Loran

 

 

 

Disappointment flashed in the green of her eyes when I locked the restraints. I don't know if she realized it, but I took her earlier question as an insult.

Are you letting me go?

Her voice was high-pitched and so full of naive hope that I couldn't help but get angry about it. It was one of the few reminders that she doesn't want to be here with me, despite what her behavior in other moments may lead me to believe. She's so eager when it comes to getting fucked, spanked, or forced to come after she thinks she‘s surpassed her personal limit. But she's very closed-up and resistant otherwise, especially for a girl who's usually getting paid to entertain men with her body. I've always noticed that a paid woman speaks less of herself than a regular date. Most girls I've picked up in exclusive VIP clubs or at other events were so chatty and obnoxious – an open book – that it annoyed the hell out of me. I've always appreciated the reserved nature of a paid girl, because I didn't want to hear their stories. I never cared who they were, and I never asked. On the contrary, the only part I enjoyed was making them stop talking by pushing my cock between their luscious lips.

But Ruby's dismissive nature bothers me. There have been sparks here and there that have told me a little bit about who the person behind all those naughty desires might be, and each hint has made me more curious.

"You see, I could help you with that if I wasn't... indisposed," she says, as I walk over to the kitchen island to prepare our plates.

"I prefer it this way, toy."

She shifts on her seat, restless and visibly nervous. It's hard to tell whether she's scared or happy, and the most likely answer is probably an equal share of both.

Her eyes widen with appreciation when I serve the food. I place the plate in front of her, and can't deny the pride that's spreading through my chest when it’s obvious how much she adores it.

"Filet Mignon," I announce. "The sides are nothing special, but I promise you, I know how to handle a good piece of meat."

She looks up at me, a blend of confusion and amusement on her face.

"You made this yourself?"

I sit down opposite her.

"Why do you sound so surprised?"

"I just... I didn't expect you to be able to cook."

"I don't," I answer. "This is the only thing I can make, and I didn't say anything about the quality of the greens or the mashed potatoes, because I'm not giving you any guarantees there. But the steak is good. You'll see."

A shy smile travels across her lips.

"This is very sweet, thank you," she says, picking up her fork.

We eat in nearly complete silence for a while, only exchanging awkward remarks about the food. She likes what I served, and I enjoy watching her indulge, but it's unsettling to see how uneasy I feel about her being up here in this part of the house. I vowed that I wouldn't bring her here, that the one time when I comforted her upstairs in my bedroom would be an exception, and was not to be repeated. Yet here we are. I tried to tell myself that this was okay because she's wearing cuffs around her ankles and won't be able to move around a lot without me allowing her to. Having her tied to the chair like this is not so much out of fear that she could run away. It's a reminder of our roles, hers and mine. She's my captive, my possession, and not allowed to do anything without first asking and receiving my permission. She had no choice in this. She had no choice in the dish that was served, and she has no choice in where she moves or how long she'll be allowed to be up here.

I'm the one in control. I'm the one who decides all of this. That's the only way it can work for me.

And because I'm wired that way, I also see only one way to start a conversation with her, to make her talk.

I will have to command it.

"You said you started this job of yours out of necessity," I say, starting her into raising her eyes in question as she's chewing on a chunk of steak.

"Yes," she replies simply.

"What did you mean by that?"

She sighs and tilts her head to the side, looking at me as if I'd just posed the dumbest question ever.

"I needed the money," she says nonchalantly, shrugging her shoulders.

I make a twirling motion with my hand, beckoning her to elaborate. But she just looks at me skeptically through narrowed eyes.

"Is this an interrogation?"

"No, a conversation."

"What if I don't want to talk about it?"

"You will talk about this, because I'm telling you to."

She fixes her eyes on me with an expression that's hard to read. For a moment, she looks indignant, then confused, and finally, her face relaxes, suggesting that she likes the idea of obeying my demand.

"All right," she agrees. "Well, the short story is that I needed the money."

She shrugs and scoops up some mashed potatoes, giving me no indication that she plans on continuing with her story.

"And what's the long version?" I press.

She sighs. "You don't really want to hear that."

"Yes, I do," I insist. "Don't tell me what I do or don't want. I wouldn't ask if it didn‘t interest me."

"I don't want to bore you."

"I'll stop you if it gets to that point," I say, winking at her. A gesture that obviously puzzles her. "Go on. Long version."

She swallows her food and and takes a deep breath.

"The long version is that I really wanted to go to college," she begins. "But my parents didn't support that decision. We weren't a family of means. Or no, that's putting it too nicely. We were fucking poor. Like, we were as poor as you can get without becoming homeless. Blue collar working class would have been a huge step up."

She pauses. Her eyes wander around the room, a veil of sadness casting a shadow across her face.

"I never imagined I'd ever find myself in a place like this," she says somberly. "It may be a cage, but at least it's gilded."

She redirects her attention to me. "There. That may give you another explanation why I don't fight this as much as you want me to. Being the captive of a rich as fuck man like you beats the environment I grew up in."

"A rich as fuck man like me?" I repeat.

She blushes.

"Come on. It's obvious that you're loaded," she mutters, shyly lowering her eyes before adding, "It's also obvious that I'm attracted to you."

I feel flattered by her words, but refuse to let it show. It shouldn't surprise me. I'm well aware of the effect I have on women, and I've seen the way she looked at me from the start. It's more than simple attraction, and I want to think that it's more than the early signs of something like the Stockholm Syndrome. She went with me because she thought I was her client and had no choice but to come with me, but I could've just as easily picked her up and taken her home from a club or a bar like a normal date.

Only I didn't.

And she still says these things.

"What did your parents do?" I ask, diverting the subject back to her upbringing. "Work-wise."

She scoffs. "You mean when they worked at all? They were both unskilled and had the worst work ethic you can imagine. They weren't smart, not even street smart, and they didn't try to make up for that with hard work."

The way she speaks about her parents reminds me of my own. Her voice is full of contempt and repulsion, lacking the soft undertone of understanding and affection that's usually apparent when someone speaks about their family, even if they're annoyed with them.

"They jumped from part-time job to part-time job," she continues. "Their ability to hold even the most basic jobs was... limited. They were fired more often than I was able to count. And they always blamed their superiors or their coworkers or the work environment – anything and anyone but themselves. They didn't bring anything to the table, but they still saw it beneath themselves to take the jobs they were offered seriously, not even for our sake."

"You have siblings?" I interrupt.

She nods. "Yes, an older sister. But I haven't talked to her in a long time. I respect her because she turned out way better than our parents, but she's very different from me."

"How so?"

She looks at me, and the expression on her face cuts through my heart like a knife. She looks... hurt and sad in a way that I haven't seen with her before, but it’s mixed with a hint of wonderment.

"You don't want to talk about this," I say, verbalizing what was meant to be a question as a simple statement. "But I'm unwilling to lay off just now, even if it hurts you, my toy."

This is all part of it. At least that's what I keep telling myself. Unraveling her, baring who she is, exposing the person underneath. To me, that means more than fucking her senseless.

"No, it's fine," she says, lowering her eyes before she adds, "It's just that... no one has ever asked me that before. About any of this. No one ever wanted to learn about... me."

Her words and the sorrowful way in which they're spoken fills me with guilt.

I feel guilty because I know why she's saying this, why she never met anyone who showed a real interest in her, why she's not used to being allowed to talk about herself. The men she's been with during the past few years were clearly interested in only one thing: her marvelous body.

I know, because I was just like all the rest.

I've been one of those men for as long as I can remember.