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A basement? I make out a few crates, but it’s otherwise empty. No graffiti, no trash. Not abandoned, then. There’s that.
Lots of warehouses out there to choose from, though, and that’s assuming we’re still in Baltimore.
Hell, even then, it could be any goddamn place inside the city and the suburbs, on the seafront, or inland.
If this were a movie, there would be the sound of surf and seagulls, or a busy street outside giving the protagonist clues. Even maybe the captors standing behind a door and talking about their plans, accidentally mentioning their location.
I strain to listen for any sound. Apart from water dripping and an engine whirring away somewhere in the distance, nothing.
Looks like this is a different kind of movie.
One in which I’m fucked.
More time passes. A rat scuttles along a wall, and I watch its approach with gritted teeth. If the creature decides to start gnawing on my leg, there’s not much I can do. The feeling of helplessness grates on my every nerve ending. I’ve never gotten off on the submissive role. That’s more Rook’s kink, from what I hear.
And Hot Body’s, from experience.
Of course, on the heels of that thought come the images of her bound to a four-post king-size bed, wrists crossed over her head—much like mine are right now—her legs spread, her tits shiny with a sheen of sweat, her mouth slack as I pleasure her with my hand and jack off with the other.
Or on all fours, with her pretty ass in the air as I smack her and then thrust into her.
Or holding on to one of the posts as I prepare my flogger and—
Shit, was that a sound? A door slamming?
I strain in my bonds, futilely pulling, trying to get my hands free. I can’t even see what they tied them with. Rope, I’d guess, like my legs and waist.
No other sound echoes in the emptiness, and I let my head fall back. Dammit, I’m so damn thirsty, and I ache everywhere, except for the parts that are numb, like my hands and arms, and that’s even less reassuring.
Not reassuring at all. Because the kidnapping manual says if you don’t feed and give water to your hostages, then you’re planning to kill them. Or intend to let them die. You feed them and make sure their hands don’t fall off if you plan to ask for ransom.
Guess in which category I seem to fall?
Fuck. I wasn’t supposed to die this weekend. So damn inconvenient. I’ve got stuff to do that just can’t wait, not to mention the Organization to bring down.
***
A bang jerks me awake.
What? Where?
I jolt forward, brought short by the ropes around my limbs, and a shout dies strangled in my throat as the pain hits my shoulders and chest, the inside of my skull.
Fucking ow.
And fuck, I can’t turn and see what’s going on. Another bang—the door closing?—and force myself to wait and stop struggling.
They come into view, two guys dressed in black wife-beaters and jeans, and nope, I’ve never seen them before in my life. Shit, no clue there. They’re built like tanks, taller than my six-foot-four, arms bulging with muscles and covered in tattoos, their faces sporting bristly dark beards.
Oh joy. Clichéd-looking thugs have come to beat me up. Can my day get any fucking better? I want to ask, but I bite my lip and wait to see how things unfold.
Clichéd is good. It means I know the script.
One of them, with a golden earring glinting on one ear, folds his arms over his chest and grins at me. Some of his teeth are missing. “Comfortable?”
I just stare back at him. He’s one ugly motherfucker. There’s a scar on his cheek, partly hidden by the beard, and another on his arm. Looks like a slash from a knife.
Thug to the bone, huh?
