Obsession - Girl Abducted

Obsession: A Novel of Involuntary Bondage
by Claire Thompson

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OBSESSION

An Erotic Thriller

By

CLAIRE THOMPSON

ISBN 978-1-60089-038-3

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2007 Claire Thompson

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

Sizzler Editions/B&D

www.sizzlereditions.com

A Renaissance E Books publication

(revised and updated-formerly published as
The Stalker
)
Introduction

When I first wrote
The Stalker
back in 1999, I was a relative newcomer not only to writing novels, but to the BDSM

D/s scene, both in fiction and in fact.
The Stalker
was written first as entertainment, but also as a way to explore my own deep-seated fantasies about the "lifestyle" from the safety of my laptop. Nearly eight years and twenty four novels later, I thought it was time to return to one of my earlier works and see if what the Claire Thompson of that era had to say still resonated with me today.

As I reread I revised, based on my now greater experience both as a writer and as a submissive in a loving real-life D/s relationship. The basic story remains intact-a misguided love-struck "stalker" finds a way to kidnap and keep his "true love"

as his personal sex slave, training her through torture, deprivation, sexual stimulation and even love, to become his love object in every sense of the word. As I reread the story, I attempted to interject more realistic reactions on the part of the Master/lover and his slave/beloved. The prior ending, one I had always felt was a little too "pat" was revisited with an eye to giving the story a more realistic possibility for closure.

If you've read
The Stalker
, I invite you to take a fresh look at this revamped, revised and I believe improved version of the old tale. If this is your first look at
Obsession
, read on, and be prepared to submerge yourself into a dangerous sensual journey of self-discovery on the parts of both the Master and the slave.
Claire Thompson
2007
CHAPTER One

Emily was naked, her wrists strung high above her head, pulling her body taut. Her legs were spread wide, held in place by a long bar of gleaming metal, with an attached metal cuff securing each ankle. The room was empty, suffused with a white light from ceiling to floor.

Emily's head had dropped forward, her dark shiny hair tussled and damp with perspiration. The sound of the whip cracked against her soft supple flesh. Mark's heavy flogger struck her body again and again, coiling around her thigh, her belly, the perfect globes of her ass. Her cries echoed in the empty room.

Mark lay on the bed, his hand on his cock as he watched her on the screen. The flat screen high definition TV didn't do her justice. Emily Hunter was laughing toward him, her dark blue eyes beckoning to him as he sighed. His recurring fantasy of whipping his bound slave, just before he let her down to fuck her, remained in the back of his mind as he watched the movie star on the screen.

Mark shifted a little in anticipation of her next scene. In a few moments the male character would begin to unbutton Emily's blouse. Mark moaned.
He
should be the only one to do that. Soon he would be—soon Emily Hunter, adored by millions, would belong to Mark and only Mark.

He would be able to touch that lovely face, to kiss those luscious lips. As Mark watched Emily close her eyes, surrendering herself to her on-screen lover in the climactic
final scene of the adventure-love story that had catapulted the then relatively-unknown young actress to stardom, he felt longing dragging like a knife through his gut. Oh, to be kissed by that mouth, to feel those soft lips brush against his in shy hesitation before he crushed her to him, before he took what should belong to him—Mark groaned as his hand flew over his cock, pumping himself in time to the movements of the lovers on the screen. Her lips were like ripe fruit waiting to be bitten.

As Mark's lust raged, it wrenched an audible sigh from his own unkissed mouth.

Emily had been compared to Lauren Bacall and with good reason. There was something of that sultry "I dare you"

quality in her expression, but Mark knew she was an innocent. He'd followed her career for the past seven years with avid attention. Beyond the movies, he read every interview, bought every magazine on which she was featured and wrote for several online blogs of devoted Emily Hunter fans. But it was two years ago, when he'd managed to get tickets to the screening of her latest movie, that he'd decided to stop living on the sidelines of Emily Hunter's life.

Seeing her in person had been thrilling. She had worn a simple but elegant silky blue dress that clung alluringly to her perfect curves. With that easy, pelvis first gait she had, she'd walked confidently along the receiving line, stopping every few feet to be photographed and to meet her fans. When she'd turned her dazzling smile on Mark, those haunting eyes staring into his own, he'd felt the electricity pass between them. Though she turned away a moment later to smile at
the next fan, somehow Mark knew they'd shared something unique. It was at that moment he began to devise his plan.

The credits began to roll across Mark's very expensive TV

and he still hadn't come. Closing his eyes, he let his favorite fantasy again roll through his head ...
Emily raised her head,
trying to focus those violet-blue eyes on her lover. Her
breasts heaved as she tried to catch her breath. "Thank you,
sir," she managed, her voice sultry. "For what?" Mark
demanded. She had to say it properly. "For whipping me, sir.

I needed it, sir. I need you, sir. Fuck me ... "
Mark could almost feel Emily in the room with him as he furiously pumped his cocked, shooting his seed over his chest with a cry of passion. Once he owned her, she would lick him clean.

The autumn day was crisp. That morning there had been the slightest hint of snow in the air. Mark stood across the street from the studio where Emily Hunter was having her photo shoot for a women's fashion magazine. It should have been over by now. Impatiently he glanced at his watch. He recognized her driver's car, the nondescript black sedan, its back windows tinted to keep out prying eyes. It was parked near the back entrance of the studio on a narrow side street, ready to whisk away the woman of his dreams.

His heart leapt as the door opened and Emily came out, tossing her dark hair out of her face as she pulled her leather jacket more tightly around herself. She strode quickly toward the parked car. The passenger door was opened from inside and she slipped in, shutting out any would-be autograph seekers or paparazzi before anyone even realized she was there.
Mark knew where she was going. It being midday in Manhattan, he knew he would get there as fast, if not faster, on foot, with no snarled traffic to fight. Today she would be meeting with Lisa Carter, her personal assistant, for lunch at Caliente, the little Mexican place on 6th Avenue in Greenwich Village. After lunch, she would go for her massage at Chez Paul, and then off to the studio to rehearse or do whatever she did in there. So far, he hadn't been able to get into that studio—damn security was too tight. He didn't care, though.

What did it matter—he knew where she lived.

Mark Stratton knew as much about Emily Hunter as anyone alive. He knew she had been born in Galveston, Texas, and her parents still lived in Houston. He knew her father was a doctor and her mother was a writer and illustrator of children's books. He knew about her older sister who lived in Dallas with two children, a husband and three dogs.

He knew she kept an apartment in the city, but spent several months a year filming in Los Angeles, where she owned a small house in Malibu. He had seen all twelve movies she had been in, even the first one, where she had a bit part as the star's little sister. He owned the nine movies out on DVD. He knew she had just been cast in a romantic comedy with Tim Rutherford as her co-star. He knew they were not romantically involved, despite those ridiculous rumors to the contrary in the tabloids and on the blogs. She couldn't possibly be involved with that fool.

As he hurried along the crowded streets of New York, he almost tripped over a disheveled man who was dozing,
slumped over against the wall of a building. A dirty hand clutched an empty bottle of MD 20-20. Mark cursed softly under his breath as he hurried past the bum. Mark hated the city. He had only moved here a few months before from his peaceful life in Orange County, New York, to be closer to her.

And to make his plans easier to carry out. Luckily, his job as a programmer with a small computer company was going quite well—they paid him a lot and didn't mind when he came in, as long as the work got done. He was their "creative genius" or so they told him. As long as they continued to pay him handsomely for his services, he didn't care what they called him. That money was a means to an end. He was nearly ready to put his plan into action and to save his darling Emily from the turmoil of public life.

He got to the restaurant just as Emily was being escorted in by her driver. He didn't stay, Mark observed, but went back to wait in the car. Mark brushed past him, resisting an impulse to strike him. He knew he was only jealous because the driver got to be close to Emily—he got to take her places, and open doors for her. Maybe they chatted as they drove, Emily telling him little tidbits about her latest shoot.

Well, soon
Mark
would be taking her places. He smiled grimly to himself as he settled into the small booth not far from where Emily and Lisa were sitting, musing over their menus. Poor Emily, she looked tired. She worked much too hard. Soon that burden would be lifted from her lovely shoulders. Soon her sole occupation in life would be to be worshipped and adored by him, Mark Stratton, the only man who properly understood and appreciated her.
Sometimes he imagined them together as husband and wife, strolling in the park, a baby in Emily's arms. Ah, but children weren't in her future. Mark had suffered an injury in football and was told he was sterile. Just as well. He wouldn't want to share Emily with anyone else, not even their child.