AllFreeNovel
Share Us
18
EMME
Monday slid by, boring as ever—the physiology of hormones was something I knew back to front. There was satisfaction in helping adults qualify for their late career choices, but sometimes I yearned for the thrill and intrigue of learning new things, too. University had given me that. Now I was a cypher, a cog in a vast wheel. I suppose a lot of people felt that way about life, once they had a job and a qualification or skill and had to do that, forevermore. It narrowed the choices to a life of sameness.
Tuesday turned up, and I wondered if Mr. Scott would contact me again. I wanted to escalate this, until we came to be more than kink partners. The roles of kidnapper and victim turned into date material? It made this a novel relationship, if not revolutionary.
Who else wanted to date and fuck their kidnapper? Usually, it was the ones who were trapped with them for ages who became obsessed.
I had to get to work and turned to lock my apartment door. Stockholm Syndrome was not what I had.
The phone buzzed. My sixth sense prodded me. As I looked down at the screen, I stuck my foot in the door.
My heart somersaulted.
Wearing red today? S. If not, go back in and change.
Was he watching me? He must be. I raised my head, scanning left, then—
Someone pushed me from behind, and I yelped and stumbled forward, bumping the door further open while his hand gave it an extra shove. We were through, and it was closing behind me, as he twisted his hand in the cloth of my blouse collar at the back.
I didn’t yell. It was Him, wasn’t it? Yelling brought attention, the police, the whole mess. No mugger would do this and risk the woman shouting. I hadn’t been knocked unconscious or been shown a gun or a knife. It must be him.
He flipped something around my neck, something hard that bumped at my collar bone then pulled until it pressed on my throat. I shot my hand up to stop it from choking me and my fingers were trapped against my throat.
“Wait!”
With that neck hold controlling me and another shove, I was forced onto the sofa. Still he remained silent. That was Mister Scott’s normal modus operandi.
But struggling was in my blood—not giving in until he made me. With the cord or whatever loosening, I whipped around to kick him in the groin and was spun to the floor. I saw who this was: Axl.
Fuck.
Even as he wrapped tape around my wrists with his knee pinning me flat, hurting me, my mind was dithering.
“Want your Mr. Scott to get in trouble? Go ahead and scream.” He stated that so matter-of-factly, I forgot to fight back. “He knows I’m here. He told me you need this.”
A piece of tape was wound several times about my face, wedging it into my mouth—making a sloppy gag. It would muffle but wouldn’t stop me screaming. But should I? Should I scream?
In that moment of stark indecision, a bag was pulled over my head, blinding me. Axl strapped it at neck level.
“I.. I haf to go to wok!” I spat the mangled words into the blackness, my eyelids brushing cloth.
He hauled me back onto my couch, adjusted my legs, opened them. I snapped them shut.
“No. Open.” He smacked my thighs then wedged a hand between them, pushing in between and pinching my skin.
I flinched and whimpered, burning from the strikes. Then I opened.
“More.”
I spread myself wider, throat closing in from abrupt desire—knowing in that moment how slutty this would look. I was giving in, wasn’t I? That awareness of my own kinks did not prevent my reaction. I was loving it.
He rolled my panties from beneath my butt, yanked them to ankle level, then off me.
The asshole had found a way through my obstinate detestation of him. Lust swirled and fluttered, roiled, and grew, expanding outward, making my nipples peak. That familiar tension awakened where I tried not to show he had devastated me.
I shut my eyes to lose the light that sneaked into the bag from a grille in the mouth area and from where eyeholes seemed to be clipped shut.
