Page 11 of Blue Velvet

I hate it. I hate that she’s not fearing me the way I want her to. I hate that she’s not acting the way I expected her to. If she’s not going along with my expectations, how am I supposed to feel in control, tobein control? Instead, I feel like she’s the one playing tricks onme. It’s as if she has something up her sleeve, something that can potentially turn the tables on me at any moment. Her calm demeanor unsettles me more than I’d like to admit.

I had to leave her in there by herself. I needed room to think, room to consider my next steps. I haven’t thought this through, none of it, and it shows, now that she’s here with me. It’s one thing to consider kidnapping a woman, but it’s another thing entirely to come up with an elaborate plan and then go through with it - but it’s a completely different thing to act on impulse and find yourself in the position I’m in now.

After all, I don’t even have a proper cage for her. Sure, I have the dungeon in the basement with a bathroom connected to it that’s shielded from the outside. I’ve never had to put it to the test, but I’m sure there is no way for her to escape, even if she wasn’t tied to the rack.

I have to check, though. I never had to worry about my slaves trying to escape because it was never part of the deal. They were told to act scared and fend me off to a degree, but any attempts of escaping were strictly forbidden by the contract they signed.

A lot of things were laid out in those contracts, and I feel oddly lost now that I lack having one signed with my slave.

I poured myself a scotch after I left her, wandering up and down my living room, twirling the liquid in the glass in my hand as I ponder my next move.

Frankly, I feel like an idiot. This is so unlike me. I’ve never done anything this reckless before. I didn’t even check if anyone saw us when I led her to my car. It’s unlikely anyone paid attention, as the streets were completely empty and no one was leaving or entering the bar at the time, but it can’t be put out of the question. Besides, we didn’t do anything suspicious. She came with me on her own free will. I didn’t grab her and drag her with me as I originally intended, and even as we were driving, she didn’t act out in any way. By the time she was unconscious, we had long left the bright city lights and were driving on an almost empty freeway, unlikely to be seen by anyone.

It’s very, very unlikely that anyone noticed me taking her... but it’s not impossible.

Minutes pass and turn into hours, as I continue my contemplations without getting anywhere. I keep telling myself that I’m putting this distance between her and myself because I want her to calm down and get used to her situation, but who am I kidding? From what I can tell, she’s more comfortable with this than I am.

I need a plan, but I can’t come up with it here, not like this. I empty my scotch and leave the glass on the kitchen counter before making my way to the stairs, only pausing for a second before heading upstairs to the second floor. A few hours of sleep will do the trick, I’m sure.

But sleep is unattainable for me. Every time I close my eyes, I see her in front of me. Her green eyes that are too dark in contrast to her light blond hair and her pale skin, her calm acceptance of her situation, her apathetic response to everything. She might be nothing but a ticking time bomb, and the chances of her exploding are getting greater with every minute that she’s left alone down there.

Or so I hope.

I toss and turn in bed, unwilling to give up the fight against insomnia, while I know that she must be doing the same downstairs, albeit in a less comfortable condition. It will be a while until I can let her be comfortable again.

By the time I see the first beam of warm sunrays casting through my window, I acknowledge defeat and get out of bed. I never close the curtains because I’m used to getting up with the sun, but I definitely prefer getting at least a few hours of sleep in beforehand.

I forego my usual morning workout and take a quick shower, trying to calm my nerves just as much as my body. Every time I think of her, the beautiful little lamb that’s tied to my rack in the basement, I’m fueled with a toxic mix of rage and desire. Her body, her face, her slutty outfit, all of it is driving me insane, but not as much as her naive and calm conduct is. She has been alone in the dark for hours, incapable of moving and scared to death. She must be in a lot of pain by now, and I know I can’t leave her there much longer.

I put on a pair of navy blue jeans and a white shirt that hugs tightly around the muscles I’ve worked so hard to build. I noticed her leering and lusting after me. While I enjoy such compliments as any man would, I’m sure it also fooled her into believing that I am indeed some kind of knight in shining armor and not the beast she should fear.

My heart is racing nervously when I reach for the handle of the door leading downstairs. I have to take a deep breath before I find myself able to open it and face the mess I left behind.

I hold my breath, slowly opening the door, watching as light streams into the room. The curtains have been closed, and she’s been surrounded by complete darkness, unlike me, oblivious to the fact that the sun has risen and it’s the dawn of a new day.

I hear her before I see her, and the sounds she’s making are music to my ears.

She’s sobbing. Sweet, little, desperate sobs that speak of her desperation. It’s the sweetest sound.

She falls silent when she notices me entering the room. I let the door close behind me and switch on the light. The ceiling lights are terribly bright and unforgiving, immediately reminding me why I usually refrain from ever using them. I squint just as much as she does when I approach the rack.

She hasn’t moved an inch from the last time I saw her. Of course she hasn’t, because she can’t. But it doesn’t even look like shetriedto move. Her dress is still hiked up just the way I left it, exposing her bare pussy, only protected by a sheer thong and framed by laced suspenders holding up matching stockings. The only thing she got rid of were her heels. I can see them lying on the ground at the foot end of the stretching bench.

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Nothing but her face matters.

Her face. It almost stops my heart.

She’s not moving an inch, barely breathing, as I position myself next to the rack. Dried up streams of smeared make-up are gracing her pale cheeks and her eyes are framed in deep black crusts. Her quivering lips only show remnants of the bright red lipstick she wore last night, as she moves them in a silent plea for help.

“Please,” she whimpers. “Untie me.”

“Now why would I do that?”

She suppresses another sob, closing her eyes in agony as another tear rolls down her cheek. “Please. It hurts.”

“What hurts?”

She opens her eyes and seeks my gaze.

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