rack.
Once it was all pushed down inside the darkness of her purse, she rested the crook of her elbow over the opening again, for extra camouflage, in case prying eyes should happen to look too closely as she left the shop. Four hundreds dollars’ worth? Really? The tiny skirt was easy enough to conceal. It was an obscene price for a leather mini, anyway, she rationalized. Even for a skirt as sexy and well-made as this one, that was too much money. She could smell the richness of fine leather wafting from the other skirts still on the rack in front of her as she glanced sideways again. All quiet. Not a soul in the shop but her and the guy behind the counter. And he was still gone.
God, that was really just too easy.
She felt her lips pursing together a little in spite of herself, barely suppressing her self-satisfaction. Still, no reason to be cocky. She’d planned this carefully enough in advance. Stupid thieves were always being caught because they didn’t think things through, or they became too brazen, too greedy. The news was full of dumb criminal stories. She’d resolved not to be one of them.
Mia shifted her weight a little in her black heels and then took a few small steps down the aisle toward the ball gags, crops, hoods…glancing sideways again toward the cash register, now bathed in the soft greenish glow of a banker’s lamp on the counter. The dimmer-than-usual lighting meant that Flesh Factory—the largest kinky sex emporium and BDSM equipment supplier in the city—was empty, about to close for the night, which was exactly what she had counted on. But even as the last customer of the day, she’d taken no chances and sent the lone employee—friendly, handsome, ever-so-helpful “Michael”—on an errand to the stockroom to check for fence-net thigh-highs she knew he wouldn’t find. They didn’t even carry them anymore. She knew the stripper-wear section well and pretty much owned one of everything they sold by now.
She continued to pretend to browse, exhaling another slow breath. It was exciting, breaking the law. She’d done it. And now the leather skirt was hers. All that was left to do was make a hasty yet friendly exit shortly after Michael returned, apologetic and empty-handed, from the goose chase she’d sent him on.
The short, low-cut white dress she’d worn tonight—no bra, of course—had been extra insurance that she’d have his cooperation. The idea was to disengage his brain while engaging his cock, and she’d noted earlier, with pleasure, that her chosen outfit had indeed done just that. The bulge in Michael’s jeans confirmed it more than once, even before she’d made a point of bending to examine sale items set on a low shelf. Oh, but men were so easily entranced, so easily guided. And she knew now that her bare pussy and the twin curves of her ass just peeking from under the tight white fabric of her dress had done the trick with Michael. Plus it just made her feel sexy and like a bad girl; the playful exhibitionist side of her submissive tendencies, she supposed, now helping her steal a skirt.
Her thoughts snapped back to the present. A voice. Michael’s.
“Sorry…Mia, was it? Looks like we don’t even carry those anymore. I can call the supplier tomorrow, if you want, and see if we can special order them. That could take a few weeks, though. You probably don’t want to wait…” He shrugged and turned a key in the register, locking it for the night.
She smiled at him.
“Oh no…Michael. Sorry for the trouble. I just thought—”
He was still aroused, his erection huge and straining in his jeans, and he was making no effort to hide it now. He’d come around the counter and was looking her up and down, his dark eyes taking in her nipples, the corners of his mouth turning up, approving. His eyes then moved down to her long tanned legs in the black heels.
“Love the white dress.”
“Thanks. Look, it’s late and I’ve already kept you from closing up on time. I gotta get going. But thanks again for checking on the fence-net stockings.” Her elbow squeezed the shoulder bag in closer to her body as she turned toward the exit. Another rush of satisfaction flooded her. She’d just scored a premium leather miniskirt and was about to walk right out the door with it and leave a hunky guy with a huge hard-on.
“You have a good night, then,” she heard his husky voice calling behind her. The red neon of the “open” sign in the front window flickered a little, buzzing, and then went black. Maybe he couldn’t wait to get her out of the store. Probably wants to jerk off.
Her hand closed around the doorknob when she sensed someone moving up quickly behind her. Before she could turn, a large hand encircled her throat as an arm clamped around her belly, pulling her backward. It happened so fast.
A deep male voice—not Michael’s—breathed into her ear.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
* * *
She went limp. And aphasic. Unable to summon even a fight-or-flight response. Blurry edges of thoughts flashed and then retreated. The hand around her throat allowed her to make a low, garbled noise, but she couldn’t scream. This was real; this was happening. She felt a second set of strong arms grab at her arm. The purse was ripped away from her, sent flying.
If they had a knife, she never saw it. Her feet dragged in the high heels, struggling to find solid ground as two men moved her across the floor like an awkward piece of furniture. The pain of their bruising grips kept her gasping, even as instinct for survival told her to yield. A new rush of fear exploded in her as she felt a cold rush of air—the white dress shoved up her thighs, way up. Her bare pussy and ass were exposed and vulnerable.
“Fucking thieving little slut doesn’t even bother to wear panties. I’ve had to watch this cunt for an hour, putting on a show in the front.” Michael’s voice. His tone told her this wasn’t just about the theft of the skirt.
A door swung open, and she was shoved through the threshold and into a dim room she assumed was the stockroom—the same room she’d sent Michael to earlier while she’d swiped the skirt. She stumbled across slick dark tile, tripped in the heels, and fell to her knees. She crawled a few feet to a wall, instinctively, as if cowering near a vertical surface would somehow shield her from them. She looked out at the two men who hovered near her, feeling like a cornered animal. Their leering expressions unnerved her as much as the thought that she was now alone with them and out of range of any help. Who would hear her even if she did scream? Her purse was gone, left in the other room, the cell phone inside it. Her breath came in shallow pants, her chest rising and falling. She dipped her chin, lowering her eyes to look at the dark tile before her, focusing on her breathing, trying to calm herself, to think. She’d try to talk her way out of this.
“Fuck you. You can’t prove shit!” she spat, looking up at both men. Fear made her go on the defensive and spew bravado—or at least what she hoped passed for such. What the fuck did they want with her? So she’d swiped a skirt. Big deal. These guys didn’t exactly look like they’d walk a grandmother across a busy intersection. Why didn’t they just call the cops? She could explain it all. It was a misunderstanding. A big misunderstanding.
The second man’s eyes narrowed. “I’d shut up and do as you’re told if I were you, you shoplifting slut. You’re going to pay for that skirt you stole now. Just not…in cash.”
Even in the semidarkness she could see that he was strikingly handsome. Dark shoulder-length hair and a goatee, a muscular lean frame that had to be at least six foot three. His veined forearms were covered with black and gray ink. Both men were fumbling with buttons at the waistbands of their jeans and moving toward her.
Oh God.
Mia squinted, still trying to get her bearings. Her gaze fixed on an object just a few feet from her, centered in the amber of a small spotlight mounted on a crossbeam above it: a heavy polished wooden bench of some kind. Two vertical posts had thick metal cuffs dangling from each just a few inches from the floor. Spanning between the posts, at about waist height, was a black padded surface just wide enough for a human body to be folded over, ass out, bound and helpless. Mia’s pulse raced again.
Lengths of rope, whips, canes
, and every other kind of kinky implement imaginable were arranged on the dark painted walls and displayed on shelving. All organized, yes, but not packed or boxed or marked for sale. This wasn’t inventory. This was a working dungeon. She’d never seen so much kinky equipment in one room. Only in pictures on the internet. This was real. Mia’s eyes strained to adjust as a muted golden glow—sconces on the walls—came up slightly.