Consider yourself stolen.
You're so sweet, Candi.
You don’t belong in my world.
I don’t belong in yours.
But the moment I set eyes on you, you were mine.
You took something from me.
So I’m going to take something too:
You.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” she babbles. “Please, please don’t hurt me. I’ll do whatever you want.”
I have her by the wrist, pulling her out from her little hiding place. Her nice clothes are covered in dust and cobwebs. She’s damn right she’ll do whatever I want. She’ll be whatever I want.
There’s rope on the desk. I keep a supply of it. It comes in handy for handling difficult people, and Candi is already one of the most difficult people I’ve ever tried to handle. I’ve never taken anyone like her. The people I have to bring here are usually men and they’ve usually not fucked up half as bad as she has.
“Hold still,” I growl, pulling her up and over my thighs to get her bound. That short skirt of hers doesn’t do anything to hide her modesty. Pretty soon I’m seeing flashes of panty. They’ve got strawberries on them, and cream. I feel myself stiffen at the idea of adding a little more cream to the mix.
She starts wriggling as soon as she feels the rope around her wrists. So much for doing what I say. This girl doesn’t care about keeping her promises. She doesn’t even try to. She just says what she thinks she needs to say.
I’m going to make her mean her words. I’m going to take them away, so she can’t tell anything but the truth. I’m going to introduce her to the idea of truth. The real truth. Not the cotton candy bullshit she has been taught to pretend is real.
I’m going to hurt her. She’s going to feel pain. And she’s going to think I’m the bad guy for making her feel that pain, but she brought this on herself.
I tie her up, tight, winding the rope around her wrists to keep them together, leaving just enough room for blood flow and no more. Then I cut the rope and push her further over my lap, wrapping the rope around her ankles and giving them the same treatment. Soon I have her trussed over my lap. I think about hog-tying her, having her dangle from a beam with her arms and legs behind her. It’s a vulnerable position and I know it will terrify her.
She deserves this. She deserves everything I do to her. Hell, she deserves a whole lot I won’t do, too.
If I’m going to tie her to something, having her ankles and wrists bound isn’t enough. Can’t hang someone from those points in the position she’s in and not cause damage - which is not what I want. That means more rope in more intimate places. I thread it between her thighs and snug it up against that strawberry covered mound of hers. She makes a frightened little grunting sound that quickly turns into a moan she can’t hide as the rope slides past that sensitive spot and up around under her shoulders and around her breasts.
I take my time with her, turning her over on my lap, pulling the rope through the tight little spaces her already bound body makes for me, enjoying the look on her face. There is something innocent about her. How could there not be? She’s young, and she’s spoiled, and I don’t know if she’s been fucked before, but I do know she’s going to be.
When she’s wound in rope to my satisfaction, I attach a heavier cord and get her trussed up over a beam outside the offices, dangling maybe five feet from the ground, my sexy little privileged piniata.
“Please… please…” she keeps whimpering like she’s owed mercy, but she’s not owed a damn thing. “Please don’t hurt me…”
“You stole from me,” I remind her. “It’s only right I steal something from you, too.”
“Oh my god. Oh my god.” There are tears beading in her eyes, streaming down her pretty cheeks, dripping down onto the floor below. I’m sure tears usually work for her. They're not going to work on me. I’ve seen enough tears to last a life time, and these girlish little sniffles aren’t anything compared to the cries I’ve heard in the past. She’s going to scream before I’m done with her.
I stand back and watch her, slowly rotating because she’s struggling, so fucking pretty and so goddamn spoiled. Where to start with her, that’s the question. Can’t do anything too dramatic, I have to send her back to her safe little life at the end of this.
“I’ll do anything,” she babbles again.
“Yeah, you keep saying that,” I observe. “But I don’t think you mean it.”
“I do mean it! I do!”
“So if I told you I wanted you to go rob a bank, you’d do that?”
“Uhm…”
“Or how about kill someone. Would you do that?”
She lets out one of those pathetic little sobs that cover her refusal.
“You won’t do anything, because you can’t do anything. You’re a soft little girl in a hard world, but I tell you what you will be, and that’s my toy. I’m going to come and play with you whenever I feel like it.”
I see her gulp, but she doesn’t get any more panicky than she already is.
“You like that idea, huh? You want someone like me to use you like you should be used?”
“Oh god,” she whispers, almost under her breath. She’s really squirming now, making herself spin even faster in place. I reach out and grab the rope to steady her and make her keep her eyes on me.
“Answer me, Candi.”
“No,” she whimpers. “I don’t like that idea.”
I don’t believe her for a second. Her face is flushed, the way a girl’s gets when she’s close to orgasm. I haven’t even really touched her sexually, but the rope has. She’s probably dripping back there in that might as well be virginal pussy. Girl like her has probably been fucked, but not by anyone who knows what his dick is for.
It's just as well Loki Renard became an author because other career paths proved disastrous. She was once thrown out of someone's house for trying to sell them citrus based cleaning product, and her brief brush with corporate life ended when she wrote profiles for her fellow employees likening them to various feral animals then attempted to negotiate the idea of not coming into the office and getting paid anyway. Perhaps if she'd had the dedication to slug herself in the face a la Fight Club, things might have turned out differently.
