Obsession - Girl Abducted (21 page)

Venturing out into the living room she saw through into the kitchen that Mark was preparing breakfast. She could smell bacon and coffee and realized she was hungry. "Good morning," Mark called out to her.

"Good morning," she answered. It wouldn't have occurred to her to greet him first. She had been trained for too long in the art of silence.

"What can I get for you? I'm just making some scrambled eggs. Are you hungry?"

Emily smiled uncertainly. She felt strange in her clothing.

She was so used to being naked at his feet. He was smiling at her shyly as he waved her to a seat at the table. She had been under that table, on that table, but had never actually sat at the table herself. Slaves did not sit on the furniture.

Now she did so, feeling like a guest instead of the sexual property she had become so used to being.

Mark hovered around her, bringing her breakfast, pouring her coffee, stirring in the sugar and cream he knew she liked.

Emily sat staring at the food. Mark soon came and sat next to
her, his own plate piled high with a yellow mound of eggs, and several pieces of crisp bacon.

He took a swallow of coffee and reached for the salt. He paused as he noticed Emily was just sitting there, not eating her food. "Better eat it while it's hot!" His tone was jovial if a little forced. After a moment he said quietly, "What is it, Emily? What's the matter?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I haven't even used a fork for so long. I'm just not used to this. I'm—I'm afraid—" She stopped, looking down miserably at her food.

"Afraid of what? The food's not poison! Look, I'm eating it."

He shoveled in a large bite of eggs to demonstrate his point.

She didn't dare articulate her fear. That he was setting her up. That he would punish her the minute she dared to use a fork and eat like an equal, instead of kneeling at his feet, her mouth open like a little bird's, waiting for his offering.

Mark studied her for a while longer, comprehension dawning. "You don't trust me," he said slowly. "That's it, isn't it? You don't trust me not to betray you. To go back on the deal that you are free this week, free to do whatever you like, except leave. You think I'm setting you up so I can torture you, cage you, make you suffer for your trust."

His voice sounded sad. Of course that was it. She didn't have to answer. Why should she think otherwise? Hadn't he tricked her a thousand times before? Not in precisely this manner. He had never made promises like this one. But he had played little games, such as forcing her to hold her urine past the point where it was possible, and then punishing her for failing to do so. Or making her come and then rescinding
the privilege so that he could punish her afterwards for disobeying. It had all been delicious fun. But it had nothing to do with this. This was real. He meant every word he had said to her. He would not go back on his word. This was not a game.

He didn't say any of this aloud. Instead he simply said,

"Eat. I give you permission to eat. Use the fork. Use the knife and spoon. Eat until you are satisfied. Take your time." He said it gently, with a small smile on his lips. His eyes were kind as he spoke. She relaxed a little, and then hesitantly picked up the fork.

She ate a small bite of the eggs. Nothing happened. She dared a sip of the coffee and still Mark calmly ate his own food. He opened the newspaper next to his plate and began to scan the headlines. Emily took another bite of egg and then some bacon. The food was delicious. The freedom was strange but not unpleasant. She ate the rest of her meal, casting sidelong glances at Mark as she did so. Whatever game he was playing, she hoped she would learn the rules fast.

Normally after breakfast, Mark would groom his slave girl.

She would sit obediently on the bathroom counter while he carefully shaved her underarms, her legs, and finally her pussy. Usually when he was rubbing in the mineral oil afterwards, he would make her come, or fuck her right there on the counter. Today, after breakfast Mark went into his study. Emily was at a loss. Should she groom herself? He had said he wasn't going to use her sexually any more. So what was the point?
Emily tidied the kitchen and then chose a book from one of the shelves. With her new freedom, Mark had given her free reign of the house, including the use of the TV and his vast library of books, both fiction and nonfiction. She noticed the open window in the living room. Looking around, she realized all the locks had been removed. It occurred to her she could climb right out that window and disappear. Walk to the next farm and beg for sanctuary. Of course, he might realize she was missing before she got there and hunt her down. But that was unlikely. He rarely came out of his study in less than an hour. That would give her enough time to get away.

In the past he had always tethered her in some way when he was in his study. She might be free to relax on the bed, for example, but at least one wrist would be bound to the wall, albeit loosely. Yet today she was free. Free and clothed. She could go. And yet she didn't. She found to her own amazement that she didn't want go. Not like this. Of course she would go, but not like this. Right now she wanted to read this new book. She curled up on the large, overstuffed couch and opened it to page one.

Emily made dinner that night. Mark had asked her if she would like to surprise him with something. He always kept a well-stocked freezer in the basement so he wouldn't have to go shopping as often. Emily had prepared a beef goulash with carrots and mushrooms and lots of spices. She also made corn bread with a hint of honey, which nicely complemented the spice of the goulash. She served a robust Cabernet and iced herb tea. Mark ate heartily.
"I had no idea you were such an accomplished cook, Emily!

This is delicious." Emily smiled at his praise. She had enjoyed preparing the meal and was pleased that he liked it. After supper they sat together in the living room. Emily felt strange. She wasn't used to being treated as Mark's equal.

She found to her own surprise she wasn't entirely sure that she liked it.

There was a certain comfort, a certain safety, in knowing your place. Normally she would have been naked at his feet.

He might suddenly pull her up and onto his lap so he could stroke her. Or tell her to go to the playroom and prepare for a beating. She would dutifully obey, waiting patiently in the middle of the room if he had told her to, or kneeling, her ass raised high, her forehead resting on the white floor, her dark hair wild around her head.

He would come in, usually without speaking, and the torture would begin. The cane, his cock, the whip, the cross, the bar, the cage. Whatever he decreed. She would lose track of time as she became pure raw sensation. Pain and pleasure would be played off inside of her until she lost track of herself, dissolving into another reality.

Emily hadn't turned the page of her book for several minutes. She looked up with a start when Mark said quietly, "A penny for your thoughts." She realized he must have been looking at her for some time while she had been lost in her reverie.

"Oh! Nothing. I mean, I wasn't thinking anything." She was lying of course. And of course he knew it. As his slave, she didn't have the right to withhold anything from her
master. Not even her thoughts. But for this week, he had told her, she wasn't his slave. She was his guest. Of course this was partly untrue, since she was not free to leave. Still, Mark didn't press her. He went back to his own book for a while and then stood, stretching and yawning.

"I think I'll turn in early, Emily. I don't know why, but I'm really tired." Another lie. They were both walking on eggshells. She let him go, of course. It was a relief for her as well. She didn't have to sit on the couch any longer in her clothing pretending to read her book, wondering how to behave.

A minute after he left her she too left the living room. First she went to the bathroom. Without thinking she stepped toward the bathtub, where she was used to standing, used to waiting patiently for Mark to enter so she could pee, while standing naked with her legs spread. She realized that of course that was no longer necessary. She could use the toilet and she did so. As she sat, she looked down at her shaven pussy. This was the first day it hadn't been stripped bare of any possible stubble. She realized with a small shock that she didn't want the stubble to grow back. She had grown accustomed to the bare, silken feel of her pussy lips and mons.

Looking furtively at the closed bathroom door she decided she would do it herself. Even if he no longer wanted her, she would keep herself ready. She would keep herself soft and bare for him, just in case he changed his mind.

Trying to imitate his long, even strokes, she shaved her legs, then her underarms, and finally her pussy. It was
awkward and she found that she wished he were there, doing this for her. She missed his sure touch. Unconsciously sighing aloud Emily dried her body and applied the creams and oils he used to smooth into her flesh. Then she quickly washed her face, brushed her teeth and went to "her" bedroom.

Sleep eluded her as she tried to get comfortable in the soft bed. Where were her bracelets? Where was the strong, warm man she had become used to having beside her? Her hand found its way to the brand on her bottom. She traced the lines, imagining how it must look. He had taken off the chains that symbolized her slavery—the pussy ring and the cuffs— but he couldn't remove the brand. That was permanent. That was forever. She had been branded by the man who would now set her free. She would never feel the lash again. Never again, know the intensity of being cropped on her spread pussy and then ordered to come. Never know the humiliation of crouching naked while her master urinated on her back, the yellow droplets rolling down her sides and hanging for a second in perfect globes at her nipples before sliding down to the cold porcelain below her.

She should be elated to know he was going to set her free.

If he were truly going to do it. She could go back to her old life. To the filming and the running, to the hectic glamorous exciting life that had been hers. Did she miss it? She realized with a small disarming shock she hadn't even thought about that "other life" for quite some time now. It had faded into some kind of distant dreamy past.

But it wasn't a dream, was it? She could return to civilization and make movies again. Fly to the coast for
shoots. See her sister and parents again. Tell them what had happened to her. She had been held for five months as someone's sex slave. She had been whipped and tortured and completely isolated from all other human contact. She had been pierced and branded. She had submitted to it all. She hadn't really tried to fight him, had she? Would they understand she had been held here against her will? That she had had no choice but to comply?

What would they make of it all? How would she be treated? Would they believe her wild tales? And where was the man who had done these horrible things? Would he be hunted down so he could be tried for kidnapping and torture?

There would be a trial, of course, if they could find him. And she, the famous Emily Hunter, would be on trial as well. The star witness. She would be forced to testify for the record, for the world, about her punishments, about the cage, about peeing in the bathtub for her master. Would her brand be entered as evidence? Her piercing? It was all too horrible to contemplate.

Well, if she did go, she wouldn't turn him in. She wouldn't tell them what had really happened. It was no one's business, anyway. It was just between master and slave.

What was she thinking?
If
she went? Between master and slave? Was she his slave? Even though he had technically set her free? What was happening to her? Things were no longer so clear. She was confused. She wanted to ask Mark. Of course, she couldn't. And anyway, what would she say? He no longer wanted her. He was "setting her free". He had given up on her. What had he said?
"I can't make you love me."
Did
love really enter into this equation? If you had asked her five months ago or even one month ago she would have said no, certainly not. But now—now she was no longer sure.

She fell asleep finally, her hand cupping her own pussy as if it were Mark's hand there, keeping her safe, keeping her wet for him. And this time her dreams weren't about mysterious slave girls in foreign lands. This time she dreamt of Mark.
CHAPTER Twelve

The days passed. They shared meals, sitting together at the table. They exchanged small talk about books they had read or the weather. Neither brought up the subject of her impending departure. Emily didn't have the courage, and Mark didn't have the heart.

Emily began to get comfortable again on the furniture. She became used to wearing clothing. Her hands felt less frequently for the bracelets that were no longer there. Still, unbeknownst to Mark, she continued to groom her own body and to keep her pussy shaved.

He never called for her and never came to her bedroom at night. After being so conditioned with constant sex, constant punishment, and constant attention, Emily felt lost. And lonely. Her body ached for his attentions. She found the only way to settle herself to sleep was to touch herself. At first she hesitated—uncomfortable and still not totally sure it was permitted. Then it became her solace. She would rub and finger fuck herself, staying as quiet as she could. Usually she just used her hand, swirling across her clit, slipping a finger or two into her wet pussy.

One day when Mark was ensconced in his study she crept into the playroom. Everything was in its place—the ropes, whips and chains hung along the walls, the St. Andrew's Cross, the whipping chair, the padded bar. The place was shrouded in shadow. Not sure she should be in there at all, Emily slipped over to the toy chest and opened it. Inside were
the myriad of dildos, clips, clamps, coiled rope, duct tape and lubricants.

Looking guiltily over her shoulder Emily grabbed a battery-operated vibrator. Shutting the lid of the toy chest she fled from the room. That night she fucked herself with the phallus, silently begging for permission to come as it took her over the edge, providing a limited but momentarily mind-numbing release.