Blackmailed by the Beast

I grab her panties and her small teeth sink into her bottom lip. I pull the cotton material down her thighs, and toss them to the side.

She glares at me, but she says nothing. I lean my face close to hers; I don’t want to miss any change of expression on her face.

My fingers dance along the soft skin of her inner thigh. I expect some token resistance, but she gives none. Well, well. She is not going to tell me to stop, nor does she look like she plans on moving away. She wants me to think she feels nothing, but little goosebumps start appearing on her skin as my fingers move higher and higher up her thigh.

I lean her back gently and she does not resist me. Just looks at me with those enormous blue eyes. I watch the pupils widen, and her mouth part as her breath comes faster. I crave the taste of her mouth so damn much it shocks me, but this is not about my pleasure.

This is about showing my total control of her body. That I can do what I want when I want with her body … now my body.

My fingers brush against the soft triangle of fair hair. She squeezes her eyes when I touch her clitoris. It is engorged with blood. Oh yes, she can lie all she wants, but she is as aroused as I fucking am.

I smile mockingly, and let my fingers wander lower until I feel how slick she is. My thumb remains on her clit and without warning I plunge two fingers into her slit. She gasps, her eyes snapping open with shock, but the expression on her face is one of defiance. She refuses to show me that she is enjoying what I’m doing to her. Her eyes stay glued to me as she tries to control her breathing. She doesn’t expect my fingers to move so deeply inside her.

I’m not gentle. Why should I? She’s loving this rough and after two fucking years of her absence, I deserve this. Hell, this bitch left without saying a fucking word to anyone. All those days, weeks, maybe even months that she must have meticulously planned her departure.

I thrust my fingers in and out of her, hearing the loud sucking sounds of her wet juice on my fingers. Every few thrusts, she grunts or takes in a gasping breath, but she won’t give me the satisfaction of relaxing into it. She stares rebelliously at me.

With one arm holding her steady the other hand fucks her harder and faster. The walls of her pussy begin to tighten. She is so close now. My big plan was to stop. To take her to the edge and just stop. To make her beg for my cock, but I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop. I want to see the look on her face when I bring her to orgasm.

Finally, a low moan escapes her lips.

My thumb rubs against her hardened clit while two fingers search for her G spot. The way she is trying to stifle her moans now tells me that I’ve found it.

She grabs my shoulder and squeezes. I know that she can’t contain herself much longer. She clenches her jaw and looks away momentarily, only she can no longer control herself. Her eyes roll back into her skull. Her body becomes limp for a moment, but that doesn’t make me stop, because I know that she’s ready for something bigger.

Soon she will … come again.

Chelsea lets out a loud scream and her body buckles and then shakes uncontrollably. Her thighs crush my hand, and her toes curl. There is an earthquake going off inside her, but I don’t cease the thrusting of my hard fingers, not even for a moment. She groans so much I can barely hide the excitement in my eyes.

She is mine.

Whether she wants it or not she belongs to me. In my lair. Mine to do whatever I fucking please. Beholden to me until I decide to release her.

Her body is still shaking as her moans drop to soft whimpers. Her muscles take time to relax and her breathing is heavy and ragged, but now I notice that as much as she is trying to avoid staring at me, she can’t. Our eyes lock. There is a strange expression in her eyes. I extract my fingers from her sweet cunt.

I want to taste her orgasm from the tips of my fingers, but now is not the right time. I stand and remove a handkerchief from the pocket in my jacket. Calmly I wipe my fingers on it.

This is called control.

Chelsea has not moved. She is just staring at me with that odd look on her face. I can’t tell if there is anger in her. Her legs are still partially spread and I can see her pussy from here. It is taking all of my self-control to not lay her down and fuck her right on the chair she is seated on.

I am fully erect, but I choose, I force myself not to do anything about that. Not now. Not yet. Soon. Very soon.

I open my mouth to speak, but even better than words will be silence. Deliberately, I put the handkerchief back into my jacket pocket, and I turn away. I close the closet door behind me and suck the one finger I did not wipe.

She tastes like heaven.

Chelsea

I stand in the shower while the warm water rushes down my body. It is one of those massive square shower heads so it kind of feels like I’m standing under a waterfall. I hate to admit it, but I love this bathroom.

Everything about it.

I love the dark blue panels, the marble fireplace, the polished dark wood floor, the double vanity, the deep claw-foot bathtub, the pots of orchids, the gilded candelabras, and this marvelous, marvelous shower.

As the water cascades down my skin, my dazed mind goes back to Thorne. Just minutes ago, I was sitting in my closet and his fingers were deep inside me. Now it feels like a fantasy. Something I dreamed up, something unbelievable. I close my eyes and remember my crazy reaction to the way he treated me, and the explosive way I climaxed.

It’s never happened before.

I just don’t understand what is going on. What has he done to me? I’m supposed to be frigid, but here I am having multiple orgasms and still fantasizing about what he did to me.

My fingertips trace down the front of my body and reach for my clit. I have never been touched like that by anyone before. No one has made me come with their fingers before or given me multiple climaxes. No matter how hard I can still remember the way his thumb felt. I remember trying to resist the pull of him, but as always that was a feat impossible for me. He did it just with his fingers and without trying at all.

My whole life I believed that I always wanted a tender lover, a man who would be considerate and kind; but Thorne is rough with me. He acts like a damn caveman. He takes what he wants, and walks away without so much as a thank you, but instead of being furious he is treating me as just a sexual object, I’m aroused by it.

I thought I wanted the next ninety days to go by as quickly as possible, but that’s all changed now. It’s going to be really hard to continue this façade because I can pretend to hate him as much as I want, but I can’t stop my body from telling him a different story. Worse, I can’t help wondering if the way he makes love is anywhere near as explosive as what he does with his hands.

My clit tingles at the thought.

It’s like I’ve gone from frigid to sex-mad. Even now, I’m desperate to touch myself and replay that scene in my head while I do it, but I can’t. There was a knock a few minutes ago. Anabel sent a reminder that supper is in half-an-hour. I turn off the shower and stand in silence in the warm mist. I open the door and cold air rushes in. A memory hits. Suddenly, I am five years old again…

Twenty Years Ago

“Wake up, Papa. Wake up. There was a storm last night. There’ll be loads and loads of mushrooms in the woods.”

“Awfff … it’s still dark outside and it’s Sunday, little button,” my father groans sleepily.

I shake my father’s shoulder. “But you said we could go look for mushrooms today if it rained.”

“Let’s go tomorrow, okay. The mushrooms are not going anywhere.”

I stare at him in the gloom of my parents’ bedroom. “But I have to go to school tomorrow.”

“Fine. I’ll pick them myself tomorrow. Now go back to bed.”

“No, Papa. I want us to go look for them together,” I insist.

“It’ll be cold and wet now. Can we go this afternoon?” he mumbles.

“No, because the wild boars will come and eat all the best ones.”

My father flings one arm over his eyes. “Who told you there are wild boars on our land?”

“Monsieur Lemarie.”

“Monsieur Lemarie should mind his own business,” my father mutters.

I frown. “He said they come to his land too. He’s seen them. They come and eat the mushrooms before the sun rises.”

My father yawns. “Wild boars have to eat too.”

“Right. I’ll take Momo and go on my own. I know which ones are poisonous,” I say decisively. It’s true. I do know which ones are safe to eat. They are the ones with the spongy undersides. You can’t eat the ones that have gills under their caps. My favorite is the cépe, which is never poisonous. The ones with the pretty pink pores are bitter though.

My father’s eyes pop open suddenly. There is no trace of sleep in them anymore. He looks wide awake and worried. “Don’t you dare go into the woods on your own. Never. Do you understand, Chelsea Appleby?”

I nod sulkily and cross my arms. “All right, but you promised we would go today,” I mutter.

He sighs deeply. “Fine, we might as well go and pick these confounded mushrooms.”

I throw my hands around his warm neck and squeal with delight. He laughs and envelops me within his big, strong farmer’s hands.

“Can the two of you please get out of this bed and let me sleep, please?” mama mumbles irritably from under her pillow.

Papa and I laugh softly as we slide out of the bed. While my father washes up, I run downstairs and wrap up a bit of cheese in a white muslin cloth. Momo looks longingly at the cheese, so I cut a thin slice for him. He wolfs it down real quick and looks up at me with begging eyes again, but Mama says cheese is bad for dogs.

“No more,” I tell him sternly.

Then, I arrange the cheese into a wicker basket with a bottle of water and half of the apple tart Mama baked yesterday. I throw in a damp cloth with which to wipe the mushrooms when we find them, and the special knife with the curved blade that Papa uses to carefully cut off the bottom of the mushroom stems. You can’t just tear mushrooms out by their roots. Monsieur Lemarie says only if you are gentle with them, will they grow back in exactly the same spot so you know exactly where to go to pick them next year.

Once the basket is ready I fetch two sticks from the cupboard under the stairs. The longer one is for Papa and the smaller one is for me. We use them to push aside fallen leaves, and tufts of long grass to find the mushrooms hiding underneath.

By the time Papa gets dressed and comes down the stairs, I am already in my coat and rubber boots. I am so thrilled I can barely stand still. I jump up and down like a rubber ball and Momo does the same. I don’t know if Momo loves mushrooming as much as I do, but he wags his tail and dashes around me in excitement.

Papa stops on the last step and smiles at me.

“Come here,” he says, and crouching down, holds his arms out.

I run into his arms, but I am in no mood for a hug. “Hurry, Papa. I don’t want the wild boars to eat all the mushrooms.”

Papa switches on his powerful torch and we set out into the dark. It is cold and damp. Papa is holding my hand, and I’m lovely and warm in my thick coat. My heart is almost bursting with happy thoughts.

We are like Hansel and Gretel. We might find the witch’s cottage, but it won’t be made with sweets and chocolates, but all the different mushrooms.

Papa says that we will go into Monsieur Lemarie’s woods. He was not feeling very well yesterday. We will pick the mushrooms and surprise him with our haul. I do a little skip. I love Monsieur Lemarie’s woods. It is my most favorite place in the world. It will be nice if we find a lot of mushrooms for him and for us. Mama can cook them for lunch.

We follow the cycle track by the railway and go past the grassy woodland clearing. It is only after we wade knee deep in ferns that I see the shiny new car parked by the edge of the pinewood.

“There’s someone in the woods, Papa,” I say, tugging my father’s hand.

My father frowns and quickens his pace. We enter the woods with its smell of rotting leaves and dark earth. The sky is the color of the slate on our kitchen floor, and the tree barks are pewter. Up ahead we can see a man moving slowly with his torchlight.

“Come on,” Papa says.

I feel a sudden flash of fear in my stomach. I pull back. “No, Papa.”

My father pulls me along.

“Hey, this is private property,” he shouts when we are closer. “You are not allowed to pick mushrooms here without permission.”

After that things happen so fast, I don’t actually see anything, or I just can’t remember. My mind refuses to see or retain. One moment Papa is talking to the man, and the next the man has lunged forward and stabbed Papa right in the middle of his chest with his knife. I just stood there. I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t move. I was frozen. There were no more sounds. I don’t remember anything else until the skies opened, and it began to rain. A light cold drizzle.

Then the nightmare started.

Chelsea

Wrapping myself in a thick, white bathrobe I quickly dry my hair, then pad over to the walk-in closet. I glance at the armchair and I can almost see myself writhing under him. I exhale slowly. I have to stop this.

Thorne is waiting for me. My eyes scan the massive closet. I have no idea what would be deemed appropriate for a dinner with a man who is holding me captive and using me as his sex toy. Then a stray thought enters my head: I want to look nice for him. The thought irritates me and I scowl. Why am I thinking these things?

He can own my body, but never my mind or my heart. That he must never have. Nobody will ever have that.

I walk over to the section of the closet with dresses, and I impatiently pull out the first dress in the row. I hold it up. Cream with a high neckline it is cut to be form fitting until it tapers and gently billows out at the hips. I step into the silky dress and zip it up. Then I walk to the mirror to look at myself.

Wow! It’s beautiful and suits me perfectly.

I choose a comfortable pair of cream shoes with gold heels. I open a drawer and gasp. There are all kinds of accessories. Earrings, chokers, necklaces, bracelets, watches, scarves, metal belts. When Anabel said I should find everything I need here she wasn’t kidding. I choose some simple gold balls for my ears, and an antique gold watch to match. Going to the dressing table I break the cosmetics out of their packages. They are not the cheap and cheerful brands I buy, but the colors are the ones I would normally go for. My look is complete when I put my dark brown hair up into a high bun.

I give myself a once-over in the mirror, but I do not let my eyes linger. I don’t want to stop and think about how much money my outfit must have cost, or the fact that Thorne bought it for me. There is a gentle knock on the door. Theresa is a tiny slip of a girl. She has large anxious eyes and actually curtseys as if I am royalty or something. When I tell her to call me Chelsea, her eyes almost bulge with surprise. I want to be friends with her. Otherwise, my stay in this vast house will be difficult.

She opens the door to the dining room, then backs away the way servants of yore used to do when leaving their master’s presence. I sigh. Nope. I don’t think we’re going to be friends. She is determined to see me as her better.

I look around me. The dining room looks like it has held many state dinners. The table is a long mahogany Munich table with about 60 dining chairs to match. Each chair has a dark purple cushion with intricate patterns in various shades of purple. The chairs that are on both ends of the table have armrests with a carved lion lying and resting. I can see that the walls of this grand dining hall have golden wallpaper on the top half. The wallpaper is striped, with some areas as matte gold and the others have a nice bright sheen. There is crown molding and carvings of cherubs and muses along the ceiling that lead to three crystal chandeliers that hang high above the dining table. The bottom half of the wall has a similar white molding with carvings all along it.

I see that

the dining chair farthest from me has table settings, and I walk over to it. Just then, Thorne’s butler steps out from a doorway nearest to the chair that I am about to sit in. He pulls out the chair for me, and I sit.

“Mr. Thorne apologizes for his absence, Miss Appleby,” the butler says.

“Oh? He won’t be joining me?” I try to hide the disappointment in my voice.

The butler smiles. Long enough for me to notice, but no longer, then he shakes his head. “No, Miss Appleby. Mr. Thorne is busy, but the Chef, Mr. Parchment, has prepared what Master Thorne believes are some of your favorite dishes.”

I am stunned. What an incredible memory the man has. I only ever remember mentioning foods that I liked in passing while we were talking about an email that required us to state our food preference for a conference we were attending, and that was more than two years ago. This must be how he beats his competitors all the time. Details and control are his business. It suddenly dawns on me; that’s his thing. Control.

“Thank you so much, Mr. …,” I trail away, as I realize I never got his name when I first arrived at the house.

“Just James,” he says, with a slight bow of his head.

“Thank you, James.” I smile at him.

He nods politely. “May I bring you an aperitif? I believe Mr. Thorne mentioned you might enjoy a dry martini.”

I exhale slowly. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

He nods and disappears behind the door from whence he came. I drink my perfectly shaken drink while standing by the window and looking out into the dreamily-lit formal garden. There is a massive fruit bowl filled with all kinds of ripe fruit. I look at the nectarines and feel my mouth begin to water. I haven’t eaten since I’ve arrived and now I’m starving.

Afterwards, he serves me my favorite dishes. The Chef is superb and he manages to make leek and potato soup and shepherd’s pie not only taste better than any I have had, but also look like they should be served in a top restaurant. The chocolate brownie is warm and gooey in the center, and the ice cream is homemade, and of course, it is to die for, but the whole time the thoughts that are most prevalent in my mind are: