Enslaved

Chapter One: Taken by Deception

My arms lazily reached into the wide expanse of bed. My motions languid as I stretched out my muscles from the tightness of sleep. The headache I suffered from the night before was still threatening, its pull a throbbing reminder of drinking beyond my meagre tolerance levels. I shook the heaviness from my shoulders and struggled out of bed.

I downed two analgesics to dull the pain, startled by the image in the mirror. Messed hair, smudged eye liner, and puffy lips reflected back at me. I looked like I had partied hard and drank harder. I blotted away the residual make-up and splashed cold water on my face attempting to remedy the atrocities committed against my skin last night.

As I sat on the toilet, I remembered the man. Sandy blonde hair with a slight wave, green eyes, and a muscular build on his 6'4" frame. We had shared a dance or ten. My petite 5'1" form complemented the way his body undulated to the music. His hands skimmed the indent of my waist, settling on the curve of my hips, before gliding up the swell of my breasts as we gyrated synchronously to the throbbing beat. His hands firm on my body, pulling me to him, capturing me to the heat of his physique, and keeping me always within his reach. He needn't have been so claiming. I happily remained close to his heady scent.

His presence was enthralling yet familiar, though I hadn't known him beyond last night. I could still detect the lingering aroma of the soap on his body that I inhaled when my cheek pressed against the unyielding hardness of his chest, and my arms wrapped around his waist, drawn to his intensity. I didn't object when he twirled me around, my back pressed to his front as he held my hips tight against his pelvis and dictated the rhythm of our syncopated swaying. The bulge of his excitement pressed against the thin clinging fabric of my dress; I grinded against him suggestively as I tossed my head back and forth, my long black hair whipping against his chest. I could feel the fruit of my exertions bloom under my movements.

My eyes closed as the water of the shower cascaded over my body and rinsed the foaming lather away. My hand drifted to my mound, my fingers barely penetrating my folds, teasing out the slipperiness of my arousal as I thought about Gabe. That's what he introduced himself as. When Gabe approached me, he carried a natural confidence. He wasn't coy, nor was he boastful or cocky. He simply stated matter-of-factly that he appreciated the way my black bodycon dress accentuated my petite silhouette.

"Watching you dance is mesmerizing," he leaned down and murmured in my ear. "This," he ran his finger on the top elasticized hem of the strapless dress, "is very captivating. Flawless skin, gorgeous, mesmerizing brown eyes, small, pert breasts. Just beautiful. Partner with me on the floor. Show me your moves little one."

He had called me little one. I tilted my head and glanced at him, searching his eyes and wondering if there was something beyond the moniker he wished to communicate. Perhaps, a silent conveyance of a shared set of interests? His lips curled upwards before giving me a slight nod of the head.

I felt the instant attraction, the spark of potential between our bodies as they melded in their tentative touches to the beat. The barest touch of his hands ignited my interest. His flattery cemented my fascination. My roving hands explored my own body as I performed for his rapacious eyes. He wasn't just handsome. He was intentional, naturally charismatic, and sensual in his movements.

His hand guided me by the small of my back to the bar, where he ordered my preferred beverage, without my prompting.

"I'm Amelia," I extended my hand.

"Gabe," he kissed the top of my hand.

He was smooth, confident, with just a touch of arrogance. He was exactly my type.

I learned Gabe was in tech. He had created a few apps, funded a few start-ups, and was head of one himself. He was well put together, that much I ascertained. I noted the manicured nails, his clean-shaven skin, the general state of being well groomed. Black dress pants were paired with a tight grey t-shirt that barely contained the muscles of his well-maintained body. I hadn't ever met any tech guys that looked like Gabe and I unthinkingly reached up to touch his bicep. He flexed it for me before laughing. I stammered out an apology.

"I don't mind Amelia. Touch me all you want." Gabe goaded me.

And I did. I ran my hands over his chest, feeling the hardness of his body, my fingertips barely skimming over the cotton material of his shirt before grazing down the skin of his arms and finally resting on his hips.

I looked up at him slyly. "You're very nice to touch," I giggled. I couldn't think of anything more articulate to say in the moment. He was intoxicating and his interest in me was flattering me into an embarrassing mental moronic stupor. I stared up at him. His eyes, a deep, unblinking abyss. I felt his lips on me before I realized he had leaned down to kiss me, dipping me back. He withdrew and I was left breathless as he lightly bit my bottom lip, pulling his mouth reluctantly away.

I sucked my bottom lip, savouring his residual taste.

"Tell me about yourself Amelia," Gabe entreated but I grabbed his hand and returned to the dance floor, electing instead to press my body against his.

I smiled at last night's memories as I dried myself and donned my panties and a t-shirt. My recollections of last night were still hazy. I wasn't sure what happened with Gabe, but considering that I woke up alone, I must have exercised restraint to not have a one-night stand with him. Pity that. Though, I would not have minded having a more tactile memory of the feel of his hard chest against my soft hands. I remembered that after we danced, we sat at a corner booth lip locked in a suffocating, desperate series of kisses. His hands found purchase in the crevices of my body, drawing out gasps of desire, and pants for more. My cheeks flushed as I remembered how he had tipped my head back with one hand. His breath tantalizing hot against my ear as his fingers slipped threatening close to my panties before they wended their way under my skirt, tickling the tuffs of my trimmed pubic patch, only to slip easily into the moistness of my folds. His penetration of me was so effortlessly confident that nobody saw the increased speed of his hand as he fingered me under the table, while casually drinking from his glass. His fingers retreated before I reached climax, only to trace my lips with my own arousal before he pushed his fingers into my willing mouth so I would gently suckle him.

I reached under the table, palming the substantial bulge straining against his pants, wanting to reciprocate. The darkness of the room cloaking the juvenility we engaged in. Gabe leaned back and closed his eyes, enjoying the feel. I slowly guided the zipper down and snaked my hand into the heat of his flesh, revelling in how thick and hot he felt in my fingers. My thumb spread the precum forming at his tip around. The sudden grip of his fingers on my wrist pulled my hand away.

"Tut tut little one. They'll be plenty of time for my pleasure," he chastised me before he tucked himself back into his pants. "Now, where were we?" His fingers resumed their probing, insistent touches into my hot, wet core.

"I want you to come for me in this darkened room. Nobody can see how excited you are as you spread your legs for me under this table so my fingers can gain access to your pussy, can they Amelia?"

I shook my head and widened my legs when Gabe patted my inner thighs apart.

He seemed so commanding as he murmured, "I love it when you obey me. Do you like feeling under my spell little one?" I closed my eyes revelling in the experience. I was drunk by his presence, and by his instinctual command of my body. His flirtation was skirting the edges of my deepest desires.

My fingernails dug into the flesh of Gabe's thigh as his fingers sped up. Despite the thumping bass beat of the club's sound system, I could hear the pounding palpitations of my heart as Gabe's fingers sawed into my silken folds. His thumb found my clit and the punishing pace of his thumb as he rubbed back and forth against the throbbing bud brought me to the edge quickly. Gabe pulled me onto his lap, pressing my breasts against his chest, my back to the rest of the world as his fingers continued pulling pleasure from me.

"Come for me Amelia," he whispered in my ear as his kiss on my lips silenced the scream of my orgasm. His broad hands held me down on his lap to quell the shudders of my body as I climaxed at the hands of a perfect stranger, in the openness of darkness.

Gabe's own accelerated breathing matched mine. His eyes gleamed as he watched me, wordless.

"Would you like to get on your knees and serve me? To take my thick cock between those luscious lips and pleasure me because I've commanded you to do so?" His lips traced a line down my neck. "Do you fantasize about being fucked with your arms bound behind you as I bend you over and spread your legs from behind, teasing your delicious pussy until you beg me to fuck you?" He palmed my nipple from outside my dress working it into a stiff peak. "Or, do you dream of being taken roughly, bound and fucked with toys, with no concern for your pleasure?" His tongue left a slick trail down my neck, stopping just above my cleavage.

"Yes," I moaned. "Fuck me, I'm yours."

Gabe grabbed my hand, and I waved goodbye to my friends from across the room who were tittering as they watched me leave with Gabe.

"You're mine?" Gabe asked me as the weight of his body pressed me against the side of his car. "Will you slip to your knees Amelia and gladly be mine?"

I nodded. I was drunk on the fantasy that had long quelled my late-night discussions with friends.

"I'm a Dom," Gabe whispered in my ear. "Do you know what that means little one?"

I nodded slowly.

"Are you submissive Amelia? Do you fantasize about the freedom of giving up control to a man, and finally experiencing what you've longed for, masturbated to, and shared with no one but the closest of your friends? Are you ready to finally be who you were always meant to be?"

I pulled away breathless, confused by his presumptuousness, and seeming familiarity with the yearnings I dared not admit. The euphoria of the situation was dizzying. Or perhaps I had too much to drink. It was then, I was certain that I took leave for home and found refuge in the comfort of my sheets. Except, I had no memories of saying goodbye to Gabe, climbing into bed, or opening the door of my apartment. Had I even showered? Used the toilet? Brushed my teeth? Did I call a taxi home? All of those events after my interaction with Gabe were fuzzy. I simply couldn't remember.

I initially rejected sharing my number with Gabe. I wanted the experience of being picked up by a hot guy and obscenely dancing with him into the early hours, to remain a memory a fond memory to regale others with. He persisted. I demurred but eventually acquiesced at his insistence. It wasn't that I was involved with anyone. He was my type. What good looking man who can command your body isn't a woman's type?

However, my last relationship had disintegrated when my boyfriend and I realized our sexual incompatibility. My pleas for him to be a stronger, more dominating presence in the bedroom were met with outright refusals. He liked missionary and nothing more. He told me then that what I wanted him to do wasn't normal. "It was unhealthy," he said to me. My desire to be tied up and dominated was an abomination, I was told. "I didn't realize you were such a slut," my ex spat in my face as he slammed the door after he kicked me out of his three-storey walk up. I was left holding my purse and doggy bag from our dinner.

My self-esteem was still smarting from my ex's abject rejection and my walk of shame back to the car under his neighbours' gazes. My ex had been the first man I dated whom I confessed my desires to. I luckily hadn't shared any of my other fantasies of being spanked, or made to kneel; of having every orifice occupied by impossibly large toys as my lover watched me bring myself to climax for his amusement; of being used so thoroughly that my thighs shook and my body felt boneless afterwards; of being taken in a CNC scene involving abduction or my unwillingness at submitting; of having my mouth fucked by a man who could intuit my every secret fantasy of pain as it melded into pleasure. Those sexual desires had long been suppressed since I was a teenager, when I accidentally encountered the world of BDSM while searching for something else. The first images of a submissive woman kneeling by a man had enraptured me. I fantasized that I was the naked woman with a man's cock in my mouth, my hands tied behind my back as I was used for his pleasure. The image had been an indelible one, though as yet unrealized. It played in my daily fantasies.

Those secret desires I invested into my alter ego Lolita Yearns, a poor approximation of an erotica writer on free sites. Every story I posted was of the BDSM variety. It was there I could imbue my characters with every sexual longing I dreamed for myself but dared not share with partners past. I found like-minded amateurs who were all too willing to collaborate and share ideas with me. I even struck up a symbiotic relationship with a writer named El, who had experience in the lifestyle and enthusiastically shared fantasies and past scenes with me as inspiration for my work. He had knowledge in things domination related that I could only dream about. He had a number of relationships with submissives in the past. Our friendship and partnership was one of ease. We were pen pals of sorts. We shared messages and chats, as well as emails. He proofed my stories to ensure the scenes had authenticity. He even had tried to encourage me to visit a local BDSM club to whet my appetite.

We never revealed who we were to each other, or where we lived, or even our real names. The safety of anonymity provided an intimacy based on unedited desires that social mores had no place for. It was artistic collaboration at best, and smutty role play at better. I thrilled at receiving his emails and loved the way his suggestions and vulgar talk embedded themselves into the text of my fiction writing. He was my muse, though I never told him. It fuelled our shameless flirting, and our brazen late-night chat sessions that verged into phone sex.

I sometimes pondered asking El who he was or even if he lived nearby. I dismissed the idea realizing that reality would burst the bubble of mystery that sustained our relationship. Though, I once asked him if he thought we would be friends in real life. He heartily confirmed that he would always be my friend, even if he wasn't what I thought he would be. We connected because we each lived in our own fantasy world. To me, El was this unrealized dominant figure that existed in the ether somewhere. He was five years older than my jejune 24 years. He was sexy and commanding and confidant. I didn't want to know whether he embodied those attributes in his non-virtual life. He was perfect in my imagination.

I booted up my laptop as I sat down with coffee and Danish pastry in hand. I messaged El that I had met an amazingly hot guy at a club last night. Muscle and penetrating fingers, and authoritative all rolled into one, I told El.

Did you sleep with him?

El messaged me back.

No, but I wanted to. He was so hot. I let him finger me. I had an orgasm at the club, on his lap!

I wrote back.

I was so wet from the way he touched me. You should have seen him El. He told me he was a Dom. He was talking about having me on my knees, and binding me, and sucking his cock.

So why didn't you pursue anything Lolita?

El inquired.

I don't know. I chickened out at the last minute. It's like he could read my mind and I got scared. You know me. I'm good at fantasizing about it. Not so good at living it. I have his number. Maybe I'll text him later. I'm almost done another story. You can proof it for me. Talk later tonight? I need to email my friends.

I closed out El's messages and attempted to access my email. Strange, my internet wasn't working now. The lights of my router were blinking rapidly. I picked up my cordless phone to call my provider to inform them of the outage, but I was only met with crackling static. My cell was also not picking up any bars of service. I turned the TV on to see if there was an area-wide outage, but the news reported no such event. This would require a walk to the neighbourhood store to report in person.

When I reached for my toothbrush, I paused. It wasn't sitting in the position I always placed it in. Had I been that inebriated last night to insert it contrary to habit? I opened my medicine cabinet. Everything was there, except some of my toiletries weren't placed the way I would have. My make-up brushes were placed bristles down instead of up, the way I preferred. When I walked out to the corridor, I noticed that my paintings were slightly askew, hung just a smidge higher than my natural line-of-sight. Everything in my apartment looked the same but seemed marginally off. Surely, I was imagining this. I opened my freezer. My pre-made meals with my own handwriting were there, waiting to be defrosted. I tried to shake my uncertainties away.

I was certainly imagining things, but then, where was my cat? I had put out her food when I woke up, and being the food-motivated cutie she was, she normally would have devoured breakfast. But she wasn't anywhere to be found. I ran to the bedroom and looked under the bed, the ledge near the bay window, in her favourite box to hide, behind the couch, in her carrier. "Mittens," I called out. "Mittens. Come here girl." Had I left her on my verandah at night? I opened the balcony door. Thankfully, she wasn't outside. But then something caught my attention in the periphery. The leaves weren't moving. There was no rain. I ran back to the TV and watched the news. The meteorologist was outside providing the forecast under an umbrella, being battered by sheets of precipitation. Where was the rain? Yet here in my apartment it was perfectly sunny.

I went back outside on the balcony and reached over to a branch of a nearby tree. I pulled and the leaf released from the stem. It was nylon. What the fuck?

I ran to the front door and pulled it open. Instead of the overtrodden carpeting of my hallway, I saw a thick metallic door. Something was very wrong. My fists banged on the door. The doorknob jiggled but didn't give. My shoulder hit the barrier with a thud as I threw my body weight against it. My panicked breaths were met with my frantic pacing. What the fuck was happening? I was losing my mind. My cat was missing. My apartment wasn't mine, but everything seemed like it was. I was locked in somewhere with a metal door. Surely, I was imagining all of the irregularities. This couldn't be real. I pinched myself.

As I paced again trying to reconcile what my mind was telling me, I heard the jangle of a key as it was inserted into the lock, and the agonizingly slow creak as the outer metallic door opened. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed my knife, steeling myself for a confrontation. Maybe I was the butt of a practical joke. My friends would pop out and tell me that I was on candid camera. Yes, that's exactly what this was. I was the victim of some elaborate prank into an alternate reality. A Truman-show of sorts. We would all laugh about it in 10 years. Except, the fear receptors in my brain were signalling me otherwise. This wasn't a friendly prank.

I took a step backwards, positioning my back against the corner. My wild eyes followed the door handle as it lowered, then released. The door opened and I saw black dress shoes, pleated dress pants. My eyes travelled upwards. A pressed shirt with French cuffs covered a broad expanse of chest. My eyes willed themselves to look up towards the face. It was Gabe.