Loran

 

 

 

Her words are as confusing as they are unequivocal, but then realization strikes me like a bolt of lighting.

She thinks I'm her client.

It all makes sense, especially if what she told me earlier is true. She never specified the conditions under which she was supposed to meet this client of hers, but it's not out of the question that her client hired her for this exact thing - to be kidnapped and turned into a slave – except it was to happen according to strict terms that had been agreed upon beforehand. Terms that she keeps referring to, but which are unknown to me.

I stand before her, confronted with her determined anger. She's clenching her fists and pressing her lips together, still insisting that I abide by a set of rules that I know nothing about.

I don't know what to do. If I tell her that I’m not who she thinks I am, would she even believe me? Is there any way I could use this misunderstanding to my advantage?

I need time to think, that's for sure.

"You want your bracelet," I repeat her demand.

"Yes," she says emphatically. "It's my special-"

"Your special item, yes," I cut her off, turning around on the spot and leaving her alone again as I quickly slip out of the room, closing the door behind me.

I head upstairs, thoughts running wildly through my mind. I find her purse right where I tossed it in my office. Its contents are pretty typical and what one would expect to find in a young woman’s purse: make-up, a small mirror, lipstick, a wallet with only a couple dollar bills, her cell phone, a handful of tissues, and a small jewelry box. I empty the contents onto my desk, scanning one item after another. The bracelet is inside the jewelry box. It's a simple silver chain with two little black hearts. It doesn't look like it cost a lot, so I imagine the value is mostly sentimental in nature. I put the bracelet back in the box, and place it inside the pocket of my jeans. Just as I'm about to turn around to head back downstairs, I pause, my eyes glued to the other items still lying on the table. I focus on her wallet.

I reach for it and flip through it. Somehow, this invasion of her privacy feels just as intimate as making her come on my fingers. I don't know what it is about wallets, but they hold claim to a person's life. It's the one thing people almost always carry with them when leaving the house - next to their phone. I'm surprised to find no ID or driver's license. Instead, all I can find is a small batch of business cards that I assume to be hers. She goes by the name Ruby Red, and printed on the back of the card are the words Violent Delights.

My pulse speeds up. I know that agency! I've been a client of this agency. I huff and shake my head. The irony is almost appalling. I set out to kidnap a girl because I've grown tired of the poor services provided by this agency, and my victim turns out to not only work for them, but she also mistakes me for a client.

"What a fucking joke," I hiss, throwing the wallet back on the table.

My blood is boiling as I hurry back down the stairs, back to a victim who has no idea that she's been kidnapped for real, an irresistible, fucking lamb who lured me in like a fucking idiot. No wonder I couldn't resist her, no wonder she drew my attention from the get-go. She's my fucking type, a high-class prostitute whose job it is to entertain men like me.

I throw the door open with such force that I see her jumping away in fear. She's grasping the towel that's wrapped around her body, and she looks up at me through wide eyes. They‘re underlined with a conflicting combination of fear and anticipation.

"Here's your fucking bracelet," I tell her, thrusting out the jewelry box toward her.

She retreats, her gaze darting between me and the box in my hand.

"Would you just fucking take it," I hiss at her. "You insisted on having this with you - here it is."

She casts me a quick angry look as she reaches for the little box in my hand. I watch as she opens it, only looking at it for a second before closing the box again.

"You're not going to put it on?"

She shakes her head. "It's fine, I just needed to have it with me."

I roll my eyes.

She looks at me, and her expression has changed profoundly. Anger and determination have been replaced with wonderment and anticipation. She's awaiting orders, like the good girl she knows how to be.

No. This doesn't work for me. I know this look. I've seen it many times before, and I grew bored with it a long time ago. I hate that she's looking at me like that now, like a prostitute looking at her john.

I don't want acting, I don't want an obedient slave, ready to serve. I wanted the real thing, and I'm still determined to get it.

She doesn't move as I close in on her, lifting a hand to touch her cheek. My caress is gentle, something she's not going to experience a lot with me. A faint smile travels across her pretty face. There's gratitude and hopeful expectation woven into that expression, the combination causing her cheeks to glow and her green eyes to sparkle like emeralds. She won't be looking at me like that for quite a while, once I've said what I'm about to say.

I almost feel sorry to have to do it.

I feel sorry for what I'm about to do to her.

"You said this bracelet is your special item," I say. "And now that you have it back, will you obey me?"

She nods, her eyebrows knitting for just a second in skepticism.

"I have a little secret, toy," I continue. "Will you still obey me when I share it with you?"

Worry casts a shadow over her face, but she nods.

I lean forward with the intention of closing any remaining distance between us, just so I can catch her vibrant eyes with mine. But before I know it, our lips meet for a long, overdue kiss. She's the one initiating it, and even though I should know better, I let it happen. I let myself be seduced by her scent, her soft lips, and those damn eyes.

Her tongue is adventurous, eagerly exploring my mouth as if she's been waiting forever. I can feel the vibrations of her soft moans when I give in to her. She lifts her arm, ready to wrap it around me and pull me in closer, but I stop her. I grab her by the wrist and force her arm around to her back. She whimpers in protest, but it only spurs me on. She tastes so good, sweet and salty at the same time. I can taste a hint of the spicy potato chips I gave her to eat on her lips.

Her kiss also is a clear reminder that she's a professional. She yearns after me, following her own lust just as much as she remembers to squirm under my touch, pressing her round tits against my hard chest. She's putting everything into this kiss – her mind, her body, her seductive strength. It's almost impossible to resist.

Almost.

I end our kiss with a sudden abruptness that surprises her. Her dazed and confused eyes follow me when I straighten up to my full heigth, never releasing my touch on her. She remains in place, her body pressed against mine and her arm forced against her back, her head tilted back into her neck so she can keep eye contact with me.

"What's your secret?" she whispers hoarsely.

I let a few moments pass, relishing the feeling of her fast-beating heart against my chest. She uses the time to grind against my hard length with such subtle movements that they're merely more than suggestions.

"I'm not who you think I am," I say. "I'm not your client."

Our eyes are locked, and for a split second, I see terror punctuating the expression on her pretty face. But she quickly regains her composure.

She believed me for a second there. It was evident in the momentary wildness reflected in her dark green eyes. But then she cast the thought aside.

She believes me – I know it – but she doesn't want to.