Ruby

 

 

 

I feel lost and scared. I've been feeling like this for days, seeking comfort in the lavish bedding he provided me. When he took me upstairs that day, holding me like a baby while I sobbed in his arms, processing the things he had done to me, I honestly believed we'd move on. I thought I had earned myself some kind of promotion. I thought I could be with him, in that bed, in that room, in his arms whenever I needed the comfort and aftercare a submissive needs after a session.

He gave me that comfort, but only that one time. He let me remain there with him merely an hour, and a significant part of that time was spent with me wrapped around his cock, moaning and fighting off a new wave of tears, because it was all too overwhelming.

I'm not one to weep easily, but once those gates are opened, it's hard for me to stop. I cried when he carried me back downstairs, and I cried when he closed the door, leaving me all by myself. I ran to the door and begged for him to let me out. I was more convinced than ever that what he said was true, and it scared me to death.

He listened to my pleas, and then showed up a few minutes later to provide me with food and a silk robe, so I had something to wrap my naked body in. His face was sinister and he barely spoke, only saying the very minimum.

And it's all he has done since, providing me with the necessities. My heart skipped a beat every time I heard the door open, hoping to get more answers, hoping to see the man who did these cruel and wonderful things to me, but my hopes never materialized. He only came downstairs to provide for my needs. He gave me clothes, but not the kind I expected. I thought he'd want to see me parading around in sinfully delicious and sexy lingerie for him, but instead he gave me a t-shirt and sweatpants to wear. There's absolutely nothing sexy about these items, but I still wear them because it beats running around naked.

He also brought a mattress for me to sleep on. He placed it right in front of the St. Andrew's Cross, because it was the only space where it would fit. He showered me with fluffy pillows and exquisite silk bedding that I actually looked forward to sleeping on, despite being by myself. Every single item he provided me was of the highest quality, even the embellished cotton t-shirts wore a Valentino tag. I couldn't help but chuckle when I pulled one of them over my head. They don't look special, but I've been surrounded by wealthy men long enough to know that their price might come close to my monthly rent.

I've been given gifts by clients before, but never like this. They usually bought lingerie for me, or jewelry, sometimes a dress. Sometimes I was allowed to keep the items, and when I first started this job, I couldn't think of anything else to do with the gifts except to sell them so I could pay off my student loans faster. The money one can spend on an everyday item such as earrings or a dress still baffles me. It seems ludicrous.

In any case, it didn't really help ease my suspicions about him. He's adamant that he's not my client, but it appears he enjoys a similar level of wealth as the man who bought me. I was promised a generous sum for agreeing to this job, a sum that I'm sure he'd be able to come up with just as easily.

I wish I could believe that I wasn't truly in trouble, and just fulfilling the job I signed up for. But there was one thing he said that eliminated that hope for me.

He said he hated my hair.

He said he hates blondes.

The client who purchased me specifically said he wanted a blond woman. He was the reason I dyed my hair because he wouldn't even look at my file if I remained a redhead.

And this man, this man who grabbed me off the street and did everything exactly as I expected the client to do, this man now says that he hates my blonde hair color.

I can't wrap my head around it. Could it really be true? And if it is, why is he treating me this way? If he's nothing but a criminal, a kidnapper, a rapist even, why is he not doing whatever he wants to me? Why did he refrain from slapping my face when I reminded him that face hitting was one of my hard limits? Why did he never fuck me?

I'm curled up on my mattress, as I always seem to be, wrapped in the luxurious silk sheets, protecting me against the cold. It's always chilly in here, another reason why I was grateful for the clothes and the blanket.

It's the middle of the day, but I can't see the sun from down here. I can only imagine what it must look like outside because the windows are so small, just above ground-level, and made from frosted glass. Gray is all I've seen the past few days, and it only changes from a lighter gray to a darker gray, depending on the time of day and - presumably - the weather.

I straighten up when I hear the lock of the door turn, announcing his arrival. He steps inside then, wearing a dark polo shirt and dark jeans, sexy as fuck. Sometimes I wish he wasn't this goddamn beautiful, and I wish my body wouldn't react to him the way it does. My core is trembling with anticipation, and my heart flutters every time he shows up. It has only gotten worse since he fucked me. I want him to do it again, and I feel silly for wishing these things, because there should be more urgent issues on my mind.

Concern for my safety, for example.

"Get up," he says, approaching me and motioning for me to rise from the mattress.

I hurry to obey, presenting myself in front of him. I‘m wearing a gray cotton t-shirt and black shorts, with nothing underneath. I have no make-up, but he was kind enough to provide me with a brush and hair products, so I don't have to look like a bum. Yet, I feel inferior and underdressed next to him.

"No one is looking for you," he announces, stepping closer and - to my surprise - wrapping his arms around me to grab my ass.

I sigh, resisting the desire to lean into his touch.

"What do you mean?" I ask, bewildered.

"I called the agency-"

"You what?"

He casts me a warning look, and I bite my lip to stop myself from talking. How the hell does he know about the agency if he claims not to be my client?

"I called them to check on you, little Miss Ruby Red," he says. "And they said you were with a client right now."

"Which I am," I insist, even though I'm still having trouble believing it.

"Which you aren't," he corrects me. "But whoever your real client is, he‘s clearly not missing you. Yet."

Our eyes lock. His grip on my ass tightens, and I almost moan when he massages my ass cheeks like this, so demanding, so possessive. I fucking love being touched like this, and I've missed having his hands on my body more than I'm happy to admit.

"Now, you have to tell me something, toy," he continues. "You said there was a window of time during which you were to be taken."

I nod, eager to find out where he's going with this.

"How long did you say that was? Five days?"

"Yes, five days."

"I had been watching you for three," he claims. "So that time window must definitely be over by now?"

I nod again. "Yes. It was day four when you... took me."

He moves his lips as if he’s tasting my words. Something concerns him, and if he really is who he claims to be, then it’s easy to tell what it is. He’s worried that someone might be looking for me, that the client, who apparently didn’t show up in time before I followed him to his car, would now be calling the agency to ask about my whereabouts.

“You really aren‘t him,” I whisper, my voice shaking. "You really aren‘t, are you?"

It's not a question but a statement. I'm finally giving voice to a thought that's been creeping up on me again and again over the past few days. I already knew it. I knew since he commented on my hair.

But I couldn't let myself believe it, not truly.

Now I can. I have to.

He looks at me, and his eyes darken, but it doesn’t stop him from squeezing my ass once again.

"Took you long enough to realize the truth, toy."