Trapped

TRAPPED

By Cassie Black

Also by Cassie Black:

The Wild Gene

Wild Ones

Copyright 2013 by Cassie Black

"First I'll tell you what I'm not going to do to you," said the man sitting opposite Jo with a faint smile, though his grey eyes under his dark brows were deadly serious. Still, from his tone you would think he was discussing the weather. Jo said nothing, just watched his face for signs of hesitation, anything that would make this whole situation less threatening. It was a pointless exercise she knew. Everything that had led up to this moment, here, implied a very real threat.

They were sitting in a penthouse apartment. His, apparently. It was all modern furniture and white walls and technology. It even had an automated door that had been set to open at 08h00 tomorrow, and not a second sooner, she'd been informed. Until then she was trapped here, in this stark apartment, with this calm maniac sitting opposite her across this excessively polished wooden floor.

It had taken her a few minutes to realise the gravity of what had happened earlier that evening when she had woken up lying on a couch shaped like an enormous black bean. Her head had throbbed and she had felt nauseated and disorientated. An after effect of the drugs she had been fed by the woman who had brought her a coffee as she had sat waiting for her taxi to arrive, she assumed. She had endured a dull and interminable business meeting that her boss had insisted she attend at Medor Holdings this morning, and she was supremely grateful that it was over. A bunch of overweight old men discussing the remote possibility of a merger ad nauseam. As if they could do anything about it if Medor decided to take over the company. Ha, that thought was laughable.

She drank the strong bitter coffee, and climbed into her taxi when it arrived, and that was all she remembered until she had woken up in this apartment. The maniac had been watching her sleep from an armchair, and when she woke and sat up, her head swimming, he had explained things to her.

This apartment is soundproofed, he had said. The window glass is unbreakable. The door is steel lined and locked until 08h00 tomorrow. He had watched her reactions. Incredulity initially. Then confusion. Finally a deep unease.

"Why?" she had asked.

"No means no, dickhead," he said obscurely, but she had understood immediately. That goddamn video of her had become an internet sensation almost overnight. Jo had never understood why someone would record what was intended to be a sexual assault, and then when it turned out to be something completely different, post it on the internet. It was madness.

She had watched the video a couple of times, seen the man approach her from behind as she walked down a street. He'd grabbed her by her hair and shoved her up against a brick wall. She'd seen her expression change from surprise to anger as he had pressed his body against hers, grinding his hips suggestively against her backside. She'd used her hands to push herself off the wall in one violent and unexpected movement, and had used the momentum this generated to swing around and smash his nose against his face with her elbow. Blood had spattered everywhere, some had even landed on the camera lens. Seriously, you couldn't make this up.

Her assailant had collapsed to the floor, clutching his battered nose, and she had tilted her head and eyed him coldly.

"No means no, dickhead," she had said flatly.

And that was it. Jo had never understood why it had become so popular. Gone viral, was the term, apparently. She had read a few of the comments posted by random strangers who had detailed exactly what they wanted to do to her. Some of them were pretty inventive, but nothing like this. No, this was in a league of its own.

"I'm not going to hit you," the man opposite her continued as if reciting from a list. "I'm not going to tear you or make you bleed. " He paused. "I'm not going to record this in any way."

"That's reassuring," she said sarcastically.

"It should be," he said expressionlessly, his eyes watching her steadily.

"I'm not going to use a condom," he continued. "Ordinarily, I would. But I want to feel your wetness on my cock tonight. I want you to smell like you've been fucked when you walk out of that door in the morning. I want to see my semen running down your legs."

Jo stared at him. She couldn't understand why this man, who was admittedly painfully good-looking and well spoken and affluent, would go to such lengths to do something like this. From the looks of things he could have any woman he wanted, any time. It made no sense at all. Another thing that was making no sense was her body's reaction to his words.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, shifting her position on the couch.

He said nothing, just gazed at her.

"I'll go to the police," she told him, trying another tack. That was a big fat lie. She knew several of the police officers in the city, and had no reason to trust them. Especially since they had wanted to press charges against her for assault after that stupid video.

"I wouldn't recommend that," he said calmly. "There are several witnesses who will testify that we dined together tonight, and that you came up to my apartment willingly. Very willingly. I have the means to buy the best lawyers, most of the police in this city, and the occasional judge. You would fail. Spectacularly."

She said nothing. It was hard to refute that.

"I should tell you now what I am going to do, but I expect that you have a reasonable idea of my intentions. Apart from one thing I feel I should mention. I will make you climax, over and over, whether you want to or not. I have a certain skill in that area which you will learn to appreciate, one way or another."

"What is the time?" Jo asked then, trying to ignore everything that smooth, cultured voice had just said, and the rising excitement in the lower half of her body.

"Nine thirty pm," he said as he stood. "I would offer you a drink, but I want you to be fully conscious of everything I am about to do to you."

"Wait," she said, holding her hand up, palm outwards toward him. She needed to think this through.

Jo eyed him from her position on the bean couch. He was tall, with broad shoulders, and he appeared to be in excellent shape. Expensive gym, probably. His mouth curved in a sardonic half smile as he watched her register his size.

He's big, she thought. Too big for me to be able to stop him from doing what he's going to do. I could get a few lucky blows in, but none that would really hurt, none that could do any actual damage.

He's really very good-looking. Black eyebrows and eyelashes that framed those clear grey eyes. Thick black hair. Slightly beaked nose. Generous mouth. In any other scenario she would be only too eager to screw this man. But in this one he had removed her choice, made her a helpless victim.

She tilted her head to one side, and considered him as she wondered how to eradicate that helpless feeling. It was one that she was unfamiliar with, and she didn't like it at all. Her incisive mind had earned her one of the top spots in her company, and she used it now to deconstruct and analyse this rather unique situation.

The helplessness originated from the absence of choice. Had she chosen, she would very much have enjoyed the activities that this man promised. This may not have been every woman's fantasy, but it could easily have been designed specifically for her. And then she saw the solution to this dilemma.

She would choose. She would choose to participate in this, instead of having it inflicted on her. She would hurt him if she could, and she would fight him off as best she could, because that was part of the game she was designing in her mind, but she would enjoy fucking this man.

She grinned at him, and lowered her hand.

"Bring it on, dickhead," she said flatly.

Jo had walked out of that automated door at 08h15 the following morning. Fifteen minutes and a whole night too late. Her legs had been unsteady, and her body had ached, and, yes, she had definitely smelled like she had been fucked. But she had survived the whole experience, and thanks to some innovative thinking, she had been able to feel like less of a victim than the situation had dictated. Especially when she had managed to give him a black eye. And that bite on his shoulder had bled quite a lot and might get nice and infected. One could only hope.

He had been gone when the alarm had gone off at eight, and she had spent some time trying to find all her clothes, and make herself look vaguely presentable.

She had ridden the lifts down to the ground floor, and walked across the familiar polished marble to the glass doors of the Medor building. That was a surprise. But what was even more surprising was how the woman who had brought her coffee yesterday approached her cautiously, offering to order a car to take her home. Jo looked at her through narrowed eyes, noting the guilt under the professional facade.

"Fuck off, bitch," she said in a low voice and walked straight past the woman and through the massive glass revolving door and into the weak sunshine outside. She hesitated on the pavement for a few seconds, wondering how she was going to get home. Her bag with her mobile phone and purse had disappeared somewhere between her taxi ride and waking up in a sealed apartment with a nutcase. She stood frowning in yesterday's work clothes, crumpled and dishevelled, as a sleek dark car pulled up in front of her. A man in a chauffer's uniform climbed out of the driver's seat, and unlocked the back door of the car, holding it open invitingly. Jo looked around her, puzzled, for the person for whom this lift was intended. There was no one else around, so she looked back at the chauffeur, who was staring straight at her. He indicated with an inclination of his head that she should climb in the back seat. She raised her eyebrows sceptically, and then she turned and started walking in the general direction of her apartment. It would take her at least half an hour to get home, and her shoes were designed more for appearance than actual walking, but she had developed a deep distrust of taxis and chauffeured cars of any description.

She was just wondering how she was going to get into her apartment when the sleek car pulled up alongside her, driving slowly enough to keep pace with her. The front passenger window was down, and a voice called out from the interior.

"Miss, please. Let me take you home. The boss is going to go mental if I don't."

Ha, if only he knew. His boss was already about as mental as they got, she thought sourly. He'd broken through the insanity barrier and was accelerating out the other end.

"No thanks," she said shortly as she continued walking.

"Please miss," the voice became a bit more frantic. "I have your stuff here."

Jo stopped walking then, and rounded on the car in fury.

"What?" she demanded angrily. "Where the hell did you get it?"

"The taxi driver, miss, he handed it in when you passed out in the back of his car. The boss said I was to drive you home and make sure you got your handbag."

Jo considered this. "Fine," she capitulated, her feet already aching. "Take me home."

The chauffeur hopped out of the car, and opened the door for her, closing it behind her as she collapsed in an exhausted heap on the luxurious leather seat. The chauffeur handed her her bag, and slid into the front seat, pulling off smoothly into the sparse traffic. Saturday morning, she recalled. Well, at least she wouldn't have to worry about being late for work.

The drive home took all of five minutes, and was accomplished in silence. She opened the door and climbed out of the car, gave the chauffeur a brief wave, and walked into the lobby of her apartment building.

She sighed with relief as she unlocked her apartment and stepped inside, kicking off her shoes. She stripped off all her clothes and left them lying in an untidy heap in the bathroom, and she stepped under a blistering hot shower, letting the heat and water massage her aching muscles for a few minutes before she systematically washed every trace of the night from her body. Twice.

Then she stood, her wet hair falling in untidy curls around her shoulders and stared in the mirror, surveying the damage.

She looked tired. There were dark circles under her eyes, which were only emphasised by the creamy pallor of her skin. There were a couple of finger sized bruises on her neck where he had choked her to get her to release the tearing flesh of his shoulder from between her clenched teeth. Her nipples were pink and swollen, and throbbed slightly from all the attention they had received last night. There were more finger shaped bruises circling her wrists, and grazes along the knuckles of her right hand where she had managed to deliver a well timed jab to his left eye. She flexed her fingers experimentally, and decided that there were no fractures. Good.

There were more finger shaped bruises along her inner thighs, and a couple of what looked like bite marks. The tissues between her legs were swollen and red, but not overly painful.

All in all, it could have been a lot worse.

Funny, though, that she'd ended up in the penthouse of Medor Holdings. She had had no idea that anyone had even lived there. She wondered if she should Google it, but decided against it. Knowing the name of her abductor was going to make absolutely no difference to her life at all. The best thing she could do now was to dismiss the whole thing. Or categorise it all as a learning experience. Never drink coffee offered by anyone other than a barista. And no matter what her boss said, the rumblings that had surfaced about a takeover from Medor were nothing but that. There could be no benefit for such a massive pharmaceutical company in taking over a small speculative outfit like theirs, and she knew that it was really all a load of theoretical 'what if' nonsense. So it would be easy to avoid having anything to do with Medor and the crazed man in the penthouse ever again.