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Authors: Christina Crooks

Rough Play (18 page)

BOOK: Rough Play
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Talia grinned. “Hiding the truth from our masters would result in severe punishment for everyone. Whereas catching an escapee will result in my master’s pleasure.” She put her fingers to her lips and blew a piercing whistle. “Wake up, girls! We have an escape attempt!”
Gail watched with trepidation as first one woman, then another rushed into the room.
Sula pressed back, against her. Gail could feel her shaking, and it deepened her protective instincts toward the girl. Sula seemed terrified. But they were just women, fellow captives. Gail addressed them all. “What is this about? Why don’t we all get out of here before the caveman comes home? Maybe tell the police so the asshole ‘masters’ can spend a good long time in jail?”
Sula whispered quickly, “Please don’t make it worse.”
The women didn’t move. Gail whispered back, “What’s wrong with them?”
“They are kajirae.”
It seemed to serve as sufficient explanation for Elizabeth, but Gail noticed two women glancing at each other uncertainly.
Gail raised her voice to its most strident, argumentative level. “You’re all stupid. You’re gonna let them beat you, rape you, break you, and brand you? You gonna let them chop you up and eat you too, maybe, if they’re in the mood? Maybe you are all better off down here, living like livestock.”
A brunette answered with heat. “They don’t eat us! You’re the one who’s stupid!”
“Oh, great. Welcome to third grade. Am I glue and you’re rubber?”
The brunette looked confused.
“This is a chance, this is your gold-plated invitation, to get the hell out of this squalid prison. Remember the real world? The one where you’re all equals in a relationship?”
“I . . .” One of the women started to step forward. Her friend held her back, whispering furiously.
Gail shook her head in disgust. “This is hopeless. We’re going into that tunnel over there. Past the women who should know better!” She gazed at them with all the scorn she could muster. “Let’s run for it,” she added in a whisper to Elizabeth.
A tiny, gasping inhale. Then Elizabeth’s slight nod. “Right.” Gail felt her muscles tensing with readiness.
“Ready? Go!”
Trying to confuse matters further, Gail shouted as she ran, “This is the way out! Follow us if you want to live like a respectable human being! This is the way to civilization!”
With the lights on, Gail could easily see and dodge both women and the furniture and equipment. One woman’s nails raked her skin, but she barely felt it.
More of the women remained frozen, and Gail dared to hope her shouts had intimidated them sufficiently to stay out of her way, and maybe even convinced others to follow: “Through the tunnel! Back to real life!”
When one shoved her, she abandoned the hope.
Determined to avoid any more encounters with Kartane, she recovered from her stumble and ran for her life.
She heard a gasp of pain behind her. They’d gotten Elizabeth. Stupid girl hadn’t run fast enough.
Not her problem.
Gail made it a few dozen steps farther down the tunnel before slowing to a stop. She cursed. That dumb teenager. That crybaby, moron, weird-talking girl.
Tortured into cooperating with her captors, all but brainwashed into being a slave girl, Elizabeth had still tried to help Gail. She’d been brave enough to climb out and open Gail’s door.
Of all the idiot things Gail had ever done in her life, going back into that slave pit of stupid slavish women, all of whom seemed to have a healthy case of Stockholm syndrome, would head the list.
Gail should go get the police. The police would rescue Elizabeth. Yeah. She took two steps forward.
Then stopped with another curse. Elizabeth had been convinced she’d be punished. Punishment meant serious pain. Or worse. The sleen thing had sounded ominous, whatever it was. Whippings hurt. They damaged. Gail’s own seeping wounds still sent fiery reminders to her nerve endings.
And then, there was that head-honcho slave girl, what was her name . . . Talia. That one was bad news. She’d probably hurt Elizabeth out of spite. She’d certainly tattle to their “owners.” Talia reminded Gail of a cruel cheerleader, the kind who wielded sex appeal and popularity with vicious glee. Then slept with half the football team.
Were the women playing some kind of crazy game? Or was it genuine slavery? If so, what made them stay when they didn’t have to?
Gail frowned, torn. She’d be leaving Elizabeth at the mercy of slavers and their slut overseer. Not to mention a bevy of brainless women who didn’t recognize a perfectly good escape opportunity when it slapped them across their collective face.
Gail turned back, angrier than ever. She walked back down the tunnel. She couldn’t, wouldn’t leave Elizabeth there alone. She had to try to convince the slave girls not to be such idiots. Maybe they’d listen.
19
“
I
’m sorry, ma’am. A dropped cell phone call is not sufficient evidence of foul play.”
Charlotte tapped her short nails against the hard plastic of her notebook. She held her cell phone—warm from lots of recent use—to her ear. The police dispatcher’s bored tone aggravated her.
Forty-eight hours, and still no word from Gail. Charlotte’s many messages to her client went unanswered. She’d talked with Kartane for hours, too. She’d asked his advice.
She found herself trusting Kartane more than she had since before their marriage went sour.
She shook her head. Who would’ve thought they’d be good friends? Closer friends than before, after their adventures at Subspace then his building two nights ago. They had common interests. She’d prefer they didn’t, and his involvement in Gorean play rankled, but she’d be dense not to recognize a certain kinship of interests.
She’d been wrong to keep him at arm’s length this past year. When she needed friendliness and advice, he was there to help.
He’d advised her to wait to call the police. Said it’d be jumping the gun, and she’d just piss off her client. Charlotte would speak to Gail again soon, he predicted.
But though Charlotte patiently waited all of yesterday and most of today, when their three-o’clock matchmaking appointment passed without Gail calling, Charlotte called the police.
“If you believe the missing individual is a threat to herself or others, you should go to the local precinct to make your report.”
The dispatcher was clearly used to fielding a variety of calls. Her blasé tone made Charlotte want to poke her with Martin’s electrical prod. “You don’t understand. If Gail missed our session completely, it means one of two things: either she’s finally found Mr. Right without my help—unlikely, believe me—or she’s possibly chopped into little pieces. Which is also pretty unlikely since she scares most guys away. See why I’m worried? Can’t you just have someone check on her? I know where she was last seen, but I don’t know where she lives.”
“Ma’am, you’re free to file a written report yourself, at which point the police department will determine if the individual is either a threat or is a vulnerable adult, for example, if she has severe mental health issues. If she is vulnerable, the person’s name will be entered into the national database. Active searches occur only when there’s some physical evidence of foul play. Do you have any?”
“No, but . . . no, I don’t.”
“Without that, there will be no active search. But you can file a report. If you have no other questions . . . ?”
Charlotte bit back a rude retort. The woman was just doing her job. “No, thanks.”
“Thank you for calling Riverport PD; have a nice day.”
Charlotte looked at the dead cell phone in her hand. “Okay.” She stabbed it off.
A moment later it rang again. The police calling back, she thought, and flipped it open immediately. “Yes?”
“Charlotte?”
Charlotte gasped. “Gail? I’ve been worried sick about you! Why didn’t you call me back? Why didn’t you pick up? After your phone went dead I went to Subspace and—”
“I can’t talk long,” Gail cut her off. There was a new, subdued tone in her voice that silenced Charlotte more effectively than Gail’s normal aggression. “I just wanted to let you know I’m, um, I’m doing fine.”
Charlotte stared straight ahead, frowning. “Are you okay? You sound”—feverish? distraught?—“a little tired.”
“That’s right. I’m tired. I had to go on a sudden trip. I’m going to be taking a break from dating for a while. It’s been a
subpar
experience anyway.”
Charlotte blinked. She felt as if she were missing something. “But you’d wanted to ratchet it up. To go on even more dates. I don’t understand. Am I doing something you don’t like? I aim to make my clients happy.”
In a flat monotone, Gail continued. “I just wanted to let you know I’m okay, so you wouldn’t worry anymore.”
In the background, Charlotte heard scuffling.
A gasp. Then Gail spoke again, her breath suddenly fast and unnatural. “I’d better go now. I’m feeling . . . very tired. Good-bye.”
A click, then silence.
Charlotte tossed the phone onto her desk. “That’s that, then.” Gail clearly had had company. Just as clearly, she hadn’t wanted to let Charlotte know it.
Gail hadn’t wanted to take a so-called break from dating, she’d just wanted a break from her professional relationship with Charlotte.
She stared at the phone. It wasn’t how she’d envisioned Gail’s call. Gail spoke her mind. She spoke her mind to a fault. She should have listed all Charlotte’s inadequacies and bragged about how she’d found a guy with whom to get naked.
Charlotte shrugged. Maybe Gail was weirdly reticent about sex. Many people were. Or perhaps Gail had finally learned a little tact.
The woman still ranked as the strangest and most difficult client Charlotte had ever had. Charlotte was doubtless better off without such a moody client.
But against her will, a moodiness of her own stole over her. Gail had sounded well-occupied. Probably having fabulous sex while kicking Charlotte to the curb at the same time.
At least she’d had the courtesy to finally return Charlotte’s phone call.
Of course, now Charlotte was client-free.
And sex-free.
She shifted in her chair, then winced. Martin had left her with a medley of lingering pains and soreness from two nights before. Her back. Her ass. Her scalp, where he’d pulled on her hair. Her whole body felt different, post-Martin. It felt alive.
Her body missed him, even if her brain didn’t.
Okay, her brain missed him too. But it shouldn’t.
Charlotte leapt to her feet. She’d get busy, clean the apartment . . . her gaze fell on the aquarium. Even with its dedicated light fixture, the cloudy water obscured her view of the fish and plants. She couldn’t even see the coral tower and the little sunken ship with its tiny treasure chest and skull.
Her aquarium, normally a thing of color, movement, and beauty, looked like a toxic pond of silt and waste.
She equipped herself with gloves, scrubbers, tongs, and scrapers and began to work. After she finally cleaned the filter and pulled off the gloves, she smiled with satisfaction at the clear view of the colorful tank inhabitants.
But what was that? Her eyes narrowed, and she reached into the tank, disturbing the poor fish again. She rooted around behind the sunken ship.
She pulled out a dripping small, slippery, flat gray stone.
She turned it over. Yes, there was the
G
.
Kartane wanted this paperweight enough to specifically ask for it months ago. It held some sort of sentimental value. When had it gotten into the tank? Probably during the chaotic move.
Charlotte shrugged, dumped the wet, slimy rock back into the tank. Ugly thing. Why Kartane wanted it so badly was beyond her.
She’d jokingly tell him she’d found his pet rock, when she confessed Gail had finally called as he’d predicted. She’d bring it over to the old house with Hoagie’s latest doggie toy that very weekend. She grinned, imagining the way her furry dog would whimper his joy and wag his tail so hard it moved his entire body back and forth. Hoagie liked his toys, and he loved seeing her. When she visited, it was almost like coming home.
Almost.
A pang of longing shot through her. How she wanted her own happily ever after, like what her clients got. To come home to a man she loved, to her own house, with Hoagie to greet her . . . the warmth and emotion of her desire shook her to her core.
It wasn’t for her, though. She had to accept she’d never find a man who’d accept her for who and what she was.
Or would she?
Unbidden, an image of Martin rose in her mind. The hot movies and the thrill of lust accompanied his image. There was the man of her movie visions. Her X-rated gift paired her with Martin.
She tried to protest. To tell her visions that man all but threw her out of Subspace.
He touched a need within her nobody else had ever been able to reach.
Her body clenched pleasurably as if in confirmation. It ached with neglect as she thought about him.
She tried not to think about him. After what they’d shared together, the man had offered her and Kartane an escort off the premises, as if they might pick pockets and snatch purses on their way out. It was beyond rude.
With his image in her mind, she couldn’t help remembering everything they’d experienced together.
She tried to think of more chores that needed doing.
The stupid movie in her mind started up whenever her attention wandered. The one starring Martin ravishing her brutally, thoroughly, deliciously. It was a dizzying emotional teeter-totter, taking her from anxiety to exhilaration.
He was bad for her, she told the visions desperately. Martin was violent. He didn’t have to
punch
Kartane!
And yet, he’d done it for her....
How perverse. More than a year after the branding trauma and finalized divorce, plenty of time to let her libido and brain reset to something resembling normal, and Charlotte found her sexuality awakened by another dominant.
A really, really good dominant. A compassionate dominant?
She’d all but begged Martin to use and abuse her. She’d craved it. Craved the depravity. Clearly she needed to keep her distance from Subspace.
“Have you wondered . . . just wondered . . . whether the fire of a slave girl burns within your belly?” Kartane had asked her while driving her home that night. She’d laughed it off, changed the subject, but inside she’d quivered.
She worried about herself.
How could she deny the truth of her body’s response? At one point she’d felt
jealous
of the ravished slave girl.
How sick was that?
The rectangle of light at her living room window darkened. Charlotte looked at it. Subspace would open soon.
Martin, the hero of her movies, the man who complemented her so well, defended her so promptly, and frightened her so profoundly, was there.
She felt feverish with want.
She had to face it. He starred in her fantasies, but he was no figment of her imagination. He was real. He was there. And she wanted him more than anything in the world.
Charlotte rose to her feet, trembling at the decision she’d just made.
As if in answer, a lightning bolt of pleasure forked through her body.
 
“He’s doing it again.”
Martin looked at Amethyst. “Who’s doing what again?” He didn’t try hard to modify his tone. Couldn’t Amethyst see he was busy?
He clutched the latest cell phone, delivered that evening through the mail slot of his locked office. The envelope had been waiting for him on the floor of his office, to be discovered after he’d opened his locked club, and that meant whoever was blackmailing him had a way into his club.
The only person he’d ever loaned a key, just the one time to cover the club while he was out sick, was Amethyst.
As if he didn’t have enough to worry about.
His mom’s sickness was holding steady, but the bills weren’t. Oh no.
No stress here, nothing better to do than gossip with Amethyst. Who may or may not still have that key to Subspace. It could’ve easily been copied.
“What?” She stared at him. “See anything green?”
He looked at the woman without a word.
She simply placed her hands on black-latex clad hips and stared at him coolly. Her dark, black-lined eyes glittered dangerously. In her tight corset and with that careless sex appeal and attitude to spare, she certainly had the part of dominatrix down pat.
He felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.
Amethyst chose to play with Ratty, even though she had a waiting list of men eager to pay her for the privilege of licking her tall leather boots. No wonder Ratty was flipping over her. If only the guy could remain content as a bottom-leaning switch instead of striving for dominance, the two of them might have something.
Martin looked up into her eyes and felt his smile wither under her glare. “I don’t know what is the matter with you lately,
Master
Martin, and I don’t care. If you don’t want to deal with that stinking scarecrow offending Subspace patrons, waving that stupid photo in everyone’s face all night, that’s your prerogative. Personally, I think it’s a mistake. One of many lately,” she muttered, turning away.
“Fine,” he snapped, placing the envelope with its phone onto his desk. He strode past her without another look.
He cut his way through the night’s bar crowd, then weaved through the goths and fetishists and adventurers and kinky tourists dancing to a remix of Ministry’s “Everyday Is Halloween.”
BOOK: Rough Play
2.44Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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