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“You should let her crawl,” the man at the door barked.
“She do good enough,” the blonde female came right back.
The faltering Laney was led from her tiny prison into a room that was much larger, and very bright. The place was obviously old and showed its wear, but the kitchen into which she was taken to was big and cheerful, with thick oak around its doors and red and white checked curtains fluttering at the windows. The breeze was sweet, the air filled with all the country scents Laney recalled during her trip from Prague.
She was set on a kitchen chair, while the blonde female, the man from the guard house and another, taller man shifted around the room, and looked her over with grim and curious expressions.
“Undo the hands!” A man’s voice rang out from behind her, sounding as if he were in charge. A moment later, he strode in from out of nowhere, and stood in front of Laney looking down at her with his perceptive eyes searching her closely.
He was the kind of man that make her heart beat quickly and her loins come back to life after a brief respite while under the influence of their drugs and her fear. Short facial hair gave his handsome face a fierce look, and his blue eyes were so penetrating that she feared he could see how much he immediately aroused her. Everything about him bred her lust, not just because he had such a virile look to him, but because she felt his authority—whether it was earned didn’t particularly matter.
Obeying his order, the blonde woman released Laney’s hands.
“You have lots to tell us, Mrs. Priestly, so it would be better if you could speak,” —as if this was a joke, he smiled mockingly. Lifting the edge of the silvery tape that trapped her mouth, he ripped it away from her skin. Her entire mouth stung miserably, “Ohhhhh!” and she grabbed her face with her hand to comfort it with her palm.
“Some things are best done quickly,” he said.
While the others in the room appeared to speak little or very broken English, this man’s English was flawless, although executed with a Czech accent that sounded just a little British.
“You spend your time like a tourist, but you are not a tourist, are you?” The intensity of his piercing eyes had not faltered.
Laney gazed around at the others in the room, the two men, the blonde female. All their eyes were like cameras focused on her face to record everything she said, and on her body to note every movement.
“Look at me. Kafka.” He thumped his chest. “Who is it you seek here in Prague?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answered evasively. She would reveal nothing about herself until they revealed something about who they were.
“No?” He grabbed her left arm and held up the bracelet. “Property of the Marquis. Is that who you seek, this Marquis?”
“Who are you?”
He grimaced. “That is not an answer.” He took her trembling chin in his hand and held it fiercely.
“Maybe not, Kafka,” she spit out, boldly, “but it is all I’ll say until you tell me who you are. Are you agents of the Marquis’?”
A ripple of laughter carried through the room. Even the stern Kafka briefly smiled.
“I think not,” he answered. “But who we are is not the issue here.” He let go of her chin, and with his hands on his hips, he turned around, shaking his head at his friends. As he was turned slightly to the side, she could just make out the glimmer of mocking amusement in his expression. “Tell me why you’re in Prague,” he said.
She waited as long as she dared in defiance, then finally blurted out: “Yes, I am here to see the Marquis.” Since they knew about the bracelet, there was no point in lying.
“That’s very good, very good.” Kafka turned back to her. “We can see that you are the man’s property, which is all we need to know to make you our captive.” He smirked triumphantly. “The Marquis brings you here then stupidly lets you fall into the hands of his enemies. If he wants you, Mrs. Priestly, he’ll have to pay our price. Until he does, we’ll amuse ourselves with you. Before you leave here, if you leave here, we will leave a mark on your psyche that will never go away.”
A shudder of despair tore through Laney’s body as she choked back tears, although she knew that tears were no way to defy these people, this man, this ruthless, taunting man. She hated the way her body responded like a trained animal to his ferocity and his good looks, and she dreaded the thought of him discovering how wet she’d become while under his painstaking scrutiny.
“Bare her tits for me,” he ordered, then he stepped back to view what was revealed to him when Ivana moved in behind the chair and pulled Laney’s blouse up off her torso.
Her pale brown skin seemed to glow in the sunny room, while the roundness of her breasts was accentuated by the bright light. A breeze from the nearby window brushed past her and tickled her skin with the effect of raising the hairs on her arms and tightening her nipples just slightly. The critical observation of her captors made her even more aroused and her nipples tightened further as proof.
“Take off her skirt,” Kafka ordered next.
Laney was forced to rise to her feet, while the blonde pushed her skirt down her hips. Her smooth belly heaved from the exposure. As often as she had bared herself on the command of a dominant man, she never ceased to find the experience humiliating and degrading, and she never ceased to be aroused by those potent feelings.
“Now sit,” Kafka scowled and Laney sat again. “Legs apart, your hands behind you. We want to see what the Marquis’ slut looks like and how she responds to stimulation.” He turned toward the men behind him. “Bring out my little torture machine; I think we’ll hook her up, eh?”
Laney’s eyes got wide and scared, a fact that seemed to amuse the author of this daring plot. Kafka’s aides made quick work of revealing a small suitcase in which Laney could plainly see a number of electrodes attached to a panel of dials. An electrical cord from the suitcase hooked into a nearby light socket.
“Oh, no! Please! Don’t to this to me!” Laney screamed.
