His Captive

by Kiley Beckett

  It took a few attempts, but she got the rubber soles onto a narrow lip of rock. She curled her toes against the sandals’ footbed and strained until her face grimaced, flexing every muscle in her legs as she tried to pull herself closer to the wall.

  Now she used the branching balusters of the balcony railing like sideways monkey bars, crawling herself closer until her feet were under her. It took immeasurable confidence (or stupidity), but she let go of the balcony edge and clung to the rock face.

  Waves crashed below, and the air was wet with spray. The lights of the day were gone. She was mostly in darkness now, though it was twilight. There was a faint band of orange on the horizon but she couldn’t see it with her cheek pressed to the cliff and her eyes shut tight, hoping not to die...

  Legs flexing, knees creaking, heart pounding in her eardrums, she rose, hands scrambling over the stones, fingers clawed and walking like spiders. And... she pulled herself upright! Her stomach did a flip-flop, and she lost balance—but she still clung to the rock by the grip of her fingers.

  Now she looked up, threw a hand overhead and grabbed vegetation. The other hand thrashed up and grabbed roots that curled and tangled over the edge of the cliff face.

  This was it...

  Up on her tippy toes, pulling herself and lifting off with her feet, stretching and stretching until her stomach hurt...

  All this action got her bottom burning, and she could feel her pulse in her ass cheeks where she’d been disciplined.

  “Come on, come on,” she sighed to herself, “come on, you can do it...”

  It was happening. Using the strength of her arms, her toes lifted off the sparse rock ledge, and she was pulling herself, digging elbows into stones, feeling the wet of its surface saturate the cotton. Then she was kicking her legs, toes pointed and clinging to her sandals. These were her favorite slip-ons, and she didn’t want to lose them.

  She swung a leg up, dug a heel into soft grass and pulled. She felt like a ninja. But she knew if anyone were watching from a security camera they would witness the most awkward person in the world. Her sweatshirt rode up and exposed the folds of her belly, one sweatpants leg pushed all the way up to her knee and showing off some pale calf above the stripy socks she wore. And, boy, what would her face look like? A comical mix of joy, triumph, and bottomless fear. She was snarling with her teeth bared. But she was up. She was fucking up!

  She rolled and rolled, getting far away from the cliff edge until she lay in soft grass. Insects buzzed all around her and she looked up at the nighttime sky and burgeoning stars. She made double fists, raised them and shouted a silent Yes! She gave two more double fist pumps before she rolled and got up to her elbows and knees.

  Across the garden now in a low crouch, she darted from darkened shrub shape to tree trunk, zigzagging and tiptoeing, going low, crawling on hands and knees, making her way to the front of the cottage, toward the house, avoiding the decking where she would probably set off motion detector lights. Maybe even some kind of security setup. She commando-crawled on her belly beyond the house and found herself at elaborate wooden steps that led in a switchback down a steep embankment ending at the water. It was here where she’d spotted a possibility from her prison’s balcony.

  And now she was high-stepping over a sandy beach, making her way to a dock. There in the water, waves batted at a collection of half a dozen jet skis and three racy cigarette boats. With a quick look around, seeing no one was coming, she was up and silently crossing the planks of the dock. It was dark, it was hard to tell which jet ski was which, but she found a fat-looking one that she thought might hold a lot of gas and a lot of horsepower. She slipped off the edge of the dock and set her feet on its runners.

  She hadn’t been lying about the dirt bikes. She spent a lot of time (when she should’ve been studying) out on the trails rip-roaring around like an asshole. I probably did bust my hymen back then, you jerks...

  From the pouch of her sweatshirt, she pulled a baseball-sized stone that she’d collected on the beach before she came to the dock. Held out above her shoulder now, she knocked it down on the jet ski’s housing, right below the steering column. It let out a crack, and the housing shifted sideways. Fingernails in the seam, she pulled the cowling off.

  It didn’t take much; she knew what she was doing now. She had a boyfriend who’d showed her how to hot-wire a dirt bike. A couple of clicks of the wire and she had the thing running.

  Un-fucking-believable! She gave out another double fist pump but this time she hooted loud enough for anyone who would want to hear. Then with a thumb on the throttle, she sent up a twenty-foot high rooster tail behind the jet ski, blasted out into the black sea, her other hand giving the middle finger to Julian Mann, his island, and his stupid discipline...

  * * *

  The tropical wind raced over the Caribbean Sea; his hair danced and snapped on his head, his eyes narrowed over the long prow of the turbo-charged cigarette boat, looking out at the horizon beyond. He was doing a hundred and twenty and there was no way his little brat could outrun him on that jet ski.

  He couldn’t help the smile that spread his cheeks. She was spicier than he even imagined. It was inconceivable what she’d done. How on earth would she have gotten herself over the balcony and around to the gardens? She was certainly tenacious, and that was what inspired his lust to own her. He could see something in her that he recognized in himself. It was exciting.

  But, boy, did she have a wild streak. He hated that that was the best part...

  Her timing couldn’t have been worse. In the middle of the meeting with Shackelford and the other men, he’d received a security alert on his phone. At the crux of the meeting, he had to excuse himself to take care of his problem. His problem.

  She was a piece of nothing, and he should have left her alone. But his pretty Pearl begged for his hand. She begged for his discipline. They were drawn to each other; she lined up toward him like iron shavings on a magnet.

  He smiled wider now and even enjoyed a chuckle. Oh, the things he would do to her. The way she would suffer. The possibilities were endless. If only he had more time.

  A speck now emerged on the horizon. His little prey, his cute little field mouse thinking she could escape his raptor’s claws. It was so cute. So adorable. There was many a hunter who’d spared smaller animals’ lives out of respect. But Pearl wouldn’t be spared the lesson.

  He closed distance on her now, and even though the chase would soon be over, his heart raced quicker than ever. He was close to her. The closer they got, the more her presence prickled at his skin like electricity. A hundred feet, fifty feet, twenty... He eased back on the throttle, the boat roared and sputtered, its belly raising and lunging on the crest of a wave.

  He pulled alongside her. She wouldn’t look at him. The two of them going steady now at sixty, his naughty girl crouched forward like if she reduced drag she might still escape him. Tiny little jet ski versus his double Mercury racing motors pushing out over three thousand horsepower.

  He paced her for a while, enjoying the profile of her face set with such determination in the moonlight. God, she was beautiful. A fierce woman. But so misguided.

  The game was over now, and he’d strung her along far enough. He drew up another app on his phone, went through the menus of the security system, and tapped the screen.

  Her jet ski sputtered and its motor spiraled down to quiet, shut down remotely with a kill-switch.

  He matched her speed as her craft came to a stop, pulling back on the throttle, pushing water behind him, both of their watercraft sinking into the waves. He let their boats bob closer together and she still wouldn’t look at him, but he shouted out, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  She rested her elbows on the handlebars. “Home,” she said.

  “Home? You know you’re headed the wrong way.”

  “No,” she said, pouting.

  He smiled again. “You think you have enough gas?”

  “I don’t
care.”

  “You don’t have enough gas. Especially the direction you’re headed. You’d have to go around Africa first.”

  “Anywhere is better than here,” she said.

  How rude when he was such a gracious host. He said, “Paddle your craft here, please.”

  “No.”

  “Miss Armbruster, you can paddle your craft closer or I can sink it. How wet do you want to get?”

  Still not looking at him, she rested her chin on her wrists as she bobbed in the waves. “I’m wet already.”

  That set off a little click in his ignition. He liked the idea of her being wet. Not from the ocean spray of course, but from the things he would do to her. Make her wet whether she liked it or not...

  “Miss Armbruster, I’m waiting.”

  She sat up, turned to sit sidesaddle, making a wincing face, and he knew it was from the sting he’d left on her. That brought a satisfaction.

  She looked around at the waves crashing around them. She said, “Paddle with what? I don’t have a paddle.”

  “Use your feet.”

  She said, “Use my feet...? Seriously? Just throw me a rope already.”

  “That’s how you ask?”

  Her neck slumped, her head falling back on her shoulders and she began an exaggerated eye roll before quickly correcting herself. He didn’t even need to remind her. She inhaled and then exhaled. She said, “Would you please throw me a rope?”

  “Certainly,” he said.

  He had a hank of nylon cord in his grip already and now he tossed it overhand to her. It scattered over the cowl of her jet ski and she scrambled to gather it up. When it was wound around the neck of the steering column, he began to reel her closer. He tied the rope off on a cleat at the side of his boat.

  She paused, standing on the footboard of her jet ski with her hands folded under her armpits.

  He said, “What is it?”

  She said, “Permission to come aboard?” She drew it out with a little sarcasm, but he would afford her that. He would afford her only a few things—she needed discipline, but she wasn’t the kind who could go from a hundred miles an hour to zero. She was a wild, carefree spirit and if she came to a sudden halt it would be like hitting a brick wall.

  “Come aboard,” he said and extended a hand—a graciousness she didn’t deserve right now, but there was a punishment to be dealt and he was eager to get to it.

  He assisted her; she stepped up on the boat’s aluminum swim platform, her hand in his. His hand on her back now, she stepped down onto the suede bucket seat. Now she was standing in the center of the cabin with her eyes lowered. It was perfect; her hands gathered at her front, looking down with her chin tucked to her chest.

  He said, “You’re nothing but trouble.”

  “I just want to go home.”

  “You brought this on yourself, Miss Armbruster. I own you. You came to me and you thought you could tame me. It’s you who needs taming.”

  She said, “Can I please go home?

  “No.”

  She gave a tiny eye roll. He snapped his fingers. It made her flinch.

  With the point of his index finger under her chin, he lifted her face to look at his. He said, “When you finally do go home, you will be a changed person. I am going to make you into something worthy.”

  Her lips trembled, and he sensed her holding some snarky response at bay.

  He said, “You’ve got spirit, don’t you?”

  “Spunk.”

  “Yes, spunk. You’re right.”

  “Can I sit down?”

  “No. Your evening’s just begun. And in fact, I imagine you won’t be sitting down for quite a while.”

  His Pearl held both her lips between her teeth and clamped them. It made his smile grow again. Something else grew as well. He said, “I’m going to have a seat and you’re going to get over my knee.”

  Her eyes went wide and any funny remarks were kept further at bay.

  He took a step back, watching her the whole time. Pearl was the kind to suddenly jump overboard and start thrashing through the water.

  Confident she wouldn’t flee now, he sat himself in one of the rear seats, facing the cockpit, let his legs drift wide and patted his thigh, his eyes on hers.

  Hands on the hem of her sweatshirt, she pulled it open and her two Birkenstocks clattered to the deck of the boat. She said, “I didn’t want them to get wet.”

  Here she was, looking sweet and innocent—that feisty streak in her quelled for the moment—and he ached for her like he’d never felt before.

  She was also the kind to mime a look of obsequiousness to appease her master. He could tell there was some theater involved in her expression right now, but with a few more applications of discipline, farce would be removed. She would become an eager supplicant, and if he requested, she would kneel before him and kiss his feet.

  “Miss Armbruster,” he reminded her and patted his knee one more time. He gave her a look that said there would be only this one additional time she was asked. She trudged with shuffling feet in her striped socks, turned herself so her stomach faced the side of his leg. Lowered to her knees, she bent her tummy over his thigh.

  “Excellent,” he encouraged her. “Now pull down your sweatpants.”

  Her fine little hands folded behind her back, swept under the waistband of the sweatpants and pushed them down the curve of her ass. Good little girl this time, knowing to remove her panties along with them. He was growing impatient and didn’t want to have to illuminate every detail. Especially now since she knew the rules of the game.

  Slowly the pale face of her perfect ass was revealed, glowing in the moonlight. Even in the dim light, he could see the stripes he’d left on her and it made him chuckle thinking of how much she liked her socks. If she liked stripes, she’d come to the right man.

  His hand circled her bottom again, and he felt a tremble in her stomach. He pushed the pad of his thumb in her split and ran it down to tickle her. The pale skin of her ass tightened to goose flesh. He patted her and let her anticipate her discipline.

  Now his own heart was racing and he knew hers would be as well. He bit his lip, drew back his hand and delivered precise admonishment to her. The sound was a beautiful clap. A fantastic fleshy cymbal strike with purity no symphony could replicate. He gave her another one, and the gasp that filled her lungs hardened him to steel. She felt it. The side of her arm pushed between his legs, her shoulder rubbing his hardness through his pants. He wanted them removed, he wanted it to taste the tropical night air and to feel the wet warmth of her mouth...

  Chapter Seven

  Knees pushed down on the suede seat next to Julian, she raised her rump higher. His hand smoothed a circle over her bare bottom. The night air was at times cool then alternating with warm; finicky winds blowing alternate temperatures over her bare ass. Or maybe the heat was produced by his hand...

  He ran another circle on her skin. She clenched her toes and waited. Clap. Another perfect smack on her bottom, striking above the lines he’d left on her with his belt. It was humiliating. But she would be lying if she said she didn’t deserve it. For that reason, she allowed him so much leeway. Never in her life had she imagined she would submit to a man like this. For crying out loud, yesterday she was in wintry Seattle worried about classes—now she was bobbing on a boat in the Caribbean somewhere, bent over the knee of a psychotic and outrageously handsome billionaire.

  Slap.

  Another one. Perfect across both cheeks. She hissed. Her flesh shook.

  Her shoulder grinding into his crotch, she felt stony hardness. Knew what it was, too—and she hated that she didn’t take her shoulder away. Quite the opposite, she allowed her upper arm to roll and press against this powerful man’s arousal.

  Three more slaps came in quick succession, their syncopation leaving her breathless.

  The boat bounced on the waves; neither of them said anything. What he delivered, she deserved. She would endure and trust his self
-control.

  Now his hand soothed her, running circles over her bottom, coming up to her tailbone and slipping under her sweatshirt, caressing the small of her back.

  His other hand moved between his legs, his knuckles bumping against her collar. She gave his hand room to work, easing herself away, and hooked the inside of an elbow around his knee. Directly in her left ear now, she heard the loud sound of his zipper being drawn open. She didn’t look, but bit at her lower lip.

  “Miss Armbruster?”

  Now she did look. His cock was presented to her, splitting open his fly like a stone column. Large, frightening, and throbbing erect.

  She whispered, “I am a virgin.”

  He said, “I believe you. But you’re not inexperienced.”

  With her eyes averted, she admitted, “I’ve done other stuff.”

  “You’ve used your hand?”

  “I have.”

  “You’ve used your mouth?”

  She nodded.

  “Show me what virgin college sluts can do with their mouth. Impress me.”

  “I’m not a slut.”

  “Impress me, Pearl.”

  Despite his callous sexual request, she liked hearing her name come out of his mouth. She was reluctant, but only up to a point.

  She shifted, moving her body up his thighs. Her hand came up to hold his erection in a careful and tentative grip. He was so wide the fly clung to the sides of his shaft. She ran her fingertips on it, drawing them up to caress the bulbous end. Julian groaned and smiled. She hated the pleasure it gave her to incite that sound from him. Now she stuck her tongue out, touched underneath the cleft of his cock, ran her tongue to the very tip and swirled.

  “That’s it,” he urged her. Both her hands moved to hold his massive erection. She gripped him where it emerged from the fly while her other hand steadied the end as she slid her mouth over him. He was large. Larger than any man she’d ever seen. The shape of his glans filled her mouth. Her tongue pushed down on her teeth. She would impress him. She was sure what she could do.