ELEVEN

BELLA

I was asleep when the door opened. I jolted upright in time to see him coming down the steps, a bowl in one hand, a carrier bag in the other. “I hope you like cereal,” he said, placing it on the bed in front of me. “Sleep well?”

I didn’t answer. Just the sight of him was doing things to my body. I wanted him to go. I couldn’t look at him without thinking of his hand on me, the way he’d slid that palm of his, down, down my ass, towards the part of me that was already starting to throb at the sight of him. It was all wrong, it was insane of me to react to him that way. I was still scared, terrified of what he might do to me. But that part of me that was deeply hidden, that part was happy to see him, wanted him to exert his power over me.

I ignored that part, the smell of the milk covered cereal drawing my attention to how hungry I was. I focussed on the food, drawing it towards me and picking up the spoon, refusing to look at him. He stood next to the bed, the carrier bag next to him. “Better?” he asked when I was done.

I nodded. “What’s in the bag?”

“I brought you some clothes, like you asked for.” He slid the bag across to me with his foot. “Take a look.”

I dug into the bag, bringing out a dress, thong, socks, and a pair of flat shoes.

“If they’re the wrong size, I have alternatives upstairs.”

I lifted my ass off the bed, sliding the panties up my thighs, glad to have my pussy hidden at last. I had a horrible feeling he might touch me there again and if he did, he might find out how wet I was, my body adamant that I was aroused even as my mind screamed that I wanted to get the hell out of there. I slid the dress over my shoulders. “Does it fit?” he asked.

I stood up. “It does,” I said, shocked by the gratitude in my voice. I wanted to tell him to let me go, to free me from this hell. Instead, my mouth said, “Thank you.”

“Stand up,” he said.

I did as he asked. There was a look in his eyes that dared me to disobey.

“It suits you,” he said, nodding slowly. “Not as good as when you’re naked but still, it suits you.”

“Please let me go,” I muttered, reaching out towards him. “Please, I swear I won’t tell anyone about this.”

“I told you to stop that whining,” he frowned, grabbing my shoulders. He sank onto the bed, pulling me onto his lap, ass towards him. He yanked the back of my dress upwards before I had time to protest. I opened my mouth to tell him not to do it but no sound came out. My body thrummed with energy as he brought his hand down on my buttocks, the smacking sound so loud it made my ears ring. A deep sting spread through me as he lifted his hand and brought it down again. “You’re to stop whining, understood?” he said, smacking me again.

“Yes,” I shrieked. “Please, stop.”

His hand fell on my ass but this time it remained in place. I thought I might explode, my brain was so conflicted. I hated him but his hand was so gentle, his grip on me so strong. He squeezed my ass out of nowhere, groping it roughly, staring down at me as I glanced up at him, saw the look in his eyes that I’d seen in the garden.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said, bringing his other hand to my ass, tugging at the line of my thong, yanking it painfully upwards. “Aren’t you?”

“No,” I snapped. “Let me go.”

“You don’t want me to let you go. You want me to keep doing this,” he said, playing with my ass rougher than ever, spreading my cheeks apart, staring intensely down at me.

“I don’t.”

“Bullshit. I bet if I touched your cunt, you’d be soaking wet for me.”

“I’m not,” I said, my voice weak. The worst thing was the fact that he was right. I was getting wet. It was wrong, I shouldn’t have felt anything but hate, fear, disgust. But the only disgust I felt was towards myself for reacting this way.

“So if I touch you, your pussy won’t be wet.”

“Please, don’t.”

“You’re a bad liar,” he said, laughing coldly. “I know you’re wet, I can tell.”

His hand slid down the underside of my thong, moving closer and closer. In a second, he’d know the truth. There would be no hiding it from him. I held my breath, trying to bring my thighs together but he was far too strong for me. He tugged at my thong, lowering it to my knees. Then his hands moved back up, ignoring my muttered, “please,” as he stroked my inner thighs.

“You like being spanked,” he said, “don’t you?”

“I don’t.”

“Tell me the fucking truth.”

“I don’t. I don’t like it.”

“Then why are you glistening right here?” he asked, his fingers spreading my pussy lips apart, the cold air hitting me, making me shudder. I couldn’t speak, too shocked by the way his hand was sliding up towards my throbbing clit. “Not wet, huh?” he asked, grabbing my hand and bringing it painfully to my pussy. “Touch yourself. Do it!” He snapped the last two words, the menace in his voice scaring me so much I did as he commanded. As soon as my fingers touched my pussy, I could tell just how wet I was. “You’re soaking, aren’t you?”

I bit my lip, refusing to answer. He spanked the silence out of me, his hand slapping down on my ass once, twice, then a third time. “Aren’t you?”

“I am,” I muttered, my voice a faint whisper.

“And why are you wet?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do! Tell me. Why are you wet?”

“I don’t know.”

He suddenly leapt to his feet, dragging me up with him. His hand went round my throat, pressing down lightly. “I’m in charge,” he growled, his face an inch from mine. “You tell me the fucking truth right now. Why are you wet?”

“Because I want you to touch me,” I said, bursting into tears a second later. The tears became sobs, great wracking sobs that tore through my whole body. The grip on my throat loosened and I fell to the bed, slumping down as his arm went round my shoulders.

“It’s all right,” he said, his voice gentler than before. “It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not,” I shrieked. “You’ve kidnapped me. You’re going to kill me. Or rape me. Or both.”

“I’m not,” he replied, pulling me towards him until I was pressed against his chest. I tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let me move. The tears continued to fall as I fell limp. It was a long time before I stopped crying. The entire time, he held me against him. Only when my sobbing had reduced to a hitching of my chest did he speak again. “I’m not going to kill you. I’m doing this to keep you alive.”

“But why? I don’t understand.”

“What do you know about your father?”

“What? What kind of question is that?”

“What do you know about your father?”

“He’s dead, all right. If you think you’ll get a ransom out of him, you’re very much mistaken.”

“And your mother?”

“Dead too, all right? Happy now?” I began crying again and he drew me towards him. As he did so there was an almighty thud directly above my head. He was up like a shot.

“Stay there,” he said, pointing to the bed. “Don’t make a sound.”

He was up the stairs so fast, I blinked and he was gone, the door closing and locking a second later. I remained in place, the tears rolling down my cheeks, my head pounding, waiting for him to come back, yet at the same time, hoping I’d never see him again. If he never came back, I’d never have to deal with the sick disgusting thoughts I was having, the way I wanted him to touch me, to take me, to put his hand back round my throat, to make me his.