Stockholm Syndrome (4 page)

“Are you cold, little drama queen?” he asked, close to her
ear.

She snapped her head away from him. He stretched over her
and, to her surprise, pulled a blanket across her body. Unfortunately the insistent
prodding of his rock-hard erection against her hip as he moved negated any
relief from the comfort of the cover.

He caressed her under the blanket, running his hot, firm
hand over her belly, up her sides, down between her breasts, back over her belly
to her hips, down her thighs, up again. Over and over, he traced the same path,
her body relishing the warmth of his touch, regardless of her confusion. What
was he doing? She knew what he intended. Why didn’t he just get it over with?

Slight calluses on his palm abraded her silky skin, and the
span of his fingers almost covered her stomach, continuous reminders of his
size and strength. But his touch was gentle, controlled, as if he wanted her to
enjoy it. He spoke to her softly, soothingly.

“Just relax. I’ll make you warm. I’ll make it good for you.”

He murmured on and on. She tried to tell him to stop, but it
was impossible to form coherent words around the obstruction in her mouth.

“Nhu-uh, Nhuu-uhh!”

“Shh, little drama queen, there’s no rush. Nothing will
happen until you’re ready. I know the first time can be a little scary, but
just let me warm you up.”

What was he talking about? Was he insane?

“You are exquisite, do you know that? I’m going to possess
you and worship your body. It’ll be everything you’ve wished for, better than
your fantasies.”

How could he possibly know? Who was this man? She’d never,
ever given anyone so much as a hint of what her mind conjured in the depths of
night when her defenses were weak and the walls tumbled down to release the
chimera of her desire. Nobody knew—not her closest friends, not her husband,
when she’d been married. Especially not her husband!

But this stranger whispered words straight from her
innermost dreams. The passion in his rough voice stirred her, provoked her. He
rubbed and stroked her for so long that she felt her body ease under his touch,
becoming warm, then hot. He trailed over her breasts and the top of her pussy,
and she tried pretending that it wasn’t happening, but the attempt was futile.
On and on it went, that warm hand traveling over her, sending sizzles of heat
over her skin, making her nerve endings tingle. It wasn’t so bad, one part of
her mind thought. It had been so very, very long since anybody had touched her
body in even the most simple way, and he was careful, his fingers intuitively
finding the most sensitive and responsive areas, inciting a yearning hunger
within.

He pushed the blanket down to her waist and bent over her,
the cooler air provoking another sensual surge over her skin. With an
oh-so-gentle rake of his nails, he resumed circling her breasts and nipples,
moving from neck to waist and up again with a complete lack of urgency, sending
thrills throughout her, undermining her determination not to respond. His mouth
closed over her nipple, sucking firmly, the tugging inducing shuddering waves
that resonated down to her clit. Her body arched and she cried out softly. He
cupped her other breast and rubbed the peak with his thumb. She felt soft hair
against the skin of her chest and neck, and thought about that glimpse of
shaggy black mane she’d seen before he’d put the hood over her head. She was so
glad that he’d taken off his mask. It had frightened her, had made him seem
less than human. Now that it was gone, she felt better about him. She couldn’t
even see him, and it made no sense at all, but he seemed…nicer. God, maybe she
was losing her mind!

He spent hours at her breasts, it seemed, sucking and biting
but never hurting her, awakening long-dormant desires. He flicked and rasped
her nipples with his tongue and licked and stroked under and around her
breasts. He was skillful, seeming to know exactly where to touch and how much
pressure to apply, drawing core-deep responses from her body, despite the
little voice in her mind that was telling her that it was wrong, wrong, wrong
to find any pleasure in his touch. After all, he was going to do this to her
anyway, wasn’t he? So why shouldn’t she steal a few moments of enjoyment for
her long-parched body? Desire throbbed with an insistent burn between her
thighs and her body craved release. She couldn’t remember when last she’d made
herself come, but it was much too long ago—too long to resist the treacherous
sensations taking control of her now and drowning out her conscience.

When he finally eased his fingers into her slit, she was
only mildly ashamed to feel that she was sopping wet beneath his searching
touch. He fingered her with confidence and finesse, drawing her clit into a
hard bud. When he penetrated her with one long digit, her hips bucked
involuntarily and the air squeezed out of her lungs in a gasp. He circled his
finger in her channel, a deliberate probing that made her thighs strain wide.

“Are you ready for me, little drama queen?” he whispered
near her ear, his breath caressing her neck. “You feel ready. Do you want me
inside you?”

Mortified, her eyes squeezed shut under the hood, but she
nodded and her body undulated in an age-old invitation, and he understood.

He wasted no time. Without another word, he positioned
himself between her legs and eased his cock into her pussy in a slow, deep
glide. She felt his intrusion with every fiber of her being. She hadn’t had sex
for a long time, and it stretched and burned as he forged his way up her tight
sheath.

Unbelievably he buried his entire length in her, only
stopping when their pelvic bones ground together and his heavy testicles
pressed against her. He held still for a too-short moment then began to ride
her with sinuous thrusts while she struggled to adjust to his girth.

After a while the burning eased, replaced with slowly
spiraling heat and urgency. Then with a ridiculous sense of disappointment, she
realized that he was coming, trembling violently, squirting deep inside her,
more warmth, more heat, flooding her. It hadn’t taken very long.

He collapsed over her, shaking and panting, then kissed her
nipples.

“I’m sorry, little drama queen. I needed that badly, and
you’re so tight—you just about squeezed the life out of me. I know you didn’t
come, but I’m going to take care of you right now.” He moved his weight off
her.

What could he mean? And why did he care? What was going on
with him?

Shock and raw sensation slammed into her. His mouth was on
her cunt, his tongue licking and probing. He spread her labia wide with his
fingers and sucked, palpating her clit. With his face pressed against her, he
penetrated her with his tongue, deeply.

A cry froze in her throat as her breath seized. His fingers
replaced his tongue, rubbing and chafing the walls of her tender channel as he
probed with a slightly irregular rhythm, and his mouth returned to her clit.
The stimulation from his soft lips and tongue was gentle but terrifyingly
intense. His breath bathed her in heat, and the intimacy of his actions shook
her to the core. Nobody had ever done this to her before, and that the first
should be this man, this stranger, devastated her.

Thrashing on the bed, she resisted the tide of perfidious
sensation rising to overwhelm her, but he ignored her gyrations. At exactly the
wrong moment, he increased the speed and pressure, and a painfully intense
orgasm burst over her, racking her with physical ecstasy and mental anguish,
bringing tears to her eyes. On its heels followed a deluge of shame, confusion,
and unanswerable questions. Then a wave of black nothingness. She didn’t
resist, but let it wash over her, pathetically grateful for the respite.
Perhaps when she woke again, it would all have been a dream.

Chapter Two

The woman passed out. Mason was pretty sure it was from the
force of her orgasm, but nevertheless he moved quickly to strip off her hood
and gag, to be sure she wasn’t suffocating or choking. The hood was easy to
remove, but as he tossed it aside, he frowned.

She had an extraordinarily beautiful face, even with the
ball gag distorting her mouth. Evidence of tears streaked her cheeks, her pale
skin blotched with red, and her hair damp from the salty wetness. He’d heard a
few gasps and sobs when he’d carried her, but nothing unusual, nothing that
couldn’t be explained as part of playing The Chase. But she looked as if she’d
really been crying.

With a growing sense of unease, he released the ball gag and
tossed it aside. There were red marks on the sides of her mouth and along her
cheeks from the straps, but those would fade quickly. He studied her face
closely. She looked a little more mature than he would have expected for an
undergrad.

Taking a cloth from the bathroom, he carefully cleaned her
face. She didn’t stir as he untied her hands and feet, pleased to note that her
skin had hardly chafed from her bindings. He hadn’t lost his skills!

Nor did she react when he closed her legs and gently lowered
her arms to rest by her sides, noting her slender wrists and ankles, the
delicacy of her skin, and her deep, regular breathing. He pulled the blanket
around her and tucked it in snugly then smoothed her tangled hair away from her
face. She had dark hair, almost black, and pale, luminous skin. Her lips, like
her nipples, were plump and soft, and a surprisingly deep shade of pinky-red.
With her compact body and those big, bouncy tits, she was A-grade fantasy
material. When he’d pulled off her shirt and seen her breasts for the first
time, he’d just about come right then and there, in his jeans. He hadn’t had a
close shave like that since he was a teenager.

He pulled on his boxers and jeans in the hope of taming his
rapidly returning erection, leaving the top two buttons undone, and draped his
crumpled shirt over the back of one of the two chairs at the tiny dining table,
to let the creases drop out.

Then he retrieved her jeans from the corner where he’d
tossed them, and sat down to search through the pockets for clues about her.
There was an old mobile and a university access card in one, and a couple of
keys on an address-tag key ring in another. The mobile had a hairline crack
across the corner of the screen and, as he handled it, the cover and battery
fell off into his palm. He reassembled it and pressed the power button.
Nothing. Shit, he’d broken her phone. He’d have to replace that for her. He
smiled—the thought of buying her a fancy new phone was surprisingly pleasing.

He examined the access card next. According to the
information printed on the front, she was Evelyn Maier. It was definitely her
card, because there was a small, grainy photograph of her on the other side,
under the university emblem. There was also a ten-digit number, her student
code, and that was all. It was a terribly uninformative card. He sat at the
tiny table and studied the unmoving woman on the bed. Evelyn. He wanted to find
out more. He wanted the little glimmer of concern he felt about her to dissipate,
soothed away by the balm of information.

Whenever he was worried or upset about something, he’d find
out more about it, and inevitably the anxiety would fade in the light of cold,
hard facts. There was no reason why that approach shouldn’t work now.

He fished his own mobile out of his pocket. Owen would not
be happy about the interruption, but that was too bad.

Owen didn’t answer the first time, so Mason redialed. He
listened to it ring, over and over, rapping his fingers on the table
impatiently. At last his brother answered, out of breath.

“Mace, this better be good! I’m with a blonde here, and she’s
fucking
redefining
the meaning of blow job!”

“I need you to do one thing for me, Owe, then you can go
back to your blonde and rewrite the whole bloody Kama Sutra if you want to.
Just go look at The Pact, and check that Evelyn Maier signed it.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“Is there a problem, Mace?”

“No… Well, maybe. The woman I caught seems quite upset, like
possibly she changed her mind about playing, or something. It might be my
imagination, but I just want to check that she signed.”

“Well, what’s she doing now? It sounds very quiet. Where the
fuck are you, anyway?”

“I’m just upstairs, last room on the third floor. She’s,
er…actually passed out—she came, then she fainted.”

“Oh yeah, sounds like she had a fucking
terrible
time!” Mason could hear the grin in Owen’s voice. “I bet she had far more fun
than you.”

“Just get on with it, Owen!”

“All right, all right, I’m doing it now. The ladies didn’t
want to let me go.”

The sound of metal scraping on metal echoed through the
phone as Owen unlocked the strongbox.

“Okay, I’ve got The Pact. What was her name again?”

“Evelyn. Evelyn Maier.”

Mason waited patiently.

“Umm, Mace, I’m not seeing an Evelyn Maier on The Pact.”

Mason’s gut clenched. “Look again, Owe. Check the whole
list.”

He waited again, longer than before, listening to Owen’s
breathing over the phone.

“Fuck, Mace. She’s definitely not on here. And to be honest,
her name doesn’t ring any bells. Over the last few weeks, they all came to pay
me their entry fees and register, and I don’t remember meeting an Evelyn Maier.
I know I’m not the best with remembering names, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t
sign her up.”

“Shit!” A horrible dread settled in Mason’s stomach. Owen
was speaking to him again.

“…sure that’s her name?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve got her student card in front of me.”

“Okay, let’s not fucking panic,” said Owen, sounding
slightly panicked himself. “I’m going to log on to the university intranet and
do a search for her. I need to use my mobile, so I’ll call you back in a couple
of minutes.”

The call ended. Mason sat at the table and stared at the
girl on the bed. She looked so peaceful, resting deeply with her eyelashes
lying dark and feathery against her pale skin. His throat tightened. Had he
made a terrible mistake?

He jumped when his mobile rang, and snatched up the phone. “Well?”

“I found her.” Owen’s voice was unsteady. “She
is
a
student here, but she’s a postgrad. She’s also an assistant lecturer for the Psychology
Department. You’ve caught a member of the fucking
faculty
!”

“Shit!”

“Yeah… Did you actually…fuck her, Mace?”

“I… Yeah.” His voice cracked. “Goddamn it! She’s so small,
and she’s beautiful, and I… I…” He couldn’t go on.

“I’m coming up! Don’t move, I’m on my way.”

Mason sat with his head in his hands. Owen’s banging on the
door got him up, and he let his brother in. The two men stood next to the bed
and looked at the sleeping woman. Her small form clearly outlined under the
blanket seemed almost child-sized, except for the big, rounded breasts and
flaring hips.

“How did it happen, Mace?” asked Owen in a hushed voice.

“I went ’round by the sports fields, into the parklands, and
she was just there, walking along. When she heard me, she started running, so I
chased her. She was bloody fast too… She nearly made it off the campus.”

“And you didn’t think that was strange?”

“Honestly, no. You know how some girls really get into it.
They scream and run, and try to get away. It’s like a little switch flips in
their brains and instinct takes over in the moments just before you catch them.
I’ve had that happen a lot.”

“Yeah, me too.” Owen shrugged. “So what happened next?”

“She looked back and tripped. I caught her in time to save
her from a nasty fall on the bricks. She would’ve outrun me if she hadn’t
fallen.”

“Fucking bad luck. But didn’t she fight you?”

“She struggled a bit in the beginning. And I threatened her!
I was just playing the bad guy, but god knows what she thought.”

He swung on his heel, unable to look at the still figure
under the blanket, fighting the urge to run out the door and just keep running.
How in hell was he going to face her when she woke up?

Owen clasped his shoulder, squeezing hard. “Just tell me the
rest, Mace.”

He groaned. “It just gets worse and worse. I gagged her with
one of those ball gags and walked her back here. When we got close, I hooded
her and carried her the rest of the way. I basically stripped her, tied her to
the bed, and…” His voice was bitter and full of confusion.

“Did you force her?” Owen could hardly get the words out.

“God, no! No, she wanted me to…eventually.”

“And you said she came! So she must have enjoyed it?”

“Oh, she definitely enjoyed it, but it’s just a mechanical
thing. If you rub the right spots long enough, it happens, you know.”

Owen looked doubtful. “Maybe you’re right. But I still don’t
get how you didn’t realize…”

“Owe, the thought that she wasn’t part of The Chase didn’t
even enter my mind. She was here late at night, wandering around the lonely
paths. And in a white shirt with jeans and trainers! She looked just like all
the others. Christ, when I got her shirt off, she wasn’t even wearing a bloody
bra! I was so convinced she was one of us that everything she did made sense to
me. And I left the hood on to make it better for her, more intense.”

“Fuck! That explains it, I guess. But…”

“No more buts, Owe. We need to decide what to do.” There was
no way that he was telling his brother how he played with her exquisite tits
for almost an hour, until she got wet in spite of the fear she must have been
feeling. Until she wanted him, wanted the release he offered her. Or how he ate
her tender, tangy pussy after he fucked her, working her with his mouth and
fingers until she orgasmed, stealing her sweet juices like a prize and making
her part of him forever. The smell and taste of her now imprinted on his brain,
a hunger for her raged darkly in his blood, even through his shock. Some primal
part of him wanted to keep her tied to his bed, splayed open for his fingers,
tongue, and cock. He’d be in and out of her all the time. He’d never let her
go. He’d caught her, and now she belonged to him.

Owen was shaking him. “Fuck, Mace, snap out of it! Your
face
…”

Mason wrenched his thoughts back to reality, his heart
pounding almost as hard as when he played The Chase. Shit, something was wrong
with him, but there wasn’t time to think about it now. He needed to make plans.

“So what are you going to do when she wakes up?”

“I’m going to talk to her, obviously.”

“No shit! What ya gonna say?”

“Don’t be a smartass
now
, Owe. This could be a really
dangerous situation. I’m going to find out how she feels about what’s happened.
If she’s cool, then there’s no problem, but if she’s angry…” He shrugged. He’d
deal with that if it happened.

“When will you talk to her?”

“Right now. I’m going to wake her up. It will be better if
you’re not here.”

“Great! I’ll go back downstairs.”

“Like hell you will! Go wait in the room next door. If this
goes badly, I’ll need your help.”

“Fuck, Mace…”

“Just
be
there, Owen. This won’t take long.” He
ushered his brother out the door and watched him go into the next room.
Satisfied that Owen would wait for a little while at least, he closed the door
and turned back to Evelyn.

***

“Evelyn! Evelyn, wake up!”

Something was shaking her leg. She dragged herself toward
consciousness, wondering why she felt so sluggish and tired. What time had she
gone to bed last night? Her body felt achy. Was she sick?

Then she left that transient dimension of peace that exists
between sleep and wakefulness, and remembered
everything
. A deluge of
emotions poured through her at finding herself still in her awful predicament—fear,
anger, and, most of all, guilt. Terrible, humiliating guilt. She wished she
could sink back into oblivion. Had she really allowed a complete stranger to
have sex with her? And how could she have enjoyed it so much? Oh god, what kind
of a person was she? Panic surged through her body, giving her hot and cold
chills. How could she live with herself?

But what choice had there been? She’d been overpowered, tied
up! He’d probably have done it anyway.

But maybe he would have stopped. Maybe she should have kept
fighting. But the pleasure of his touch… Even the memory of it made her pussy
tingle.

No. No! It was his fault, not hers. He’d stalked her and
caught her. He’d put her in this untenable position in the first place. The
fact that she’d ultimately received pleasure was irrelevant. She’d also been
badly frightened.

And there was another thing. Her blood ran cold. He hadn’t
used a condom, had he? She’d had
unprotected
sex with a complete
stranger.

But he
had
been gentle. He’d tried to please her. It
was very strange. Maybe there was something she didn’t understand?

Yeah, right! As if there could be any excuse for what he’d
done! It was just wrong. She was a victim, and he should be punished. It wasn’t
fair.
It wasn’t her fault—it was his!

“I know that you’re awake, Evelyn. Please will you sit up
and talk to me? I’m not going to touch you.”

She wedged the blanket firmly under her arms so that it
covered her breasts securely, and struggled into a sitting position, pushing
herself back so that she could lean against the headboard. They stared at each
other.

He really was a big man. He loomed over the bed then hastily
sat down at the far end of the mattress, as if trying not to intimidate her. He
twisted to face her, the movement doing spectacular things to the bulging
ridges of muscle across his abdomen and sides. She pulled her legs up to her
chest under the blanket with an involuntary jerk, and he held his hands up,
palms toward her.