Ruby

 

 

 

I didn't expect him to jump at me like this. It's almost as if he's been waiting for permission to finally touch me. I could see the generous bulge in his pants last night, and I can see it again this morning. He wants me, he wants me bad, but for some reason, he's hesitant to take what he paid for.

Despite the scenario we're playing, I figured that he might be waiting for something like this, for a sign, a gesture, or a verbal invitation. He likes to play the bad guy, the kidnapper, but he doesn't want to fuck a woman who doesn't want him to.

I get it. I've been with enough men similar to him to understand how their minds work. They may be wrecked, fucked-up in their own way, but they're still not the guys who end up behind bars for their desires.

Or so I want to believe.

I yelp in surprise when he charges at me, even though I'm not completely surprised by it. His hands are on me within seconds, and just like most men, he hungers for my tits the most. Fair enough. I used my first bigger paychecks from this job to get them done, not only because I knew it would help me attract the attention of more generous clients, but also because I've always wanted to do it. I've had my artificial curves for about three years now, and can barely remember a time without them. The sight of them jumping free as he pulls down my halterless dress excites me almost as much as it does him.

Unlike many other men, he doesn't pause here, he doesn't lean forward to suck on my nipples, he doesn't even touch my bare skin. Instead, he continues to pull my dress all the way down over my ass, before letting it drop to the floor, where it pools around my feet. I step out of it, instinctively sucking my tummy in and straightening my back, like a good girl.

He notices my efforts and regards them with a generous smile, before he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me closer until our bodies meet. I'm met with a wall of muscle, and his hard length poking into my belly.

"Happy?" he asks.

I blush, but the smile that completes my reaction doesn't sit well with him.

"You're fucked-up," he hisses, before hooking his fingers beneath the garter belt around my waist. He rips it apart in one swift motion, and I mourn the loss of one of my finest pieces of lingerie, only to have the sacrifice doubled when he continues by ripping my thong with an equal measure of aggression.

I don't understand him. Instead of touching me like any other man would, instead of digging his greedy hands into my flesh, he barely seeks contact with my skin. Instead, he's focused entirely on ripping off my attire, finishing the deed by tearing my stockings as he pulls them down in one brute motion.

I stand there, naked and confused, when he turns away to attend to the tub. He adds two bath bombs, and we both watch as they dissolve and form colorful mountains of soap suds at the surface. He stops the water flow once the tub is about halfway full and turns around to me.

"Get in."

His eyes are on me the entire time as I climb into the admittedly beautiful and luxurious hot tub. All of my clients have been financially well-off - otherwise they wouldn't be able to afford the services my agency has to offer - but this must still be the nicest bathroom I have ever found myself in. The room itself is pretty big, entailing a lavish rain-shower next to the hot tub, a particularly beautiful vanity with a mirror spanning almost the entire wall to my left, and golden fixtures on white marble all around. And it's only the basement bathroom! I can't even begin to imagine what the ones upstairs look like. I wonder if I’ll ever get to see them.

The water is very warm, but not too hot, perfectly comfortable. I can't help but let out a soft moan as I sink down into the welcoming valley of bubbly warmth. The water feels good against my strained muscles and sore skin. I have no idea how long he left me alone in the dark, tied to that horribly uncomfortable bench, but it felt like an eternity. It was a terrible experience, and probably one of the worst things anyone has ever done to me. The dark is one of my biggest enemies. But I’m a warrior by nature, so I refused to let my anxiety win out over me this easily. I remained calm, enduring the blindness, the solitude, the uncertainty. Still, it didn’t take long for my monsters to find me. Tears came, and along with them, horrid desperation. I alternated between a sad sob and angry wailing. Time dragged along, but it did pass, and by the time he finally showed up to rescue me, my biggest problem was no longer the darkness, but the call of nature that threatened to humiliate me even further.

But despite my desperate pleas and the dried tears, I felt pride trumping every other emotion. When he opened the door to untie me, he found a different person than the one he left behind. A stronger person. Challenges like this only boost my fortitude.

I didn't even notice that I closed my eyes, until I feel his hands on me and I jerk away. He's kneeling next to the tub, holding a little washcloth and reciprocating my questioning look with determination.

"You're mine," he simply says, before draping the washcloth along my shoulders.

"What do you want me to do?" I whisper.

"I want you to hold still," he replies. "And turn around to me so I can see those beautiful tits of yours."

I do as I'm told, grimacing as the warm water caresses a sore spot on my back. As soon as I'm facing him, he reaches forward, cupping my boobs and gently kneading them. It feels good, so good that another faint moan escapes my lips.

"Do you not understand what's going on here?" he asks.

I look at him, my mind already dazed by the warm water mist and his sensual touch. He narrows his eyes, looking displeased.

"You don't, do you?"

I shake my head. "You kidnapped me. I'm yours now."

He huffs. "And you accept that? Just like that?"

I don't know what he's trying to do. Is he trying to get me to act more scared? Why is this so hard? I thought things would pretty much just develop naturally. I thought he'd be louder, more aggressive. I thought he'd hit me, scare the shit out of me, so it'd be easy to be afraid.

But he's so... calm. Calm and creepy seems to be his thing. And he wants me to fear this side of him just as much as the violent brute I’m sure he can be.

"Do I have a choice?" I ask, locking onto his gaze. "Would it help if I screamed? If I tried to hurt you? If I kicked you? Anything?"

He holds my gaze, his black eyes hiding whatever turmoil might be brewing inside of him. Maybe he's doing this for the first time? It could be. He's so young, so handsome. Why would a man like him even need to buy women?

Because he’s twisted, I have to remind myself. He's not normal. He doesn't fuck like a normal guy. For him, I'm merely an object, a toy to be played with, a possession, something to use until the time set out in our contract is over. Thirty-nine days, it said. Thirty-nine days and I'll be paid an amount of money that is too big to grasp.

An amount that will allow me to stop doing this job forever. If that's what I want.

"It wouldn't, would it?" I add. "If I tried to fight you, it would only make things worse - for you and for me."

The expression on his face barely changes. He's impossible to read, which doesn't make this any easier.

"You're right, it wouldn't help," he says. "But you seem oddly accepting of all of this."

Because you're paying me to fucking be here.

I thought neither of us was allowed to address any of this? Why is he saying these things?

"What do you want me to do?" I repeat my earlier question. "Tell me and I'll do it."

He huffs again, and I yelp when he closes two fingers around each of my nipples and squeezes them, hard. The pain leaves a throbbing aftermath when he removes his hands.

"I'd be careful with those words, toy," he says. "I will ask a lot of you in the time to come."

He reaches for the washcloth and continues to let in travel across my skin. I hold still and let him proceed, obediently moving and positioning myself as he pleases. He's thorough, and so gentle. He even shampoos my hair and takes a little extra time to clean my face, making sure that none of the carefully applied make-up from last night is left on my skin. It irritates me that I took this much effort, only to have him remove it all, my clothes and my make-up, without ever truly appreciating it.

When he's done, he tells me to stand up and get out of the tub, where he greets me with a big, plush towel. But before he wraps it around me, he drinks in the view of my naked, wet body. He's hard, I can tell by the unmistakable bulge at his crotch. Judging from what I can see beneath the thick fabric of his jeans, he must be huge.

It may be instinct, it may be occupational habit, but when I'm close enough, facing him as he wraps the towel around my shoulders, I reach forward, gently caressing his impressive bulge. I bet he wouldn't say no to a blow-job; they never do.

But he confuses me yet again. Instead of moaning and leaning into my touch, he jerks back and slaps my hand away.

"Slut!" he hisses at me. "Have I given you permission to touch me?"

I look up at him, the same confusion painted across my face that has become a constant companion since I got here.

"No, but I thought-"

"You don't get to decide!" he interrupts. "You don't get to decide or control anything. Do you fucking understand?"

This is the first time that he's raised his voice to me. My heart is fluttering.

"Do you understand?" he repeats, his dark eyes on fire.

"Yes," I hurry to say. "Yes. I understand."

But I don't. I really don't understand.