ABDUCTION
erotica with D/s elements
by
Vixen Bright and Zachary Zane
Part 1
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.”
****
We'd love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us at writingteamcw@yahoo.com (Write - Blog - in subject line) and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.
Angelica Hart and Zi KILLER DOLLS ~ SNAKE DANCE ~
CHASING YESTERDAY CHRISTMAS EVE...VIL ~ Christmas 2012
http://www.champagnebooks.com/
Vixen Bright and Zachary Zane STEEL EMBRACE
BOOK NOOKIE-A LIBRARIAN'S BUIDE TO THE DO-ME DECIMAL SYSTEM
http://www.carnalpassions.com/
THE FABLE OF SIN-SIN CINDERELLA Series
angelicahartandzi.com
COMING DECEMBER 2012
No comments:
Post a Comment