get-up from head to toe.
"I guess I am," he says, and my heart almost sinks for a moment before he extends his hand to me.
I cast him a quizzical look, but slowly accept his offer by taking his hand. Even after all that's happened between us, his touch still feels exotic and exciting, causing my heart to speed up immediately.
I hold my breath when he leads me toward the door, unlocking and opening it as if it was the most normal thing to do. I've never walked up these stairs on my own. The only time I ever made it out of this basement was when he carried me upstairs after I'd dissolved into a crying mess. I was barely conscious enough that day to remember it.
"Are you letting me go?"
The words slip out without thinking, and I immediately regret saying it. He squeezes my hand and pulls me up the remaining steps as he reaches the first floor before me. His grip is so intense that it hurts.
"You're not going anywhere," he hisses in a sudden change of demeanor.
"I'm sorry, I-"
"Don't get any ideas, toy," he interrupts. "Come."
I stumble behind him as he pulls me into
an open living area that is right next to the stairs. He only gives me a few seconds to gawk at the beautiful living area, its light white and gray tones, and a modern fireplace surrounded by a seating area with white leather furniture. It all looks so chic, but yet simplistic and not lived-in. It doesn't seem like he spends a lot of time in here.
He drags me over to a dining area that separates the living room from an open kitchen. The table has a glass top and sleek black legs, just like the chairs set around it. The table has been set with exquisite silverware and modern china for two people. The whole set-up would warm my heart, that is if he wasn’t manhandling me so harshly right now.
"Sit," he commands, pointing to one of the chairs with a table setting in front of it.
I follow his order and notice something black lying on the floor right next to the legs of the chair. Curious, I try to figure out what it could be, but he's faster than me. As soon as I've taken my seat, he goes down on his knee next to my chair and fetches the item that's lying at my feet. I hear a clicking sound at the same time I feel something closing around my right ankle.
Cuffs. Those are leather cuffs, connected to a metal chain. I instinctively jerk back when he snaps the other one around my left ankle, ultimately tying me to the chair. I yank at it, just to see how much leeway I have, and realize that it'd probably be quite easy to untangle the chain from the chair. But that's not what this is about, anyway. The cuffs are locked with a little key. Even if I was to get away from the chair, I wouldn't be able to do more than scoot along in tiny steps, as the chain is too short to allow me to walk.
He gets back up on his feet and places his hand on my head, stroking my hair lovingly as I look up to him, unsure how I'm supposed to feel about this.
He's smiling down at me. "It’s time to eat."
Chapter 24
Loran
Disappointment flashed in the green of her eyes when I locked the restraints. I don't know if she realized it, but I took her earlier question as an insult.
Are you letting me go?
Her voice was high-pitched and so full of naive hope that I couldn't help but get angry about it. It was one of the few reminders that she doesn't want to be here with me, despite what her behavior in other moments may lead me to believe. She's so eager when it comes to getting fucked, spanked, or forced to come after she thinks she‘s surpassed her personal limit. But she's very closed-up and resistant otherwise, especially for a girl who's usually getting paid to entertain men with her body. I've always noticed that a paid woman speaks less of herself than a regular date. Most girls I've picked up in exclusive VIP clubs or at other events were so chatty and obnoxious – an open book – that it annoyed the hell out of me. I've always appreciated the reserved nature of a paid girl, because I didn't want to hear their stories. I never cared who they were, and I never asked. On the contrary, the only part I enjoyed was making them stop talking by pushing my cock between their luscious lips.
But Ruby's dismissive nature bothers me. There have been sparks here and there that have told me a little bit about who the person behind all those naughty desires might be, and each hint has made me more curious.
"You see, I could help you with that if I wasn't... indisposed," she says, as I walk over to the kitchen island to prepare our plates.
"I prefer it this way, toy."
She shifts on her seat, restless and visibly nervous. It's hard to tell whether she's scared or happy, and the most likely answer is probably an equal share of both.
Her eyes widen with appreciation when I serve the food. I place the plate in front of her, and can't deny the pride that's spreading through my chest when it’s obvious how much she adores it.
"Filet Mignon," I announce. "The sides are nothing special, but I promise you, I know how to handle a good piece of meat."
She looks up at me, a blend of confusion and amusement on her face.
"You made this yourself?"
I sit down opposite her.
"Why do you sound so surprised?"
"I just... I didn't expect you to be able to cook."
"I don't," I answer. "This is the only thing I can make, and I didn't say anything about the quality of the greens or the mashed potatoes, because I'm not giving you any guarantees there. But the steak is good. You'll see."
A shy smile travels across her lips.
"This is very sweet, thank you," she says, picking up her fork.
We eat in nearly complete silence for a while, only exchanging awkward remarks about the food. She likes what I served, and I enjoy watching her indulge, but it's unsettling to see how uneasy I feel about her being up here in this part of the house. I vowed that I wouldn't bring her here, that the one time when I comforted her upstairs in my bedroom would be an exception, and was not to be repeated. Yet here we are. I tried to tell myself that this was okay because she's wearing cuffs around her ankles and won't be able to move around a lot without me allowing her to. Having her tied to the chair like this is not so much out of fear that she could run away. It's a reminder of our roles, hers and mine. She's my captive, my possession, and not allowed to do anything without first asking and receiving my permission. She had no choice in this. She had no choice in the dish that was served, and she has no choice in where she moves or how long she'll be allowed to be up here.
I'm the one in control. I'm the one who decides all of this. That's the only way it can work for me.
And because I'm wired that way, I also see only one way to start a conversation with her, to make her talk.
I will have to command it.
"You said you started this job of yours out of necessity," I say, starting her into raising her eyes in question as she's chewing on a chunk of steak.
"Yes," she replies simply.
"What did you mean by that?"
She sighs and tilts her head to the side, looking at me as if I'd just posed the dumbest question ever.
"I needed the money," she says nonchalantly, shrugging her shoulders.
I make a twirling motion with my hand, beckoning her to elaborate. But she just looks at me skeptically through narrowed eyes.
"Is this an interrogation?"
"No, a conversation."
"What if I don't want to talk about it?"
"You will talk about this, because I'm telling you to."
She fixes her eyes on me with an expression that's hard to read. For a moment, she looks indignant, then confused, and finally, her face relaxes, suggesting that she likes the idea of obeying my demand.
"All right," she agrees. "Well, the short story is that I needed the money."
She shrugs and scoops up some mashed potatoes, giving me no indication that she plans on continuing with her story.
"And what's the long version?" I press.
She sighs. "You don't really want to hear that."
"Yes, I do," I insist. "Don't tell me what I do or don't want. I wouldn't ask if it didn‘t interest me."
"I don't want to bore you."
"I'll stop you if it gets to that point," I say, winking at her. A gesture that obviously puzzles her. "Go on. Long version."
She swallows her food and and takes a deep breath.
"The long version is that I really wanted to go to college," she begins. "But my parents didn't support that decision. We weren't a family of means. Or no, that's putting it too nicely. We were fucking poor. Like, we were as poor as you can get without becoming homeless. Blue collar working class would have been a huge step up."
She pauses. Her eyes wander around the room, a veil of sadness casting a shadow across her face.
"I never imagined I'd ever find myself in a place like this," she says somberly. "It may be a cage, but at least it's gilded."
She redirects her attention to me. "There. That may give you another explanation why I don't fight this as much as you want me to. Being the captive of a rich as fuck man like you beats the environment I grew up in."
"A rich as fuck man like me?" I repeat.
/> She blushes.
"Come on. It's obvious that you're loaded," she mutters, shyly lowering her eyes before adding, "It's also obvious that I'm attracted to you."
I feel flattered by her words, but refuse to let it show. It shouldn't surprise me. I'm well aware of the effect I have on women, and I've seen the way she looked at me from the start. It's more than simple attraction, and I want to think that it's more than the early signs of something like the Stockholm Syndrome. She went with me because she thought I was her client and had no choice but to come with me, but I could've just as easily picked her up and taken her home from a club or a bar like a normal date.
Only I didn't.
And she still says these things.
"What did your parents do?" I ask, diverting the subject back to her upbringing. "Work-wise."
She scoffs. "You mean when they worked at all? They were both unskilled and had the worst work ethic you can imagine. They weren't smart, not even street smart, and they didn't try to make up for that with hard work."
The way she speaks about her parents reminds me of my own. Her voice is full of contempt and repulsion, lacking the soft undertone of understanding and affection that's usually apparent when someone speaks about their family, even if they're annoyed with them.
"They jumped from part-time job to part-time job," she continues. "Their ability to hold even the most basic jobs was... limited. They were fired more often than I was able to count. And they always blamed their superiors or their coworkers or the work environment – anything and anyone but themselves. They didn't bring anything to the table, but they still saw it beneath themselves to take the jobs they were offered seriously, not even for our sake."
"You have siblings?" I interrupt.
She nods. "Yes, an older sister. But I haven't talked to her in a long time. I respect her because she turned out way better than our parents, but she's very different from me."
"How so?"
She looks at me, and the expression on her face cuts through my heart like a knife. She looks... hurt and sad in a way that I haven't seen with her before, but it’s mixed with a hint of wonderment.