Authors: Harper Cole
I was perturbed about my growing feelings for Jasmine. At first I'd just wanted to have a brief liaison with her. Then I'd wanted to develop a more specific sexual relationship.
Now I was thinking even more deeply about her. I wanted to know about
, not just her body, and that was causing me some concern.
I had never wanted a committed relationship - not the way the wider world pictured a "committed relationship" anyway. That kind of future was anathema to me. I was worried that I'd end up like my parents, living glass-fragile delicate lives separately yet together, individuals caught up in a tentative dance. My father was a bully and a womanizer, and my mother was in and out of therapy and the gin bottle. Yet they stayed married, even though everyone in the high society that they mingled in knew exactly what was going on.
I was many things, but I was not my father, and I never would be.
Yet still I wanted to have Jas, and own her, and contain her - but then I'd destroy exactly what I admired about her. I wanted to have the essence of her - which was independence. Jasmine was about
being owned, and I wanted to capture that.
The pain of the beautiful paradox,
She followed my thoughts all day and as Sunday evening rolled around, I decided to phone her.
She picked up right away, and I gave her no room to wriggle: as soon as she answered, I said, "Take off your clothes."
She didn't answer straight away. I knew I'd made it clear that this was a sexual situation and I was throbbing with anticipation already. Would she fight me?
"Yes, sir," she said at last. "One moment."
I heard a slithering sound and a fuzz of static as she had to put the handset down briefly. Then she said, "Okay, right. I'm … uh, naked. How about you?"
"It doesn't matter about me. This is about
Are your curtains open?"
"The drapes? No, it's dark out."
I heard them swish. I hoped she was telling the truth, not trying to trick me. "There you go. Okay, so, where do you want me?" There was a nervous laugh in her voice.
"Have you ever had phone sex before?" I asked her.
"Did I ever - oh, no I did not. This is kinda new to me. I have a webcam-"
"That won't be necessary. Go to your sofa and lie down."
"My - oh, right."
"Sofa, couch, whatever you say."
"Okay. I'm lying down. Do I just wait for you to tell me what to do…?"
I couldn't help smiling. At a distance, like this, she seemed so much more innocent and vulnerable. I wondered why. In person, I was sure she'd be as abrasive and challenging as usual. Now, it seemed she was well out of her comfort zone.
And how much of her day to day aggression was an act?
Oh, she was the perfect little project. My cock hardened and I unzipped myself to free it. "I'm rock hard," I told her. "I'm thinking about your wet pussy. Touch yourself. Spread your cunt lips open. Are you wet for me, yet?"
I didn't imagine she would be, not as instantly as I could get hard, but she said, "I'm getting wet, yes, sir."
"Put a finger inside yourself."
"Two fingers. Spread them apart. Now pull them out. What do you taste like? Let me hear you suck your fingers."
She made it obvious that her fingers were in her mouth and I heard the wet sound of her lips. "I'm … I dunno," she said, laughing. "I don't know how to describe that."
"Touch your nipples. Squeeze them. Imagine I'm sucking on them. I'm biting them." As I spoke, I remembered the way her perfect red nubs would harden and extend. My free hand was wrapped around my cock now, as her breasts bounced in my mind. I would have to make a video. Yes, that would be my next project. A video of her masturbating.
"I'm pinching them." Her voice was getting low and breathy, and I could see her in my imagination, one hand clutching her breast, her fingers sinking into the flesh.
"Stroke your clit."
"Remember how I didn't let you cum last night? You were so wet. So ready. You wanted me inside you, didn't you? You sucked on my cock like you were hungry for it. What about now? Are you hungry for me, now?"
"Oh God, yes, sir, I am. I'm wet…" Her sentences were choppy now, broken up as she had to juggle my orders, and speaking to me. "I wanted you. I want you now."
"Did you bring yourself off last night?"
"No, sir, I did not."
I was impressed. I would have expected her to do that. "Well done. You're only to cum for me, now. Can you do that?"
"Yes, sir," she said, too quickly, not thinking it over. Too hasty. She might regret that acquiescence.
"Push your fingers inside. How many fingers do you have inside your wet pussy?"
"Three … sir."
"You can. I want your hand inside you, filling in. I know you're flexible … you can do this."
I wasn't totally sure if she could reach down and bend her hand back enough, but I needed her to try.
"Four, sir," she gasped.
I would let her leave it at that. "Well done. Fuck yourself. Fuck yourself hard. I know what you must look like, right now, your wet pussy pink and stretched around your hand, your breasts heaving, your skin glistening. I'm pulling on my cock. I'm going to shoot my load while I listen to you make yourself cum …"
"Fuck yourself harder!" My own breath was ragged now as I stroked up and down my shaft. I remembered how she'd sucked me; how she'd let me fuck her face. Now she was naked and masturbating for me. The power rushed through me and I felt my balls tighten. "I need to hear you," I groaned.
"Yes - oh God…" She was panting and her voice was indistinct. She was clearly struggling to hold the phone to her ear as she fisted herself and the knowledge that she was losing control turned me on even more. I was close to cumming.
"Scream it!" I demanded as my own cock finally jerked in my palm and my body tensed as the thick ropes of cum shot out.
"God! Sir!" she was saying, over and over, and I heard her moan and cry and stifle a yell.
"Now lick your hand clean," I said, still struggling for breath, as every part of my lower body tingled with release. I'd unleashed such a torrent of cum that I'd caught myself by surprise; I'd assumed that the previous night's blow-job would have emptied me somewhat.
And even now, I still thrummed with need. I'd cum, and so had she.
But I wanted more.
* * * *
I terminated the call abruptly so that I could get cleaned up. I had hoped it was like scratching an itch, and that now I'd be able to go to sleep, and wake refreshed on Monday morning, ready for a new week at work.
But even in the shower, I felt unsettled. The phone sex had turned me on, and reminded me of what I wanted - all of her, at my mercy, spread out before me, needing me, begging me.
My cock was stirring again. I hadn't been this rampant since my teenage years. I towelled off quickly, and went back to my smartphone. I'd call her again, and arrange for her to be naked and waiting for me; I needed to see her. Tonight.
But this time she didn't answer. I waited ten minutes, in case she was showering as I was, and called again.
It was only nine o'clock.
I pulled on some jeans and a clean shirt, and went out to my car.
* * * *
The street-level door that led to the communal entrance lobby of her building was propped open with a brick. Handy for me, perhaps, but pretty poor security. I rode up in the silent lift, wondering if she'd ever get used to calling it that. Or, if she settled her in the UK, would she stubbornly hang on to her American words? They sounded better in her accent. If she tried to use English slang, she'd sound strange.
I could hear her voice in my head. It made me smile. I was still smiling as I stepped out into the corridor and along to her door.
Which was also standing open.
There was a dent just above the handle, and a scuff mark at the bottom of the door, as if it had been kicked. I was immediately on the alert, and I paused, straining my ears. There were two flats on each floor of this building, and most of them were inhabited by hard working professionals who were often away on business.
Convenient, then, for anyone with nefarious intentions - as looked likely here.
There was no sound at all. Still, I went in carefully, as silently as I could. I knew I could handle one and maybe two men in a fight, if they didn't have weapons.
Her living room wasn't a bad size, by London standards. There was a rumpled impression in the sofa, and the cushions, and for a moment I could picture her lying there.
I had to clear my head. I crept to the kitchenette, but it was empty - so too the bedroom and the bathroom.
Back in the living room, I stood, baffled. There obviously had been a break-in. Had she been here? Where was she now? Had she run for safety? Where were the police, then?
The police. I pulled out my phone and rang them.
"Motherfucking piece of shit!"
I was hoarse from screaming but I would not stop. I rolled around in the back of the van, kicking at the sides and the rear doors, but it was useless. My cheek hurt from where I'd been punched, and my arms were pinned behind my back, duct tape holding my wrists together firmly.
I'd just gotten out of the shower. I pulled on some baggy sweat pants and a sloppy sweater. I wasn't tired, so I planned on putting on a movie and chilling out for an hour or two. The night was pretty young, yet.
As I had stepped out of my bedroom, running my fingers through my wet hair, the door had blasted open and two large men in black clothing had jumped in. I was screaming right away but one of them just slammed his fist into my face and I hit the deck through shock more than pain - the pain didn't hit me till a moment later.
By then, though, I was face-down on the floor and being trussed up like a turkey.
I couldn't tell one dude from the other; both were thick-set, beefy guys with black coats, black hats, and black jeans. One of them clamped his hand over my mouth so hard I could barely breathe, and certainly couldn't bite him, and he lifted me up as easily as if I'd weighed ten pounds. They carried me right out of my apartment and rode down in the elevator as if this was perfectly normal. What the hell would happen if someone saw us? Would they just knock the witness out? What?
But Sunday night was a dead time around here, and I don't recall that anyone noticed as I was pushed into the back of a low, small white van and the door slammed shut. I kicked frantically but I couldn't pop them open, and then we were moving and there was nothing I could do.
I tried to kick the tail lights out of their housing. I'd heard tales about the cops pulling vehicles over for faulty stop lights, and hoped maybe I'd get lucky. But they were screwed in somehow, and I did nothing but hurt my ankle. I was wearing thin slippers.
By the time the van pulled to a stop, I was shaking with cold and fear and pain, but I was still screaming as loud as I could.
The doors popped open. I had been fantasizing about leaping out and escaping but the reality was that I could not move. One of the beefcakes reached in and hauled me out, lifting me up so that my feet dangled in the air. I kicked and I screamed until he put his hand on my mouth again, and pinched my nose till I could not kick at all.
He let me breath again, and said, "Stop your shite or I'll knock you out, a'right?"
I went limp, and he took that as agreement.
We were on a gravel driveway that led up to a house surrounded by trees; I didn't think we'd driven far out of London but it was hard to tell. The sky was orange from street lights so I knew we were still in urban surroundings. The house was large with many yellow-lit windows, and I was carried into a spacious and opulent hall with a sweeping staircase and marble-looking floors.
I wasn't put down until we entered a huge room that was full of elegant couches, low tables, and sculptures everywhere. It was all red velvet and dark wood, and hissed with money.
My legs wouldn't support me; I buckled and fell to the floor, unable to catch my balance with my hands still behind me. I gathered a huge lungful of air again, preparing to scream, when a door at the far end of the room opened, and a man walked in.
The one from the car, who had offered me a job.
He smiled when he saw me, as if he had just bumped into me on the street and was delighted to meet me. He nodded at the man looming behind me.
"Jack, do free Ms. Turner's arms. Thank you. You may leave us."
The tape was ripped from my wrists, one more layer of pain on top of my sore ankles and throbbing jaw. The sight of this man had taken all the wind from me. I rubbed at my wrists, and stayed kneeling on the floor, watching him warily as he approached.
He stopped a few feet away. He was dressed in a dark suit, as if he had just stepped out of a business meeting, but he wore it with such ease that I guessed he never wore anything else.
"Welcome to my home. What's mine is yours, et cetera, et cetera," he said, waving his hand.
"Fuck you, you fucking fucker," I spat. Okay, not my most cutting retort ever, but it pretty much summed up exactly how I felt right now.
He made a tutting sound of disappointment. "Oh, Ms. Turner. Surely Andrew does not tolerate such language from a lady? I certainly don't."
Andrew? Okay … what was going on here?
He stepped forward and slapped me across my cheek, the opposite way to where I'd been punched, but it made my teeth rattle nonetheless and I bit back my sob. It hurt like a mofo but I didn't want to let this jerk know he was getting to me.
"Ms. Turner," he said, his voice hard. "While you are a guest in my house, I expect a certain level of respect. A civil tongue in your head, if you please."
"I'm not a guest. I've been kidnapped."
"I am sorry to hear that," he said, sounding completely unconcerned. "You'll be here at my pleasure for a few days while I explain how beneficial it would be if you were to choose to work for me."
I knew it would earn me another slap, and I didn't care. He could knock me unconscious, but I wouldn't agree to work for him.
He raised his hand but hesitated, and I made eye contact with him.
I recognized him.
Those were Andrew's eyes looking back at me.
"Who the hell are you?" I asked before his hand connected with my cheek again and I was thrown to the floor.
He watched me as I scrabbled back to my knees, and tipped my head back defiantly. Once I was sitting upright once more, my butt on my feet, he said, "I am Leonard Walker-Wilkinson, my dear. Had you not worked it out?"
Sure I had, but only in the past ten minutes.
What the fuck was going on?
"You're Andrew's father."
"Why, yes. Of course. Sadly, my dear son and I have had some misunderstandings. Mostly from his stubbornness, I must add. I would dearly love to be reconciled with him. He needs bringing back to the fold."
"You're barking up the wrong tree," I said. "We're not in a relationship or anything. I'm not going to be any use as some kind of bargaining chip." What did he think would happen? He'd tell Andrew I'd be harmed if Andrew didn't come and make up with his daddy? It was bullshit.
"Oh, no, that's not at all what I have in mind. Would you like a drink? Something to calm your nerves?"
I bit back the instinctive "fuck you" that sprang to my lips. "No." Nor was I going to say "no, thank you." Fuck him.
"As you wish. No, I have no doubt that Andrew cares nothing for you. He cares for no one. I raised him well, my dear. He is a man, and one that I hope to be proud of one day, but sadly he has let his teenage rebellion drag out for far longer than is seemly. It is time that he returned to the fold, and to the role laid down for him in the family."
Now I wanted to argue with him. Andrew did care for me. Maybe not in any conventional way. But surely there was more between us than just sex? Or was I deluding myself?
"I'm not going to work for you." The feeling had returned to my limbs, now. I started to get to my feet. I hated that I was kneeling at this jerkoff's feet.
"You'll stay with me for a few days while I show you how wonderful life will be when you make the right decision. It won't compromise your current role, by the way. Oh, I know you're a feisty and ambitious young lady, and you can certainly continue with your current employment. Meanwhile, however, you'll do some fact-finding for me, that's all."
Oh Jeez. He wanted me to be some kind of spy? What, against his own son? I shook my head. "No. Just let me go."
"I believe that one million dollars is a not-inconsiderable sum."
I stopped. Everyone had their price, didn't they? I wasn't lacking money. But a million? Sure, a billion would be better. But a million …
No, no, no.
I shook my head again, more vehemently. "No!"
"It would help your sister. It is such a shame that they are going to take away their house. Where will they go? Your mother doesn't have room."
"You fuck." I couldn't stop the words, and he reached out and struck me again, and this time as I tumbled back the world went black around me, and my last thought was that I had to choose.
The money. Or Andrew.