WRITERS WRITE...WRITING PARTNERS FEUD ~ ABDUCTION SHORT STORY 1 OF 5
erotica with D/s elements
Vixen Bright and Zachary Zane
I woke to darkness. Not the darkness of night for there was a sense of twilight tumbling about me. The darkness came from a soft blindfold that covered my eyes. Yet the total darkness sharpened other senses. I could hear the lyrical sound of the ocean and smell the salty tang of its air. I could even feel a sweet breeze caress my flesh. It was then that I realized that nothing more then a wispy wedge of cloth stood between my bare skin and the breeze. The cloth felt like silk, cascading over my breasts and fluttering just beneath my buttock. On the wings of that revelation, I became aware of my inability to move. My body had been stretched out like an X. Wrists were cuffed and pulled in opposite directions. My ankles suffered an identical predicament. Only, whereas my wrists seemed anchored by chains, my ankles were secured to the floor with my toes barely touching and my thighs spread so wide, I could feel an ache crawl along the inner flesh.
I tried to clear the sleep from my mind. It persistently stayed as if I had been given something to keep me compliant. Still, I managed to secure my last memory. I remembered walking across the courtyard toward my car after a day’s work at the convent. I loved working for the nuns. Unlike school memories of tough monarchs with wooden paddles, the sisters at the motherhouse were warm and caring. I was the only lay person, hired to unravels the mysteries of various software and re –write it as step- by-step instructional booklets. The days wove in and out of each other and nothing unusual ever occurred. I found the nunnery to be a safe haven. I didn’t have to pretend there, and no one cared if I were shy or assertive.
Earlier on this particular day, though, a craftsman had appeared in my office. Over one hundred and fifty-years-old the motherhouse often required a carpenter. This time, it was to replace the window-seat below the triple arched windows that stared into the very courtyard that logged my last memories before finding myself bound. The carpenter was there before I had arrived and seeing such maleness in this haven startled me even though I knew Chase McCain was to be here. I said nothing but a proficient good morning.
He didn’t respond with words. Instead, he straightened; startling, perceptive eyes took me in an inch at a time from the tips of low-heeled shoes to the pixie-crop of mussed hair and every curve, dip and swell that resided beneath a very practical pants suit. The gaze was potent, intoxicating. The type that made one feel vulnerable and my own gaze fell for a moment. I hated when that happened, when taken off guard. I wasn’t an assertive person, but I didn’t want anyone to know it and I often faked it quite adequately. Finally, I lifted my gaze, daring him to be so bold again. A grin appeared and an abrupt nod as if I had tossed down a gauntlet and he was more than happy to pick it up.
All day, I felt his gaze, taking me in, calculating my movements, measuring me up one side and down the other. At one point, I took off my impossibly large glasses, the tinted ones, the ones I hide my emotions behind. I rubbed away fatigue and looked up at the man busy with his work. I couldn’t help but admire the length of him. He wasn’t one of those slimy sticks that would make my blood run cold. He had bulk and height. I could feel safe with such as he. I could fall into the powerful embrace and known I was home. Not that I needed that, nor did I want it. I was self-sufficient and preferred an afternoon in a museum or a stroll through the park alone, rather than with an alpha male. On the rare, occasional date, I choose boring and easy over bulk and brawn . This man was altogether too macho, a regular thug, I assured myself. At just that moment, the man glanced my way. Our gazes clashed and I swore he understood my every thought from my vulnerability to my appraisal.
“You have a name,” he asked, his granite-gray eyes not breaking from mine.
I didn’t wish to respond, but it seemed rude not to. “Giacinta Farfalla,”
An unexpected gentleness spread across his rugged face. “A young beautiful butterfly.”
My mouth gapped open. Few people knew the interpretation of my name! “You speak Italian?”
“Some. My Bisnonna was Italian. She lived with us. It was very much a generational home.”
I smiled despite my determination to remain cold and unapproachable. “My great-grandmother lived with us as well. Many oppose generational living, and it can sometimes cause an argumentative sort of household, but I miss it.”
“You should smile more often, Gia, it’s lovely. And cool the hard-ass routine. It doesn’t become you.”
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