Chapter 5
Kitt
I still wear my thick down coat, but I stand in the center of the room, shivering. My heart pounds. My hands tremble as I slip into a painted blue chair, the nearest of the mismatched set.
“Breathe, Kitt. Just breathe.” I press my palm onto the cool black tabletop, just to feel something solid. The paint is chipping at the corners, revealing the natural wood beneath. I pick at a bit of paint with my fingernail. The black paint flake swirls downward, landing on the wide-planked wood floors. “He said he”s not going to kill you.”
At least, I think he did, just not in so many words.
Glancing around, I think if I wasn’t here as prisoner, waiting for my captor to return, unsure of my fate, I would actually find this place charming.
The kitchen is small but functional, with the worn wooden table in the center and mismatched chairs around it. The walls are made of stone. Mismatched pots and pans of various sizes hang from a silver rack over the table. A small window sits over the sink, but the curtains are drawn.
Instead, I’m terrified.
I”m left alone here, not a word spoken to me other than a stern, ”Stay put,” accompanied by a piercing blue-green gaze.
My heart races as I wait, unsure of what is going to happen, unsure of whether or not I can trust him to keep me alive. The air in the room is thick with tension, the only sound the faint ticking of a clock on the wall. I try to steady my nerves.
But as the minutes tick by, doubt creeps in. What if he’s decided otherwise? That he wants to not only punish me, but get rid of me as well?
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts.
I have no choice but to trust what he said about not hurting me the way I thought he would—that I will walk out of here alive. There’s nothing for me to do other than to wait and see what he has planned for me.
Finally, after what feels like hours, I hear footsteps approaching. I open my eyes to see him standing in front of me, a steely look on his face.
”Come with me,” he says, extending his hand to help me up. I take it hesitantly, still unsure of his intentions. “Let me show you where we punish naughty wee girls such as yourself.”
He grabs my hand. I hate myself for enjoying the momentary comfort I get from my ice-cold trembling hand being held in his big, warm, strong one. How can a hand that feels so protective also be the hand of a man who could take my life?
Should I try to break away and run? His broad shoulders practically fill the small room. There’s no point trying to escape. He’d quickly overtake me. And most likely make my punishment worse.
Wherever he”s taking me, whatever he’s going to do to me, I have absolutely no control or power to stop him.
I walk beside him, our steps making the wood floors creak beneath our feet as we make our way down the hall of the small house. At the end of the hall is a closed door of dark wood, a crystal doorknob. The feeling in my gut tells me my fate waits for me behind that door.
I have no idea what lies ahead, but I know that I have to be strong and make it through.
He opens the door, flipping on a dim light to reveal an empty room. The worn wood floors are the same as the ones that run through the rest of the house, but here there”s a red-and-blue patterned rug in the center of the room, the only item in here. There are two windows on a separate wall, heavy, floor-length curtains drawn over both.
He draws me in, leaving me standing in the center of the carpet. He lets go of my hand, returning to the door. I watch in horror as he slips a brass skeleton key from his jeans, locking the door from within. The key returns to his pocket.
Logically I know I couldn’t have run, would never have made it out the cottage door and into the night. Where would I have gone anyway, lost among the green hills? Still, logic doesn’t hold seeing him lock that door.
It’s too final. I should have run.
He turns to me, that slow, half-cocked grin forming on his dangerous face. His gaze travels upward, hovering above my head. I follow his line of sight, only now noticing the long loop of black leather that hangs from the ceiling overhead.
My heart pounds in my chest as I take in the cuffs hanging from the end of the leather. Is he really going to restrain me? My thoughts flash back to the conversation we had earlier about my punishment and his dominant tendencies, and my body tenses up with nervous anticipation.
He walks toward me, his eyes never leaving mine as he approaches. He stands so close that I can feel his warm breath on my skin. His voice is low, commanding as he rumbles, ”Now you will learn your lesson.”
No words come, and I couldn’t speak if I had any. I’m too overwhelmed. I just stand there, trembling, staring into his piercing gaze. Pure satisfaction stares back at me. He not only loves the control he has over me?—
He relishes my fear.
I stand on the center of the carpet, feeling awkward and terrified. He stares at me, as if expecting something from me. What is he waiting for?
The heat from his gaze is too much. I lower mine to the floor, admiring the intricate pattern of the reds and blues in the thick wool rug. Refusing to speak first, I shove my hands in the pockets of my coat.
His deep rumbling voice finally pierces the tension. “Take your boots off.”
I look up at him.
He’s standing there, staring, waiting, assuming I’ll obey.
Finally growing a spine, I at least fight back with a question. Boots could be useful for kicking. I’d rather not remove them.
“Why?” I ask. “Don’t want to dirty your carpet? I can see you take great pride in the place, seeing how you’ve not bothered to furnish it.”
It’s a little easier to breathe now, having taken back some of my power. My minute victory is quickly overpowered by his next statement.
“Take your boots off, because otherwise you won’t be able to get those leggings off.”
“W—what?” Punishment could mean anything. I’ve not had much time to give it thought—what exactly he is going to do to me, but I think I assumed he would lock me in a basement for a few days, something like that. He said he’d hurt me, but not the way I was thinking—which was death.
Now, he wants my shoes and pants off?
Hurt me… how?
“When I punish a naughty girl, I make her first submit to me.”
I shove my hands deeper into my pockets. There’s no doubt in my mind. I need these boots on my feet because I have to fight. I have to run. Because I’m pretty sure I know what he’s demanding when he says the word submit. He’s planning on forcing himself on me. Isn’t he?
He blocks the door, the door he’s locked, the key safely stowed in his pocket. That’s no way out. The windows are my only hope. Maybe one is unlocked behind those heavy curtains, and maybe, just maybe I can fight him off long enough to escape through one.
I slowly start to creep away, keeping my eyes on him but moving backward.
“Don’t try to run, girl.”
“What do you mean by submit to you?” I ask.
“Obey me. And the first step in your submission is baring yourself to me. I won’t force myself on you, I only mean you must be naked for me to punish you.”
A tiny prick of relief hits me, but it’s fleeting, the weight of the severity of the situation settling all around me. I have to take off all my clothes. And then be punished.
“And—how will you punish me?”
“I’m going to tie you up and whip you with my belt.”
My stomach drops. My feet stop moving. Take off all my clothes and let him do what he said? I can survive that.
It’s better than the alternatives my imagination is providing.
“And if I do that, if I—” It takes me a beat to get the word out. “Submit… to you, then you’ll let me go?”
“That part I don’t know yet. Depends on how much I feel I can trust ye. But if you submit and take what you’ve got coming to you like a good girl, then there’s no more punishment.” His eyes flash. “For now.”
I reluctantly accept this—it’s the lesser of the evils. I crouch down, slipping one UGG off, then the other. I can feel his eyes on me, but I try to ignore him, pretending I’m back in my dorm room, alone, undressing for the night.
To my further humiliation, as I’m gracefully trying to tug a boot from my foot, I end up plopping down on my bottom with an unexpected, “oomph.”
I don’t need to look up to know my graceless plop brings that crooked grin to his dark, handsome face. I continue about my business, lining my boots neatly beside one another on the edge of the carpet.
That was easy.
Now, the socks. I pull my thick woolen socks off one at a time, tucking them into a boot. And now is the time I hit my lowest, most self-loathing point as I vainly try to remember which pair of no-frill panties I’m wearing right now. Black bikini style. Thank God it’s not the ones with the hearts. I have to stand back up to peel down my leggings, instantly losing the comfort of being fully dressed and balled up on the floor.
I try to avoid his gaze, but in my heated blush, my eyes flutter to his face. I quickly look back down, focusing solely on grabbing the elastic waist of my black leggings. Do I grab the panties too, removing both in one painful swoop?
No. It’s too much. And I’m holding out hope that once I’m down to my bra and panties, he’ll change his mind, allowing me to keep both on.
I’ve never, ever been this naked in front of someone. My pulse doubles, my heart pounding as I stand here. He has to let me keep the underwear.
I drop the leggings onto the tops of the boots. Now for the coat. It’s long enough to offer a comfortable amount of modesty, the hem hitting mid-thigh. My fingers tremble as I grip the zipper between my forefinger and thumb.
Up to this point he’s been wordlessly watching me, lording the power he has over me through his steady gaze. Now, he moves toward me, closing the gap between us with two long strides.
“Here. Let me help you with that.”
“Thanks,” I murmur before I can stop the word, politeness my involuntary go-to.
He moves behind me, the heat of his breath tickling my cheek as he grabs the collar of my coat, sliding it down one arm then the other. He folds the coat in half, laying it over the boots, the rose still peeking out of my coat pocket.
His hands return to me, gripping the elastic waist of my oversized sweatshirt. “Lift.” It’s a simple, one word instruction, but the command in his voice makes tingles dance down my spine.
I lift my arms in the air, letting him pull my sweatshirt and the shirt underneath up and off in one fluid motion. He tosses them to the floor.
Giving a moan, I feel him step back, taking in the view of me standing there in the dim light of his empty room, wearing nothing but a set of simple black bra and panties.
I want to wrap my arms around my body, to hide from him, but I refuse. Straightening my spine, I stand there, chin out, ready to face him.
Rough fingertips brush over my skin. He grips the back clasp of my bra. Heat and shame flush my chest, creeping up my neck, burning my cheeks as he easily unclips the clasp. His hands go to my shoulders, a gentle sweep of my bra straps and it falls down my arms, landing on the carpet in front of my feet.
He moves in front of me, bending and snatching the rose from my coat pocket in one fluid motion as he goes. He stands there, those soulful eyes of his taking in the sight of my bare breasts. They rise and fall as I force myself to take deep, steady breaths, the sensations, the heat from his gaze—it’s all too much and my head goes light.
He twirls the stem of the rose between his thumb and forefinger, bringing it closer to his face for a deep inhale before lowering it. “Now, the panties.”
Ice forms in my belly. Heavy and unsettling. Somehow, this, baring my pussy to him, is worse than showing him my bare breasts.
“Can’t I leave them on?”
“What’s the first step of submitting to me?” He tips the rose behind his own ear, blood red against his dark, almost black hair.
My words eventually come but they’re barely above a whisper. “Baring myself to you.”
He moves closer, hooking a fingertip into the elastic waistband of my panties. “And do you think that means panties on, or off?” He tugs at the band, pulling it toward him, a flash of my pale, naked hip in my view.
“Off.”
“Good girl.” He gives it another tug, pulling the material further away from my skin, lower, showing more. “Would you like to do it yourself? Or have me?”
“You.”
I give him the full satisfaction of my humiliation as he peels down my panties. I hold onto his shoulder, stepping out of them. He takes the panties, picks my bra up off the floor, adding them both to the growing pile of my clothes.
He positions me underneath the loop of leather that hangs from the ceiling and raises my hands above my head, latching the cuffs first around one wrist then slipping the other through the leather loop before finalizing my captivity with a loud click.
“Perfect fit.”
There’s no running. No escape. No one to save me. It’s just us.
Beyond being totally bared to him, every nerve ending on my naked skin wide-awake, tiny hairs standing on end in the cold night air, my arms stretched high above my head and locked in tight, I feel deeply vulnerable and exposed, bound by his restraints and completely at his mercy.
My heart continues to race as I wait for what comes next.
He steps back, admiring my body and his work. His light eyes go dark with desire as they roam over my body, taking in every inch of me. His gaze lazes over my nipples, enjoying their involuntary tightening, then rises to my captive wrists, my fingers clenched on either side of the leather strap.
”I”m going to make you beg for forgiveness.” His voice is husky, thick with desire. For me, for my body. The sound does something to me, tingles dancing between my thighs. ”You will submit to me completely.”
My stomach flips at his words, a mixture of fear and excitement coursing through me. I”ve never experienced anything like this before, but there”s something thrilling about being under his control.
This gorgeous, deadly stranger who I’m slowly growing to hate more and more every moment I spend alone with him. Not only for capturing me and forcing me to take my clothes off, but for making some dark, shameful, disturbed part of me I didn’t know was there surface. As much as I’m hating him, I’m hating myself more for dipping into the excitement, the danger of the moment, and for my body which is now betraying me, showing obvious signs of desire for him in this moment.
“You’re a vision, aren’t you, girl?” He moves toward me, so close I can smell his desire and the faint scent of rose.
A little shudder tears through me. I can’t hide it. My slight tremble only makes him more determined. He plucks the rose from behind his ear.
He moves in closer, the scruff of his beard brushing my cheek. “A vision too beautiful not to taste.”
I close my eyes, feeling his breath against my ear. The petals of the rose, cold, soft, velvety, drag over the curve of my breast, brush over my ever-tightening nipple. A gasp escapes me as I feel the delicate flower caress my skin.
Soft petals travel down over my belly. Right down the center of my pussy. Over my thigh. The lightest sound as he drops the rose to the floor.
Without warning, he starts to lightly trail kisses down my neck and along my collarbone. His lips are soft, his beard rough as he caresses my skin. I bite my lip to suppress a moan, trying to push away the sensations that are building inside of me.
“You taste as beautiful as you look.”
His rough hands grasp my arms, slowly rising, calluses brushing over my tingling forearms as he reaches up to encircle my wrists.
More hatred grows as my cheeks flush under his compliments. Cute, maybe pretty, but no man’s ever called me beautiful. Well, boys really, the ones I casually dated.
They were nothing like this massive wall of muscle and masculine energy that practically engulfs me now, strong hands rough from work. I envision him caring for the land, chopping wood to heat his home.
Pulling together my nerve, I grow brave enough to face him. I can see in his eyes he means what he says. He thinks… I’m beautiful.
He moves closer, the heat and hardness of his body, the feel of his clothing, now pressing against my naked body.
He wants me.
It”s too much. I need to move away. I pull back but the restraints keep me in place. I turn my head, to at least get my face as far away from his intoxicating scent as possible.
Woodsy musk, rose, and desire.
He cups the side of my cheek I’ve turned toward him, the feel of his hands quickly becoming so familiar to me. “Are you ready for your punishment, beautiful girl?”
Tongue-tied and still avoiding his gaze, I nod.
Not for the first time, he cups my chin between his forefinger and thumb, forcing me to face him. “Use your words, Kitty Rose.”
A sharp gasp escapes me. He’s never used my name before. It doesn’t surprise me he already knows it. And no one calls me Kitty. Not anymore. “It’s Kitt,” I manage to hiss between my clenched teeth.
“So, she does have a tongue. You’ve been so quiet, I was beginning to think I’d have to taste it to believe it.”
My mind allows in the heated thought of his tongue brushing over mine, gentle but dominating, like the fiery trail of kisses he left on my neck.
“Is Kitt short for anything?” he asks.
“No.” I shake my head, my hair brushing my bare back. “Just Kitt.”
He stares.
Somehow the rise of one of his dark brows is enough to make me confess. “It’s Catherine. Shortened to Cat. Then Kitty. And when I was eight, I found the name Kitty extremely babyish and dropped the ‘y,’ insisting on Kitt.”
“Catherine. That’s a pretty name. Do you know what it means?”
“No.”
“Pure.”
He gives me a look that’s anything but.
Is this a good time to tell him that I am? An untouched, innocent virgin, that is. Maybe the knowledge would save me from what’s about to happen.
My mouth feels glued shut. I watch as his fingers go to his waist, to the wide metal buckle of his belt. My throat goes tight, and I swallow it down.
I’ve never felt like this before. Every nerve ending in my body lit from within with electric energy. Is this what it’s like to be alone with a man? I have a feeling most women’s first isn’t as a prisoner being punished by a stranger.
It’s crazy that I’m not fighting him, yelling, arguing how wrong this is. How wrong he is. How much this cannot happen.
Do I not speak up because fear has me silenced? Or is the deep, dark truth that I don’t want this to stop…is that I want to see what this will feel like?
No, I’ve never been more nervous.
And I’ve never felt more alive.