The Runaway Bride - A Captive Flame Book One (4 page)

I had no idea what to
expect from moment to moment; as if it were the most normal thing
in the world, the stranger coiled the rope around my ankles, tying
each one firmly to one of the legs of the chair I was already
thoroughly trapped in. The position spread my legs slightly, and as
the cold air brushed my inner thighs, I realized that in spite of
my fear and my desire to get away from the man in front of me, I
was soaking wet already—absolutely turned on beyond belief. I felt
the blood rush into my face as I realized the truth of it; this
bizarre circumstance was actually getting me hot, actually making
me wet, making my pussy tighten with need.

The man stood back
for a moment, looking at me from head to toe, thoroughly trapped in
the chair he’d put me in. “Very good,” he murmured lowly, dusting
his hands free of any traces of the rope. He licked his lips and
met my gaze. “Did you happen to tell me your name?” I shook my
head, my skin tingling and crawling with anticipation.

“It’s Rhonda,” I
said, almost unable to recognize my own voice as I spoke—it was
muted, soft, almost frightened. “Rhonda Klass.” I couldn’t think of
anything to say beyond that, and it occurred to me that I had no
idea—none whatsoever—of what this man was thinking he would do to
me.

“Well, Rhonda,” his
slight accent turned my name into something almost
unrecognizable—soft but firm all at once. “You’ve committed a
crime; do you think you deserve to be punished?” I started to shake
my head—but the look in his eyes told me that was entirely the
wrong answer to give. I swallowed against the tightness in my
throat.

“Y-yes?” I was
trembling all over with the uncertainty of the moment—I realized
that very few stories about women who found themselves tied to a
chair ended up very well for the woman. The stranger nodded slowly,
a faint ghost of a smile on his face.

“I have a personal
philosophy,” he said, settling in a chair nearby, holding his gaze
on me as he spoke. “It’s served me well for many years. I believe
that a successful life is full of three things: reward, punishment,
and most of all, discipline.” I felt a chill breeze across my skin
and shivered, although the ropes held me in place. The way that the
stranger said discipline gave me pause. There was a cold firmness
in his voice, a steely will underneath his words that I thought no
amount of flattery or sensuality could possibly influence. “You
admitted to me just now that you think your crime is worthy of
punishment. Therefore, I shall punish you.”

He stood and I found
myself pulling and tugging at the ropes that held me in place,
struggling against my own helplessness. The chair shifted
underneath me, but my arms and legs didn’t move—nor my shoulders. I
was so firmly tied into place that the more I struggled, the more
the ropes cut into my skin, sending waves of sharp pain through my
body. I watched as the stranger rummaged through the overhead
compartment, my fear increasing every moment—what was he going to
do to me? What had I agreed to? I had thought that if I just agreed
that I deserved to be punished, he might take mercy on me—but there
was no loss of firmness in his manner, not a single shred of pity
as he matter-of-factly searched. I heard the rustling of fabrics,
the clinking of metal, and thought of the fact that he had had a
knife handy with him on the plane—along with the rope he’d bound me
with. He could do anything at all to me in my helpless state.

In a moment he seemed
to have gathered what he wanted. The man’s lips twitched in
amusement at the sight of my struggles. “It’s a very grave crime
that you’ve committed,” he murmured. I saw what looked like a whip
in one of his hands—it was cruel-looking, with long leather straps,
all black, some of them braided—some frayed at the ends. I
shuddered at the sight of it, and the odd-looking things he held in
his other hand. I had seen him even slip a few things into his
pockets, so quickly I couldn’t make out what they had been. What
kind of man was this? What kind of torture was I about to
undergo?

The man stepped
closer to me and shifted the whip in his hands. “This is a
flogger,” he told me, holding it in front of my face. “You aren’t
the first person I’ve used it on—and it’s very effective.” I was
shaking all over, my mouth utterly dry, and my throat closing up in
fear. The man pulled the flogger away from my face and lightly
dangled the straps along my spread legs. The leather rustled
slightly as it tickled me, and I squirmed in my seat, wanting to
beg him not to go through with it but unable to form the words in
my mind to say anything at all.

I was only just
starting to get used to the subtle caress of the leather straps
against my skin when he stopped, brought the whip back towards his
shoulder, and then brought the strands down and across the skin of
my inner thighs. The flogger made a sharp, smacking splat across my
skin, sending a jolt of electric heat through my body, seemingly
straight to my pussy. I cried out—almost a yelp—and instinctively
tried to pull free of the bonds that held me to the chair. The man
shook his head slowly. “If you have already accepted that you need
to be punished, then you must submit to your punishment gracefully.
I’ll have to add three more lashes to your punishment.” I bit my
lip as he brought the flogger down against my other thigh, not
quite able to suppress the cry that came out of me, but struggling
to keep myself from trying to break free of my bindings. The man
nodded approval and brought the flogger down against me again and
again, flicking it, making the strips of leather dance across my
skin in rapid-fire bursts of pain and pleasure. He pulled the skirt
of my dress up and tugged me along the seat of the chair, spreading
my legs wider and bringing the flogger down again and again, closer
and closer to my soaking wet pussy—just barely concealed by my thin
panties.

I was whimpering and
trembling as he paused, looking down at me intently. He slipped the
handle of the flogger into his pocket, and for a moment hope and
relief washed through me—maybe he was done punishing me, I thought.
Instead, he reached out and grabbed at the front of my dress,
tugging it sharply down over my full breasts. He reached out and
grabbed for the knife, shaking his head, and sharp fear jolted
through me—for an instant I was certain he was going to kill me.
“You’re not particularly attached to this dress, are you, Rhonda?”
I pressed my lips together, whimpering slightly as I shook my head.
The stranger smirked and gathered up the material at the bottom,
where he’d hacked off the skirt. He slipped the knife underneath,
barely brushing against my burning skin, and then drew it up along
the fabric.

I winced as I heard
the tearing, ripping sound of the knife cutting through the cloth.
He pulled the knife up, splitting the dress right up the middle,
the tip of the keen, sharp blade barely grazing the skin of my
abdomen, my chest. I was absolutely still, gripping the arms of the
chair, trying not to breathe. A low whining sound left my throat
through my pressed-together lips as the man finished his
destruction of my wedding dress, putting the knife down and peeling
it back, leaving me almost completely exposed. He pulled my
strapless bra down, and I shivered—the air on the plane was so
cold, and my body was so hot, that it sent a shock through me to be
so exposed to a man I didn’t even know. He stared at me for a long
moment and briefly—so quickly I thought the next instant I might
have imagined it—something flitted through his eyes. He pulled the
flogger out of his pocket and I started shaking my head, too
frightened to even form words, incapable of more than a faintly
panicked whimper.

The flick of his
wrist sent the tendrils of the flogger against the skin of my
breasts and I cried out, twisting in the seat. In spite of the hot,
sharp pain, I was shocked at the fact that I felt myself getting
wetter, my pussy tightening as I sat there, tensed against the next
blow. The stranger took his time, landing blows across each of my
breasts, flicking the flogger against me just hard enough to
hurt—but not hard enough to bruise or break my tender skin. My
nipples hardened into firm little nubs, aching and throbbing; my
pussy was soaking wet—absolutely drenching through my panties in
spite of my fear, and my skin tingled everywhere—burning up where
the flogger had landed its blows against me, along my thighs and
across my breasts. The stranger stood back to admire his handiwork.
I was panting, shaking and trembling, shocked at how much I was
enjoying what he was doing to me, by how turned on I was at
everything that was happening.

He reached into his
pocket and I heard faint metallic clinking. I shook my head—not to
defy him but to try and clear it; it was filled with a hum, a low
buzzing kind of sensation, my scalp crackling with the electricity
of too much sensation already. The man dangled something in front
of my face: there were two clips, the ends capped in black rubber,
but the rest of them shining metal, dangling from a chain. “How
sensitive are your nipples?” he asked me. I opened my mouth but
nothing came out as a kind of low dread filled my mind. The man
reached out and took one of my nipples between his fingers,
twisting and rolling it, and I cried out—my breasts were already so
sensitive, already burning up from the flogging they’d received.
The man smiled slightly. “Sensitive enough, I see.” I bit my lip
hard as he brought one of the clips up to my breast. He opened it
up, and I whimpered, ceaselessly, in spite of how hard I was biting
my lip to keep quiet, determined not to give him the satisfaction
of begging him to stop.

The clip closed
around my nipple and the sound that wrenched out of me barely
sounded human. The clamping of the rubber ends around my sensitive
flesh sent a hot, electric shockwave through my body, straight to
my pussy. Before I could even adjust to the sensation, the stranger
was twisting my other nipple, making it hard before he closed the
other clip onto it. My head fell forward; I was panting, a low moan
leaving my lips. I couldn’t believe how utterly turned on I was. My
body didn’t even feel like it was my own—it felt as though I was
completely under the man’s control, that I was completely at his
mercy. It was a feeling I had never experienced in my life—the
feeling of not being in charge of my own destiny, not even in
charge of my own body.

He lifted my head and
held my gaze for a long moment. “I don’t think you’ve been punished
sufficiently, do you?” I stared up at him, unable to respond; it
was as if my brain had frozen, as if I couldn’t do anything but
react to everything that was happening to me. The man raised an
eyebrow.

“N-n-no,” I
stammered, my voice high and thin, softer than I could remember it
ever sounding in my ears. He smiled again.

“Are you ready for
the next phase of your punishment?” His hand was gripping my hair
tightly. I nodded, unable to speak, and the hold he had on my hair
made it pull tightly against my scalp, sending a fresh wave of pain
through me. The man tilted my head back slightly and let go of me.
The clips on my nipples were sending wave after wave of hot agony
through my body, making it impossible for me to think. The man
reached into his pocket once more.

I almost screamed at
the first lash of the flogger against my breasts once more; I
shook, and the instinctive movement of my body made the clips on my
nipples shake, sending an echo of the pain from the flogger through
me. The man plied the flogger against me again and again,
occasionally shifting down to my inner thighs, and then back up to
my breasts. He even carefully brought it up against my aching,
soaking pussy, striking my sensitive skin through the thin fabric
of my panties. I thought that no parts of my body could possibly
exist except the parts he attacked; my arms had gone numb, my legs
into a tingling kind of stupor everywhere but along my burning
inner thighs. I could feel the ropes biting into my skin, feel the
heat where the flogger had landed over and over again, and I could
even feel the burning cold of the clamps on my nipples—but
everything else was remote, even my mind.

The man stopped
suddenly, stepping back from me and watching me as I shook and
trembled, panting and whimpering. I felt needy without knowing
exactly what it was that I needed—felt utterly and completely
turned on, on fire with arousal, but I couldn’t form words,
couldn’t think. Every ability to even understand what was happening
to my body, inside of my body, was gone from me. I felt like a
mindless animal, completely helpless and at this man’s mercy. I
couldn’t possibly say no to anything he wanted to do. He was
watching me carefully as I panted and gasped. The man reached down
and I moaned out, long and low, as his fingers pressed against my
pussy, rubbing me slowly through the thin fabric of my panties.

The man rubbed me
slowly, up and down, and my hips shifted against the chair, my body
trying to push down, to get better contact with his touch. He
teased me relentlessly, stroking right up to the outside of my
clit, just barely not touching my pleasure center before he
retreated once more. I was once more making low, animal sounds,
unable to restrain myself, trying desperately to twist and writhe
into his touch. Every trace of pain in my body was secondary to my
need for relief. The man withdrew his fingers abruptly, leaving me
trembling and panting, staring at him in my own urgent, desperate
need. “Do you understand why you’ve been punished?” he asked me,
holding my gaze in his. I pressed my lips together, trying to slow
my breathing, trying to summon the ability and the will to actually
think. The man reached out and squeezed one of my breasts, sending
a fresh wave of agony and pleasure through my body, making the
inner walls of my pussy tighten.