Enslaved (19 page)

But he said nothing. He really was sending her away. She realized with something approaching shock that she didn’t want to go! She didn’t want to never see him again. How could she stop whatever was happening now?

“What about the money?” she blurted. “The money I owe you? Don’t we have to work out terms?”

“Excuse me,” he said, speaking to the driver. “Can you turn on the light for the lady?” The driver obliged. “Read it,” Sam ordered.

Rae looked down at the page she held in her hands. It was the indemnity agreement they’d written together, absolving her of any wrong doing, noting the
loan
of $133,000 made with Sam’s full knowledge and consent. Across the sheet in big red letters were the words: PAID IN FULL, with Sam’s bold, slanted signature beneath it.

“Take care, Rae,” he said softly. Then he turned away.

Rae stood for a long moment just inside her door. Her apartment was a single, large room, partitioned by carved wooden dividers that created the illusion of a separate bedroom, office space and galley kitchen. Along with her desk and filing cabinet, she’d furnished the apartment with plump, comfortable sofas and a big leather recliner where she liked to watch TV. The kitchen table was a fifties throwback she’d found at an estate sale, complete with a red Formica top and matching padded chairs with chrome legs.

There was a thin veneer of dust on everything and the air was close and still. She’d only been away for a few weeks, yet the place looked somehow abandoned, frozen in time. Dropping her bags, she moved toward the living room window to let in the fresh night air.

Sinking down into the recliner, she glanced at the wall clock. It was nearly five in the morning. The rising sun was already painting the city gray and lavender, with brushes of gold outlining the skyline. Though she was bone weary, Rae knew she wouldn’t sleep. Her head was so crowded, it was standing room only.

Reaching for the remote, she turned on the TV. She realized she hadn’t heard the news for over two weeks. She hadn’t checked her email—Sam had done it for her, reading to her what he considered important and allowing her to dictate her replies. She hadn’t seen her snail mail—it was being held for her at the apartment manager’s office until her “return from Japan”. She hadn’t been shopping or walked the streets of Manhattan, or been to a movie or read a book. She hadn’t even fed herself or used a razor on her own. She hadn’t worn makeup or used her blow dryer or plucked her eyebrows or bought a new lipstick. She hadn’t worked on drumming up new clients or even done any work for
Ryker Solutions
beyond a few brief consultations with Sam on the
Ichi
deal.

Rae flicked off the TV, aware she had no idea what was on the screen. What the hell was the matter with her? She should be dancing for joy, leaping around the apartment calling, “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, free at last!”

So why did she feel so empty?

The thought made her realize she was, in fact, empty. She hadn’t touched the muffins he’d put on the table. She hadn’t eaten since their lunch the day before—chicken salad and wedges of crisp apple, shared with Sam.

After she’d gotten used to being fed, she’d come to enjoy their meals together. Sam always let her eat her fill, alternating bites with her, watching her to see if she enjoyed it. He seemed to take satisfaction in her pleasure and he really was quite a good cook. She, on the other hand, could burn water. Frozen microwave dinners and takeout were more her speed, when she remembered to eat at all.

Sam had forced her to slow down—to taste the food, to savor the moment. He would even pat her chin and wipe her lips afterwards with a napkin, almost like a father for his child, though it had never felt like that at the time. There had been a certain sensual element to the meals, something she’d certainly never experienced before. Something, she admitted now, that she quite liked.

Pushing herself from the recliner, Rae walked into the tiny kitchen and pulled open the small refrigerator. There were some condiments in the door and a lone bottle of tonic water on the shelf next to a tub of margarine. Sam had cleared out the perishables, she recalled now, not that there had been that much to start with.

Along with two trays of ice cubes, the freezer contained a blob of freezer-burned meat that was probably chicken, and a box of spinach, both items, she now recalled, she’d bought with the intent to make a homemade meal, though clearly that had never come to fruition.

She shut the door with a sigh and turned toward the pantry cabinet, where she found box of crackers and some Cheese Whiz. There was also a bottle of premium vodka with a good four inches remaining.

“Food for the gods,” she murmured, taking the items, including the vodka, from the cabinet and carrying them to the table. Grabbing a paper plate, she tore open the one remaining packet of crackers in the box and dumped some on the plate.

She winced with pain as she pulled at the cap on the Cheese Whiz can, the cut on her palm suddenly reminding her of their last bizarre session in the dungeon. Her snack for the moment forgotten, she held out her right hand and carefully pulled back the gauze held in place by paper tape.

Beneath the butterfly bandage, she could see the cut was only about an inch long but it looked deep. She found herself wondering if it would leave a scar—a ridged reminder of when she had been Sam’s sex slave. Again that curious sense of pride moved through her as she stared at the wound. It was like a badge of courage—a reminder of what she’d been through.

She reached absently for her collar, stroking the stiff leather with practiced fingers. Her slave collar! Why the hell was she still wearing it? Standing, she hurried into the bathroom and flicked on the light, positioning herself in front of the mirrored medicine cabinet that hung over the sink.

She stared for a long time at her face. The angular planes of cheekbone and jaw were softened, making her look closer to nineteen than twenty-nine. Her skin was clear, a natural blush of soft pink on her cheeks instead of the tan foundation she had applied as part of a full makeup regime every day, whether staying home or going out.
Must be all that fresh fruit and meat he gives me
, she thought with an inward grin,
not to mention the constant orgasms,
before her mind had a chance to form the thought in past tense.

Before the dungeon, she used to spend at least an hour after each shower, carefully drying and styling her hair into a sleek, smooth curtain of dark satin. As often as not, she’d sweep it back in a French twist, thinking this gave her a more formidable, serious presence in the business world. Now as she stared at her reflection, her hair looked thick and unruly, falling in a tumble of waves around her face.

Beyond the physical changes her time with Sam had wrought, there was something else—something in her expression as she gazed back at herself, almost a kind of inward smile, the enigmatic smile of someone who has a secret. A good secret.

She touched the collar again as she stared at herself. She was so used to wearing it that she only thought about it when Sam used the ring to tether her in place, or when he removed it so she could shower. She herself had never been permitted to take it off. It was, he would remind her, a sign of his ownership.

“Well,” she said, trying to make her voice bright in the stillness of her apartment. “I’m a free woman now.”

Opening the medicine cabinet, she found a box of bandages and a tube of antibiotic ointment. Without removing the butterfly bandage, she squirted a bit of the ointment along the edges and taped a new, fresh gauze pad over the cut. As she worked, her thoughts veered back to the Sam’s careful aftercare following the knife session.

She’d actually passed out at some point during the intense session, her mind and body shifting into sensory overload as a result of all he was doing to her. When she came to, she was in her bed, with Sam carefully washing her body and patting her dry. She’d lain still with her eyes closed, not wanting him to realize she was conscious, afraid he’d stop taking care of her if he knew.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry…

His words drifted back to her now, uttered with the pained conviction of a broken heart. At the time she’d been so focused on what had just happened—the knife, the blood, the terror, the tenderness of his aftercare—that she’d barely processed those words or their meaning.

All at once she understood. He hadn’t let her go because of something she’d done wrong. He’d let her go because of what
he’d
done wrong. The realization should have filled her with vindicated satisfaction, but it only left her feeling even more bereft than before.

Reaching behind her neck, she fingered the buckle of the slave collar and pushed the leather strap through it. She pulled the collar free and dropped it into the sink. She put her hand on her throat, lightly wrapping her fingers around it, as Sam sometimes did when he stared into her eyes.

Her nipples perked in response to the memory and she dropped her hand, confused by her reaction. She reminded herself she was hungry.

Returning to the kitchen, she retrieved the bottle of tonic from the fridge and got out a glass from the cabinet. She added ice cubes and poured in plenty of vodka. Though she wasn’t in the habit of drinking hard liquor at six in the morning, she gave herself permission. She’d just been through two weeks of pure hell. She was celebrating her freedom.

She blinked away the sudden tears, telling herself they were from fatigue.

The food tasted surprisingly good, the crunchy buttery flavor of the crackers nicely offset by the gooey, salty cheese spread. She ate a few off the plate and took a healthy swig of the strong drink she’d prepared herself. The tonic was flat, but better than nothing. She wished she had some fresh lime.

She finished the crackers and cheese and stood from the table, wondering what to do next. She drifted aimlessly around her small apartment, straightening a picture on the wall, running her finger over the spines of the books in the narrow built-in cases on either side of the TV, stopping to stare out the window at the play of color against the buildings as the sun edged upward into the summer sky.

She reached again to finger her collar, but it wasn’t there. Her neck felt oddly naked without it. At the same time, her clothes felt constricting, the underwire of her bra cutting into her ribcage. She kicked off her flats and unbuttoned her blouse, pulling it off. Reaching behind herself, she unclasped the hooks of her bra and shrugged it off with a grateful sigh. Undoing her jeans, she slipped out of them, dragging her underwear along with the pants.

That felt better. It was good to be naked. It felt right somehow. Again she put her hand on her throat, feeling the lack there. She finished the vodka and tonic, letting its warmth move through her chest and loosen the stranglehold of tension she held in her gut.

Without taking too much time to examine her motives, she returned to the bathroom and reached for the slave collar. Pushing her hair back, she buckled it around her neck and look defiantly at herself in the mirror.

Maybe now she could sleep.

~*~

Sam awoke with a start, disoriented and confused. He looked around and realized he had fallen asleep in the dungeon, on Rae’s bed. He reached for his cock, which was erect from lingering dreams involving Rae naked and bent over in the stocks, her back arched, legs spread, her ass a lovely cherry red from a recent paddling, the skin hot to the touch.

He stroked himself, letting the images play out. He loved the little grunts and sighs he pulled from her with the lash of the whip, almost indistinguishable from the gasps of pleasure when he fingered her cunt until she begged for permission to come. He loved the way the skin on her chest and throat mottled, the coins of color rising on her cheeks when she neared orgasm.

“Please, Sir, oh please! May I come…” That breathy, sweet entreaty and her pout of frustration when he denied her.

He pulled at his cock, wishing it was her hot, wet mouth instead of his hand moving over his shaft. If she were here now, he would have her lie on the edge of the bed, her head hanging just off the mattress. Standing in front of her, he would lower his cock into her mouth, not stopping until she’d taken the full length of it. Gripping her head on either side, he would ease himself in and out, urging her to take it, to surrender herself fully to him while he fucked her mouth.