Mercy (35 page)

“Yes, sir,” I moaned. My ass was on fire. The leather strap was thick and it hurt like hell. I ended up getting an extra five for fidgeting. By the time he finished, I was wailing and tearful, but I was wet too, and ready for him.

Until he told me to do otherwise, I held the position. I wanted to press my legs together to ease the throbbing in my clit, but I didn’t dare, and he chuckled, knowing exactly what I felt.

“You horny little cum whore.
You’re supposed to be feeling punished.”

“I do feel punished.”

He smacked my ass with the strap. “Don’t contradict me, Lucy. Watch your tone.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said with all the submissive deference I could muster in my current state of quivering lust.

He stood behind me, close behind me, and I waited for his instructions. I hoped they were the basely sexual kind.

“What do you want?” he asked.

I answered him honestly. “I want to come.”

“You like when I redden your naughty little bottom?”

My clit pulsed with each word he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re such a dirty little slut, aren’t you? I bet you’d like me to plug your ass and then fuck you until you scream.”

All I could do by that point was make a little strangling sound. He crossed to the armoire and returned with some lube and a toy. He lubed my ass while I braced myself against the wall, trying to stand still. He pressed the toy against my tight hole and I felt it invade me. It was a big one, but by then I’d been well trained. I pressed back against it, opening to its girth. I let it slide into me, long and hard and thick. I may have moaned softly when he rubbed the small of my back.

“Good girl. I bet you love how that feels.”

He turned me, his big hands on my waist, and I looked up at him, my eyes glazed over with need. He smiled down at me as he lifted me, braced me against the wall, and settled me down on his cock.

I groaned in my throat from the wicked sensation, his huge cock filling me, rubbing against the toy in my ass. He pressed against me, pressed me right to the wall, and his hard chest and abs were like steel against my skin. I wrapped my legs around his hips and arched against him. He drove in me over and over, all the way to the hilt.

For a while, he held my hands behind my back, but at the end he let them go, and I wrapped them tightly around his neck. I was filled with him, filled with love for him, filled with thankfulness for his care and his mastery.

“Come for me, Lucy,” he urged me.

With a stifled cry of joy, I obeyed.

About the Author

Annabel Joseph writes emotionally intense stories about the romance of dominance and submission. You can learn more about her books, read reviews, and find contact information at http://annabeljoseph.wordpress.com.

Comfort Food

Kitty Thomas

excerpt
provided by the author

Copyright © 2010 Kitty Thomas

All rights reserved.

Disclaimer

This is not a story about consensual BDSM. This is a story about “actual” slavery. If reading an erotic story without
safewords
makes you uncomfortable, this is not the book for you. This is a work of fiction, and the author does not endorse or condone any behavior done to another human being without their consent.

To silence.

Not always the enemy of communication.

One

The first day of my captivity was like being born . . . or dying. They're both kind of the same thing with the long tunnel and the bright light at the end. Maybe it wasn't like either, actually. Maybe I'm remembering it wrong because for me that day all there was, was darkness.

I was blindfolded, sitting in a hard metal chair, with each of my legs bound to a chair leg and my arms tied up behind me. The sharpest bit of sensory input I had was the silence. It was a suffocating blanket from which there was no escape. Unless I started talking just to hear my own voice,
a desperation
I refused to display in the first five minutes of consciousness.

I remember thinking this was how spy movies often started, with sensory deprivation: the first step to get the prisoner to spill his secrets. I had no secrets. I was an open book, and maybe that was the problem. I was a minor celebrity on the public-speaking circuit, self-assured, articulate. The poster-girl for everything others wished they could become. Not a threat to anyone really.

I'd written a few books and had started to grow a following of loyal devotees. Someone would notice I was missing, at least by the time my next speaking engagement rolled around in a couple of weeks.

The day had started at one such engagement. A very nice luncheon, in a very nice restaurant in downtown Atlanta had been booked for the event. I usually started and ended my book tours in Atlanta because it was close to my home in the suburbs.

The audience was mostly comprised of women, my primary demographic, though I'd never set out to become some
voice of women
. There was a smattering of men, but I wasn't paying much attention.

Women go through their lives a bit differently than men. We're always cautious. It's not that we live in abject terror twenty-four hours a day thinking some random man is going to come along and rape or kill us. Only the most neurotic of us think that way.

Still, you never know what kind of wacko out there has become fixated on you. And despite all the empowering speeches and the women's movement, in the grand scheme . . . women are prey.

This was the place I was at, the almost complete denial it had happened to me. Me, who is always so
careful
. Locks her doors, doesn't walk or jog with ear buds in her ears,
doesn't
take candy from strangers in vans. You know the drill.

I was listening to the silence and wondering how the hell this could be happening. Other things were running through my mind as well. Things that had me hoping maybe I did have some government secret and once I shared it, I could go on my merry way.

Rape.
Death.
Dismemberment.
Maybe in that order, maybe not.
Though that order would be preferable to Dismemberment.
Rape.
Death.
Or Rape.
Dismemberment.
Death.
You always want your dismemberment to happen after the death.

Death first would be the absolute best-case scenario. I'd seen enough woman-in-peril movies, and I was no MacGyver. I didn't really have any kind of ballpoint pens on me that I could somehow get out of a pocket and turn into a ballistic missile.

My mistake was a stupid one. I'd left my drink unattended. Men never have to worry about this shit. I guess because statistically speaking there are fewer female psychos stalking men than the opposite, and most confrontations between men are pretty straightforward.

Like all women
raised
in the current climate of fear and loathing of men, I was taught never to leave my drink unattended. All women know this. We do. Even if we aren't explicitly told, it seems to come with the packaging and wiring of being female.
Just common sense in the age of the date rape drug.
Expecting even the most sensitive male to truly understand any of this is like expecting a wolf to understand the finer points of being a rabbit.

Still. We seem to think there are exceptions. Like my luncheon.

There are no exceptions. If there were, I wouldn't be sitting tied to a chair listening to the questionably comforting sound of my breath going in and out.

I couldn't stop thinking about how my parents were going to react to all this. My sister, Katie, had died several years ago in an accident. She was deaf and hadn't heard the car barreling around the curve. The driver wasn't used to ice on the road. No one in the south is. My parents hadn't spoken about her in years because they couldn't deal with it. I couldn't imagine how they'd cope with my disappearance and wondered if they'd curse God for doing this shit to them twice in a row.

The door creaked open then, exactly like doors do in scary movies. At least now I knew what kind of story I was in, no sense fooling myself about it. The sound of his boots echoed eerily loud on the concrete floor as he approached me. He stopped maybe a couple of feet away as the silence stretched on for a small eternity. Finally, I felt compelled to speak.

“Why are you doing this?” My voice shook when I said it, and I hated that. I sounded weak. I'd never sounded weak before in my life.

It was such a cliché question. If these were to be my last words, they felt like stupid and unimportant ones, but I had to know. Why
had
he taken me? Did I send out a vibe or was he just obsessed? Was there something about me that screamed
Victim
?

I'd always tried to give the impression that I wasn't easy prey. I'd been fooling myself. It had been ridiculously easy for him to take me.

Then again, maybe I was being all wrong-headed in assuming right from the start my captor was male. Theoretically, it could just as easily have been a woman.

Somebody jealous of my professional success.
Someone who hated me for some imaginary reason, like that her husband thought I was pretty or something. As if I can control who thinks I'm pretty. There was always that one-in-a-million reason for some woman to go
apeshit
psycho on you.

And I don't hate men. There
is
a very small percentage of men who choose to perpetrate violence against women, despite the ease with which they can do it. Most women don't hate men. Those that do, though, probably do so not because most men are violent towards women, but that they could be, if they wanted to. This knowledge sets up a kind of helpless rage in some women. One I'd never succumbed to until today.

He still hadn't spoken. I was carrying on this internal monologue in my head because I was afraid I might say something that would get me killed.
Or worse.
It was naive, but I wanted to believe I could somehow alter the course of events here by saying the right thing. My words, the thing that had made me so compelling to people, were more useless than I wanted to admit. My only weapon had the efficacy of a squirt gun.

I could feel the heavy lump forming in my throat as he stepped closer. I couldn't see him because of the blindfold still covering my eyes, but I knew he was observing me, probably taking me in with amusement. It pissed me off that he held my life in his hands, and yet he might be amused with me.

I continued to wait for him to answer the
why are you doing this
question, but the answer didn't come.

There is a standard victim/victimizer protocol,
an etiquette
if you will.
Why are you doing this?
is
the introductory question, sometimes followed by screaming or crying. I wasn't screaming or crying. I wanted to conserve my energy for my one possible moment of escape. Eventually he'd do something stupid. He had to.

After the victim's opening line, the victimizer usually says something so terrifying the victim wishes they'd never opened their mouth. This man, however, seemed to be capitalizing on the terror of uncertainty.

After all, if he spoke to me perhaps there was something human in there, something I could reason with, some tiny, frail hope I could bargain somehow. A large, cool hand rested softly against my cheek.

There was no violence or threat in the way he touched me. It was my cheek, so it certainly wasn't an overly sexual touch. Still, it was a threat to me. It said
,
I have no problems breaching your personal bubble or touching you at any time.

His hand remained pressed solidly against the side of my face like that for a couple of minutes at least as my heart continued to hammer in my chest.
That huge, strong hand.
He could easily beat me to death with it, or he could be gentle. Although at this point, even gentle was an act of violence. I didn't know which I preferred.