1
Annie
The plane had landed. Now maybe Kie would take her hand off my breast.
She'd held it there for longer than I thought I could have kept my hand up and my arm extended. She didn't seem to have lost blood and or feeling in the arm. She wasn't doing anything in particular. Just touching me because I didn't want her to. Because she could and I couldn't stop her.
She was doing it because I hated it.
I hated her and that was mutual. Kie Geddes had done something to me during a dinner party that had hurt me so bad she was actually disciplined for it. Disciplined in ways I couldn't imagine. In a circle of crazy billionaires who believe they own the women they share BDSM relationships with, punishing one submissive for hurting another meant that hurt had been extreme.
It had been. But when Kie was punished for it, she became a dangerous enemy in the circle of people I was stuck in.
And the weird thing was, that had become some measure of a normal night in my life.
The plane had landed. Now maybe Vincent would take his hand out from between my legs. He hadn't been doing anything with it anymore than Kie had been doing anything. Not really. It just amused him that I couldn't stop him. They were like a pair of psychopathic eight year olds. If eight year olds could be sexual deviants.
Also, although Vincent wasn't doing anything with that hand, it did hold a straight razor pressed up against the seam of my lightweight, not all that protective, running shorts. I suppose it was some manner of control or even protection. In his mind. Just in case I decided to fight him or Kie.
While strapped into my seat. With my hands cuffed behind me. On an airborne airplane.
The plane had landed and I had no idea where we were. Vincent Geddes, billionaire, didn't have to buy tickets and produce boarding passes. He didn't even have to charter a flight. He owned the plane that brought us here.
Wherever here was.
He owned the men in black who came onboard carrying assault rifles. Because it was his plane and they were his men.
And now I was his captive.
I had a raging headache from whatever drug they'd injected me with when they took me. I was so thirsty I wanted to cry for water but I wasn't willing to ask for it.
The people who had kidnapped me weren't going to give me water anyway, not until they were ready and not because I'd asked for it. Even if they did, I probably wouldn't like how they did it. Waterboarding. Or sticking my face into a sink and holding it there. Or using some other less than normal way of getting water into my body. They'd spent the car ride before the flight telling me all the vile things they were going to do to my body while they kept me in their custody. All the sexual things. All the degrading things. All the things that would hurt so bad I'd beg for the first two things again.
The only rule was that nothing that was done to me, no matter how bad it hurt, could be permanent. No permanent harm. No bodies modified forever. But I wasn't sure how far that rule stretched because the people who had me now - They weren't the man I was supposed to be with.
Vincent Geddes was not the man who had auctioned me off at a dinner party – the man was the one who supposedly had bought me from a man I never even considered to have owned me, a bad Seattle PD cop who had been my "handler" when I was undercover. The man who "bought" me – that man was my Master. I was a crap submissive. But he was one hell of a dominant.
Cole St. Martin. He was beautiful and deadly and deviant and sexually inventive in ways I'd never believed existed. He could cause exquisite pain and exquisite pleasure that I didn't want to think about.
Either of them.
I'd been sold to him under the pretense that the cop doing the selling had such a right, and under the belief that Cole was helping me beat my opiate addiction. The CEO of a multinational pharma company, he was working with rainforest products to create drugs that could combat my addiction.
The tradeoff was my submission.
No. The tradeoff was days and nights and weeks and months in his southern Nevada desert compound, surrounded by guards, stripped at his pleasure, beaten for his pleasure, fucked for both our pleasures.
Not that I'd ever tell him that. There were things I couldn't even tell myself. About the first time I ran from his southern Nevada compound, all the way back to Seattle where I found normal life – even as normal a life as a deep cover narcotics cop ever managed to live – untenable. When a return to real life turned out to mean a return to all the stressors that had driven me to try fet – fentanyl – in the first place meant I went back to it again, I started searching for Cole. Because wherever that compound of his was, I had been taken there blindfolded.
He's the billionaire CEO of a pharmaceutical company. He should be easy enough to find. But when the billionaire CEO of a pharmaceutical company decides to disappear and have some privacy - That's exactly what he does. I couldn't find him.
The people in the San Francisco sex clubs where I went looking couldn't find him either. At least that's what they told me, though one of them reported my search and my whereabouts to Cole. They weren't helpful that way, but they were willing to play with me.
I still couldn't admit to the things I'd done. I couldn't even kid myself I'd been trying to get information.
I'd been trying to get off. Afraid that I'd never find Cole, afraid that I'd never again feel his hands on me, I'd gone looking for a substitute. Physically I'd found many of the same things. Emotionally? Not even close. And I so wasn't willing to admit that.
The instant he found me and took me back, all the longing and searching and need for sensation drained out of my head and like a sane person, I realized that pain hurts and sex doesn't save you and I started to fight him again.
That either makes me a good and exciting submissive or an idiot. Or maybe it's normal. I'd found that however much I thought I wanted something, some promised punishment from Cole, like he was going to crop me or take a paddle to my ass or a whip to my back or a cane to the back of my thighs? No matter how wet thinking about it made me, when it was actually happening - It hurt.
That should have reduced the craving. It didn't. Need and want would build up again over the days until something happened and he punished me again. Then I'd hate him. Then I'd plan how to get out of the remote desert compound and back to civilization where maybe I could get myself into an actual rehab program. As if I didn't know how often those failed.
I needed him. I needed his rainforest cure. I needed to get straight and get back to my life in Seattle with Mark. My job. To go back undercover. To make a difference. I needed to be able to face my father, my role model for police work, with my head held high and my opiates behind me. And to get that, I needed Cole.
Life with Cole St. Martin had become some weird form of normal for me. I'd resist. He'd insist. I'd fight. And he'd beat me or fuck me or –
Auction me off to another billionaire, the proceeds of which – this amused the billionaires in their little wife-swapping and submissive-swapping group – going to combat sex trafficking.
Isn't that funny? It certainly cracked them up.
But Cole. He'd auctioned me and that was a fuck up. Because Vincent placed the highest bid, a whopping $5.5 million. All for a good cause.