EXTRACT FOR
Captured Fancy
(Alexander Kelly)
Chapter One
Simone Jones
Los Angeles. Summer. My office baked like an
oven while an ancient, dented fan spun on my desk. Occasional dips into a
half-empty bottle of booze quenched my thirst like a cup of sand. I stared out from the open fourth floor
window and squinted against the white washed concrete glare. It didn't pretend
to be anything else but light and heat, unlike the people I dealt with in my
previous job. Most folks want simple in their professions. Not me. I created
intricate fantasies for people, and I loved it. Everything was great, until I
got blackballed and was forced into getting the goods on cheating spouses just
to put bread on the table. The hours and the clients stank, and I wanted my old
life back. But little did I know the complicated, torturously dangerous path I
would take. She
didn't even knock on the office's half-glass frosted door with my stenciled
professional name and occupation. Just strutted right in with a body that would
set any man on fire and so glacial a manner that the temp fell twenty degrees. A
retro fifties style "Good afternoon, Mr. Hawk. If that is your
real name? Garrett Hawk?" "A sobriquet from my previous lamented career." "I'm glad you continue to use it. It's how I
found you. Or how my friends said I could find you. They said you were reliable
and discreet once." My lips curled, remembering the past
injustice. "I still am." "In spite of your current reputation, that's
what they said too." "They?" I said. "And they are?" "People. People we both know. They highly
recommend you. Said you wouldn't disappoint." "Nice to have fans. I'm sure they have names
too. Like you?" She slid around and sat on the edge of my
desk, right next to me. Smooth, graceful. She crossed a pair of shapely legs,
slow and provocative, stubbed out her cigarette and removed another from a gold
case. "Jones. Simone Jones." Of course. How many times had I heard that
last name. "All right, Jonesey. What's on your
mind?" "I have a job for you. You'll be handsomely
compensated. And no questions asked." "A job. Well, that's what I'm in business for.
But I do have one question: What's the job?" Her lips parted, just enough to accept her
unlit cigarette. I grabbed my lighter and torched it. Who did she want me to
follow and photograph? A wandering husband? His mistress? Or maybe it was a
muscle job? Lean on someone to "quietly" leave town? Other possibilities ran
through my head, all of them depressing. She took a long drag, then held her
cig up to one side with her other arm folded under those generous, well-shaped
breasts. Her eyes narrowed and those ice-blues stabbed me like a knife. "I want you to kidnap me." My lighter lid closed with a snap. I said, "Sure." * * * In my previous life I would take precautions,
like check out the client, make sure they were giving me the straight scoop,
then negotiate boundaries on what they wanted done versus what I was willing to
enact. All nice, proper, legal and safe. But the money Ms. Simone Jones plunked
down on my desk bought my total cooperation. No questions asked and so I didn't.
The wad reminded me of how I used to call the shots with the photographers, the
models, and the occasional thrill seeker who wanted a bit of safe danger in her
love life. But it had been two years since word got out that I couldn't be
trusted with a tied up woman. Overnight I had gone from the best rigger in the
business to persona non grata. Photographers had stopped calling, models
that I had never worked with spread rumors about me and private clients dropped
me like a bad habit. Not that anyone ever called to get my side of the story; I
was a man who tied up women for a living, so if anyone said anything bad about
me it had to be true. Right? And now a chance to get back in the game just
waltzed through my door. I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. I
wanted this. Bad. So I pocketed the money and kept my mouth shut without
telling Ms. Jones I would have tied her up for free. Hey, when a beautiful
woman asks you to kidnap her, who are you to say no? So after arrangements were
made, or rather dictated by Ms. Jones, I dug out the ropes, choose the gag and
blindfold and drove my SUV to the appropriate place, but at a time of my choosing. I dimmed the headlights, swung left across
the narrow, twisting blacktop, cut the engine and coasted to a stop on a
downward slope of a dirt road. To the right and below, about fifty yards away,
was the cabin. I say "cabin" but it was large enough for a
regular house, although to someone of Simone Jones's means it would be
considered just "a little place" in the mountains. It was two stories, lower
part made of stone, upper of logs, with a wide deck above the patio just off
the master bedroom at one end. Tall pine trees that surrounded it insured
privacy from the prying eyes of the curious. Or a kidnap stalker, like me. I
grabbed my "kit" and jumped down from the cab, using the cabin's lights as a
beacon to navigate through the dark growth. A wealth of stars twinkled overhead, no
longer competing with the city lights and foul smog. Fallen pine needles
underfoot with their resin scent filled the night air and I took care to make
as little noise as possible. There wasn't any real need for sneakiness on my
part, Simone knew I was coming, but if the client spots the "kidnapper" too
soon the fantasy is ruined. Simone said she would be on the watch and if she
saw me before the kidnap then she would demand a refund. So I dressed all in
black, including my ski mask and satchel tool kit that held the ropes, gags and
other things. She wanted a real kidnap and, with the money she threw around,
she would get it. I
crouched behind a tree about fifty feet from the back of the cabin and pulled
out my binoculars. A distinctly feminine shape moved behind almost sheer
curtains from what appeared to be the couch to the kitchen, then back to the
couch that faced the loud TV set. Yep, it was her all right. I bided my time
and soon enough the television was turned off and the lights downstairs went
out one by one. But instead of going up to bed, she stepped through the sliding
glass doors onto the covered patio. My old army ranger training took over and I
flattened behind the tree. There she was, sipping what looked like a glass of
milk, most likely warm to help her get past any jitters and let her sleep,
while her eyes swept first away, then toward me. I held my breath, sure that
despite the night and my dark clothes she saw me. But her head turned past me
as she sauntered around, barefoot, in a short, loose pink silk bathrobe, her
long hair all about her shoulders. She seemed softer now than at my office,
less removed and cold while she stood there in the night, ready to take a leap
that maybe she wasn't too sure about anymore. Vulnerable and fragile. I
could have rushed her then, snuck up behind and grabbed her, but that wasn't my
plan. Through roundabout questioning that day in my office I determined she
usually read in bed before lights out. Also, I implied that once she was
upstairs each night I wouldn't be coming and she would have to wait until at
least another night, but of course, that was a lie. Taking her in the bedroom
after she was asleep was the best time. After a few minutes of her strolling
about, I think I caught something of a sigh from Simone; she drained the last
of her drink then went back inside. The sliding door scraped shut with a
definite click. Nope, she probably thought, not tonight. This was her third night
up here and her insides were most likely twisted in nervous knots. Moments
later a dim light snapped on upstairs, but that also went out soon enough. I
waited another hour, long enough for her to fall asleep and checked my kit one
last time. Then I froze. Maybe it was nerves and the fact I hadn't done this in
such a long time that I was afraid I had lost my edge. But then an owl hooted,
right above me, and its night call spurred me into action. The bottom of the upper deck was ten feet
high and, from a crouch, I managed to jump up and grab the lower part of the
guardrail that ran across the edge. I thanked myself again for staying in shape
as I swung my legs like a pendulum and landed my sneakers on the ledge. Stretched
out, hanging by my finger and toenails, I managed to grip the balusters and
pull myself up and over the handrail. Down in a crouch, I scurried to the deck
door. Picking the lock was simple. A tiny night light in an adjoining bathroom
cast a pale glow across the foot of the bed and faded to black just below her
shoulders. She lay on her side, facing away from the light, one arm crooked on
top of a white coverlet that rose and fell in time with her even breaths. From
what little I could see, her face was warm and serene, a definite change from
the cold, almost angry attitude at my office. If I hadn't known better, I'd say
she had undergone a major change. I had seen such changes before; in slaves who
flew in subspace, that sweet spot of heightened consciousness, and in some unjaded models who didn't understand what was happening to
them, but never before on a woman without a rope on her, much less asleep. I shook my head and got back to work. I
reached inside my satchel and found the wadding for her mouth. I stepped
forward on the wooden floor...and the board creaked. Loudly. She stirred, rolled onto her back. Her eyes
opened to slits, then on seeing me flew wide. The mouth opened too, ready to
scream. I jumped the remaining distance, sprawled on
top of her and shoved the wadding in the mouth. Her eyes bulged and she
whimpered in the back of her throat. Then, in a sudden fury she tried to push
me off but I squatted on top, above her waist and used my legs to pin her arms
at her sides. But she still fought. I grabbed her throat. "Hold still," I rasped. She twisted out of my grip. Her eyes blazed. This
wasn't going well. I needed to assert control, so I grabbed a bunch of her hair
and wrenched her face back to me. I raised my hand and bluffed that I would
give her a good backhand across the chin. She got the message and went very
still. I had never struck a woman like that before, but if necessary she had
given me the green light back in my office. "Do what you need to do," she had said. "Make
it feel real." "And how far is that?" I asked. "I won't go quietly. Go as far as you'd like."
Her hand slid inside her skirt and back up between her legs. "Whatever feels
natural." Simone Jones had paid for a kidnapping and
she was going to get her money's worth and, I suddenly decided, a little bonus.
Something natural. I worked fast. I pulled down the covers,
flipped her over to her stomach and wound rope around the side by side wrists,
then looped the end of it between them to cinch the whole thing down. I treated
her elbows the same way until they nearly touched, then flipped her back around
on her arms. Her hair fell across her face while her eyes bulged once more, a
close match to her breasts that fairly strained to bust out from her nightie. One
hand still in her hair I used my teeth to pull off a glove and slid my bare
hand down between her legs. Holy shit, was she wet! A virtual river! Her
silk panties were soaked. I ripped them off, waved them under her nose, then
shoved them deep in her mouth under the first wadding, right on the tongue so
she could taste them. They weren't enough so I forced more wadding inside, and
then more until the cheeks ballooned while I wrapped dark red gauze around her
head. Then I ripped the nightie apart and those ripe, full breasts pointed
right up at me. I dove down to bite, lick, and suck those delicious mounds. Her
moans filled the room, one of pleasure mixed with pain and I knew I had her. I
took off my other glove, unzipped my pants and my cock sprang out, full and
erect, its purple head engorged. I pushed her shapely, strong legs aside and
speared her. |