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Ivana carefully worked her way around the new tattoo. Laney still wondered what the tattoo was—but Kafka refused to let her see it. More initials maybe? A symbol of some sort? It was difficult to accept any mark that she hadn’t a hand in creating, and though she resisted this one, it was useless to fret now that the deed was done.
Laney had a distinct feeling that both the mark on her flank and this careful bathing had a larger purpose. Everything changes today, Kafka had said, when the day began. The tattoo and the bathing were relatively small changes, and she was certain that there would be more, bigger changes very soon. Something stirred in the air, excitement, anticipation, all coming from the inhabitants of the cottage, and most of all from Kafka himself.
After she was bathed, Ivana had her lie back on the kitchen table while she shaved her swath of dark pussy hair, removing every bit of it until she was shaved as clean as a baby. She’d never shaved this way herself, and never felt more naked with the lips of her pussy so vulnerable and so exposed.
Ivana then washed Laney’s hair in the kitchen sink using water she heated on the stove. She lathered her hair twice with sweet-smelling shampoo, rinsed it thoroughly, and finally applied a fruity conditioner that smelled like what she used on her own hair.
Laney toweled herself dry in front of Ivana and the two men then combed her hair, as it began to dry. She felt a little more normal now, a little more human than before the day began. Perhaps this was a good sign.
There were clothes for Laney to wear, pulled from a shopping bag that Ivana carried into the kitchen from one of the cottage’s other rooms. The sweater and skirt were very much like the clothes Ivana wore: too tight for Laney’s body, allowing her significant body parts to be clearly displayed. A small cropped black sweater fit tightly over her breasts and she wore no bra to contain them. She was hardly as well-endowed as Ivana, but her lovely mounds were clearly highlighted by the sweater’s snug fit, and if she bent over, she would practically spill out the top.
The small red skirt hugged her hips, accentuating Laney’s natural curves. She had the feeling that, should she have been given an opportunity to look into a mirror, which she was not, she would have looked like a street whore on the prowl. It seemed quite possible that her captors planned to prostitute her—the idea was as frightening as it was appealing—if it were possible that she could be prostituted and be safe. The very thought stunned her. Her reckless sexual mind was like a trap, luring her into places she had every reason to shun, if she were sane at all.
The skirt was so short that Laney dared not bend over, and when she walked, she could feel it riding up her legs to bare more naked flesh. She finally caught a glimpse of herself in the window glass and was shaken by her appearance.
“I can’t wear this!” she hissed in protest, presumably just to Ivana, but Kafka happened to be within earshot and was immediately on her saying:
“Of course, you can.” He stood in front of her with his hand in her hair, gently caressing her panic away. Just looking into his eyes seemed to calm her, but it did nothing to dispel her rising fears about what came next, and what she’d be forced to do. When Kafka moved away, he did so only to retrieve a pair of shoes from the table and hand them to her. “Here, these will really set off your slutty body,” he said.
The shoes were bright red, patent leather stilettos. She felt a little dizzy just taking them from his hand.
“Go on, put them on,” he said.
She struggled to keep her balance and grabbed for Kafka’s arm to stay upright. It should not have surprised her that the shoes fit her perfectly. The clothes she’d been wearing when she was kidnapped had been missing since Ivana stripped them from her; she assumed that she’d never see them again. They would, however, have been used to learn her sizes.
“There, look at you!” Kafka declared, almost proudly, as the heels lifted her body to its tiptoes and accentuated her tight round behind. “You’ll strut like the slut you are.” He turned this last phrase with a lurid, mocking twist. Then he left, saying to the others as he walked out: “Have her in town by eight. I want to be there for the early crowd.”
She wanted to ask where they were going, but was quite sure they would tell her nothing.
Two hours later, after eating a small dinner, Laney was stuffed back into the small vehicle that brought her to the cottage, this time bound only by the wrist cuff, with the chain attached to a ring in the side of the car’s door. Ironically, the cuff was on the same wrist that bore the Marquis’ bracelet. As she was driven back to the city for another chapter in her ongoing surrender, she found herself ruled by two indomitable men: the Marquis and his enemy.
Chapter Twelve
The night had taken all the daylight from the landscape. There were streetlights, headlights and marquees to illuminate the evening. And in the air was the same excitement Laney had felt while she was in the cottage being bathed. ‘Everything was changing,’ Kafka’s refrain repeated.
Through twisted, narrow streets and pitch black alleys, the small car careened with surprising ease, although she hardly felt as jostled about as she had been when she was leaving the city bound in the back seat—not four days ago—four days; it seemed like an eon ago. She felt apprehensive but hopeful now, although she had no idea what inspired her hope. She knew that she’d be used for sex that night—sex she’d learned to handle with some ease. But she was still at the mercy of ruthless villains who she had every reason to fear.
The car abruptly halting in a narrow alleyway caused her to careen forward in the seat, then settle back just as fast. Seconds later, the car door opened, the chain from the wrist cuff was detached and she was led to the opened back door of a nightclub, from where the hard grind of rock music emerged, immediately connecting with her sexually.A thick cloud of cigarette smoke billowed out into the alley. Then from inside that cloud Kafka’s face materialized like a ghost. Sneering scornfully, which Laney had become accustomed to, he grabbed
the chain and shooed his two friends away.
“Find a place to park the car.”
Laney was shoved into an alcove, just inside the door.
“Make believe it’s the Marquis leading you about tonight, Mrs. Priestly, and you’ll have nothing to fear. Resist nothing and you won’t be punished. Clear?”
“Yes, very.”
From out of nowhere, he pulled a heavy iron collar and, glaring exultantly, he snapped it round her slim neck, lined up the connecting links, and thread a bulky steel padlock through the loop. Another chain with large, thick links was attached to where the padlock was fixed, and served as a leash that Kafka used to lead Laney through a maze of hallways. At the end of one corridor, they descended two flights of stairs into a basement, where they finally emerged into the crowded nightclub. They stood at the entrance until they were noticed, which didn’t take very long. Laney’s quick study of the place and its primarily leather-clad clientele suggested that the kink that inspired her deepest sexual passions was something practiced here. Until that moment, Laney had not paid much attention to how Kafka was dressed, though now, giving his attire a lingering glance, she reacted immediately to his leather pants and the way they accentuated his tight rear end and the pouch between his legs.
A storm of erotic stimulation blasted her at once.
Even the fact that she was collared and now brought in on a leash ignited a storm of pulsing spasms to set her mood. Fear took a backseat. Although this was not familiar territory for her, since she and Erik had never been to a leather bar or formal S&M dungeon as Elise and Matthew had, she immediately connected with the lust that drove this place. Above the smell of cigarette smoke was the heady scent of leather. Behind the loud music was the sound of cracking whips.
A bottle of beer was pressed to her lips and she was forced to drink fast, although a little managed to spill down her sweater, a fact that didn’t bother Kafka; he was showing her off, while gloating about the find he’d made in Prague Castle.
“Cheers, Laney Priestly,” he whispered in her ear, “this night will either be your worst nightmare or the most satisfying you’ve ever experienced.”
