A Marriage of ConveniencebyIldana©
Hi, readers! This is my first attempt at a submission here. This will be a multi-part story, otherwise it would be really long. It starts a little slow and will build with time... but hey, the long, slow tease is the best! Amirite? ;) I welcome and value feedback. Enjoy!
* * * *
Sara came to in a most unbecoming position.
The first thought that impinged on her consciousness was that her shoulders and knees ached, a sort of half-numb griping of joints held in an unnatural position. The tips of her fingers and toes twitched, pins and needles stinging as sensation came back to her extremities.
Her head was killing her.
It wasn't for several minutes that her brain began pulling the scattered puzzle pieces into order.
Sara realized that she was upright, sitting on her knees, ankles tied and hands bound at the wrist. Her hands were loosely clasped together, a mockery of prayer, hanging in front of her face.
Naked. She was naked!
Adrenaline poured through her system, icy and clear. Confusion and fatigue slithered away under its chill touch, and Sara rapidly began to think through the pain.
What was going on?
Why was she like this?
Where was she?
No immediate answers were forthcoming, so Sara rewound her tape a little more.
Her last few memories were hazy.
A party? A club.
Dance music had pounded, pulling her heartbeat into sync. The darkness there was a living thing, glistening with the sweat and breath of dozens of writhing bodies under strobing lights.
Her body had twisted and spun, glancing off the flesh of strangers as she danced, brain buzzing, her skin hot and slick to the touch.
A drink had been pressed into her hand, which she laughingly guzzled. She had been so thirsty.
Hands grasped her hips from behind, pulling her close, moving her into rhythm with a new dancer. Closing her eyes, she had let herself be swept into his lead.
Anonymous pleasure of contact with someone she'd never meet again.
The stranger had held her close while he spun the world around them. It had felt so good.
* * * *
That night, she had been celebrating her last evening as a single female.
Well, mostly her friends had celebrated. She had wondered, partly, whether she was making the biggest mistake of her life. The other part of her had been wondering whether she could escape the squealing women guzzling mixed drinks from penis-shaped straws without being missed. It seemed pretty unlikely.
Sara was a 25 year old virgin. As such, her friends considered it their duty to gleefully rectify her ignorance. Sex had been the topic all evening. It had been sharing notes on toys, and lamentations about the inadequacies of men, and whispered confessions about how frequently they shaved their upper thighs.
So excruciatingly dull. Horrifying? Not to mention. If she had to hear anything more about Jenna's husband and how much he liked to reprise and act out fantasy movies in sex-play, she really might end up committing a homicide and locking herself up in therapy.
They didn't get it. Her friends didn't understand that she wasn't completely ignorant about sex; she just wasn't interested. She had been on a few dates, engaged in some awkward fencing with tongues, let a few paws slip up her shirt. She had not been stirred during these excursions into the dating scene; the guys were like eager puppies, and it was boring and crude.
Sara privately questioned what right she had to be getting married when she didn't give a damn about things like what underwear would please her man, but she said nothing and sucked on her Cosmopolitan, letting conversation wash. Her fiance seemed content with her the way she was. Then again, Sara's engagement had been more like a business transaction than a pronouncement of feeling—a fact she had carefully concealed from her friends and family when she announced her good news and intentions to elope. Johann's request, of course, but one she was happy enough to oblige. He was a successful businessman and an aspiring major-league politician. Also... big, ostentatious weddings sucked.
Their entire relationship seemed to play out like a game of chess, or maybe a string of favours. She expected the sex to be no different. I'll dutifully spread my legs for you on this Thursday at 10 pm after our appearance together at your fundraiser. You give me an allowance for being your devoted wife in front of the camera and let me go about my business otherwise.
Distasteful, but eminently doable for the big payoff. No more questions about why she never brought a boyfriend home, or whether she might be gay. Room and board, security money towards retirement, and someone to have dinner with that maybe someday she might actually really feel something for. Arranged marriages worked for people in the Indian culture, after all. Why should she be any different, as long as she had no prospects of her own?
The evening dragged on with games, giggling, and copious amounts of alcohol. Sara had already had so much to drink she was beginning to feel sleepy.
And then there had been a stripper.
Sara assumed he was reasonably attractive, but she wasn't interested enough to take a serious look. In fact, she had barely looked at him at all during his routine. Bless his heart, he had taken that as a challenge. He made himself impossible to ignore.
Sara was yanked out of her chair and pulled face-to-chest with the man; he was well over six feet tall and she was a piddling 5'4". He forced her thighs apart with his knee before she caught her balance. Startled, she looked up into his face, seeing a satisfied smile on his lips and green, green eyes. He took her right hand and set it on his well-defined shoulder as he splayed his palm in the small of her back. With a quick tug, he pulled her off-balance again and caught her weight on his thigh.
That had gotten her attention.
She held on to him, her other hand pressed to the hard planes of his chest. He felt like steel sheathed in flesh, hot to the touch and lightly glazed with oil and sweat. He danced with her, was leading her motions with brute force, using his hand on her back to pull her hips towards him in erotic mimicry. The muscles of his thigh rubbed hard against the crotch of her jeans and the friction set her ablaze.
Her friends were forgotten; her vision shrank to encompass a world no larger than a piercing green gaze and his Mona Lisa smile. The man watched her with an intent, almost clinical detachment as her pleasure skyrocketed. In the mere seconds that he had her under his control, he had brought her to the throbbing brink of orgasm.
Before she could tip over the edge, he abruptly deposited her back into her chair, segueing ever-so-smoothly into a lap dance. Her friends cheered. Dazed, Sara's eyes glazed over as she realized how close she had come to cumming in front of an audience of her closest friends. Adrenaline raced through her system, pushed along by her thundering heart as she slumped in the chair.
The stripper had thawed the ice queen, and he wasn't about to let her forget it. Straddling her, he fisted his right hand into her hair, holding her helpless while he mimed making love to her mouth in exaggerated thrusts, the other ladies egging him on.
While the stripper was pretending to fuck her face, Sara had an epiphany. Under the eyes of others, caught by the hair, suddenly... Somehow, everything began to fall into place, complete in a way it hadn't been before.
She was turned on.
Really turned on.
It had been like a train wreak. Sara's eyes gravitated to the bulge in that bedazzled, banana-hammocked crotch thrusting itself into her face; she couldn't look away. She brought her hands up to stroke the pattern of downy blonde fuzz drawing a path south from his navel. Before she thought better of it, she set her hands to peel back that flimsy excuse for a garment and have a better look.
Quick as a blink, the stripper caught her hands in his own and knelt in front of her, pulling temptation out of reach. The sudden laughter of her friends brought her back to awareness, and with that realization that they were avidly watching her reaction, she felt a curious jolt of electricity run through her veins. To take the sting out of his rejection, he nuzzled her ear and met her gaze. A half-smile lurked on his lips, but his eyes were unfathomable.
A rush of feelings too complex to identify swamped her. She dropped her hands, chagrined. God, she was such a basket case.
The stripper had left, and Sara felt drained enough to want to call it a night, but the mood among the girls was supercharged. After a parting round of shots of tequila to recharge, they enthusiastically packed Sara up and went to a night club of questionable repute where the booze was cheap, the bass was heavy, and someone had managed to slip her something in her glass.
* * * *
Sara no longer worried about such trivialities as nudity. In the haze of her hangover, she was more worried that her arms were going to fall off if she couldn't put them down.
This was assuming that her skull didn't explode first. Or she died of thirst.
She glanced upwards again. Her hands were bound facing each other in thick leather cuffs attached to a chain that dangled from a hole in the ceiling. Sara was almost positive, judging by the metal collar on the hole around the chain, that there was a spooling mechanism up there that she couldn't see. Right over a king-sized bed, on which she was kneeling.
Squinting a little in the light, she examined the leather cuffs around her hands. The manacles hung tantalizingly close. The buckles were on the far side, but perhaps if she lifted herself up she could get enough slack to undo them with her teeth.
The sound of a door shutting behind her startled Sara so badly that her vision went grey and sparkly. She turned her head injudiciously fast, flinching at the stabbing pain behind her eyeballs, unable to see over her shoulder clearly. Then a mechanism ground to life, retracting the loose chain.
Sara whimpered as her arms were drawn up, and then she was forced to stand on her knees as the chain pulled her even higher. She never felt so exposed and vulnerable in her life, bound and unbalanced, naked and under the eye of a stranger she couldn't see.
"Leave me alone," she rasped, thick-tongued, "or I'll scream."
The voice that responded was male and accented. "You can scream if you like, love," he said. "It won't be worth the effort."
While she was deciding whether or not he was bluffing, a heavy weight descended on the bed behind her, and a warm hand slid up her lower back. Startled, she shrieked. And then, since she had already started, she threw a fit, twisting in her bonds, and screaming at the top of her lungs.
It was a short-lived tantrum. The effort exhausted her, and the pain in her head was blinding enough to subdue her quickly. Hair fell into her eyes, sticking to the perspiration on her forehead.
"I told you so," he said, the hand continuing to caress up her spine with overt familiarity.
"Don't touch me, you ass."
"I hate to point out the obvious, sweetheart, but you're hardly in the position to make any demands." He continued to trail his fingers over her lightly, following the curve of her hip while she dangled. His feathering over her skin made her break out in goosebumps. "You know, you've got the sweetest little pair of back dimples I've ever seen, lovey," he bent down to kiss them with an open mouth, flicking them with his tongue. The warmth of his breath on the wetness sparked an intense pulse of pleasure through her.
Sara gasped as her nipples peaked hard, and she tried to pull away from his questing tongue.
"Mmm. Did you like that?"
"You're a liar, lovey," he murmured, running fingers up her neck and fisting into her hair. His other hand slid around her face, sifting her earlobe through his thumb and fingers. "But I don't mind testing your outer limits to see how long you can deny it. You are going to be so much fun to play with."
Alarm began to jangle through Sara's nerves.
"You're a crazy serial killer," her voice shook. "You're going to peel my skin off and make a
coat or something."
He laughed at her, but gently. "No."
"Why are you doing this to me? Is it money? I can get you money."
"No." He nibbled lightly along one of her shoulders.
"Are you going to rape me?" she whispered.
"Maybe," his voice rippled with amusement, "but I don't think I'll have to."
Indignation began to replace the alarm. "You think I'm just going to spread my legs for you? You sure think a lot of yourself. Get bent."
The bed shifted; she felt his warmth radiating against her back as he moved closer, pressing his chest up against her. "Really? You wouldn't even consider it if I promised to let you go?"
Sara hesitated. "Would you let me go if I did?"
Exasperated, she tried to turn her head to look at him, but she was held fast by her hair. "Stop playing games with me," she ground out. "What do you want?"
"Right now? Just you," he said absently, his other hand beginning to stroke lazily up her thigh to her hip. Her skin felt strange where he touched her, glowing with its own heat. An echo of that inner fire started in her belly. Her heart was beating so hard she was sure he could hear it.
She scoffed, trying to cover up her nervousness. "And you couldn't have me unless you drugged me tied me up, asshole. You probably couldn't get any woman to sleep willingly with you. Does it make you feel more manly to club me like a neanderthal and drag me home to your cave rather than seduce me like a normal human being. What a big score for your male prowess."
"Mmm." He sounded amused. His hand caressed the front of her thigh, stroking lightly over the front of her hip. "I think you agree that the caveman method isn't without its own charm."
Sara twitched, trying not to moan or laugh at the intense tickling of his fingers. Her brain was running a million miles an hour in circles, and she was trying to ignore the sensations of his fingers. Impugning his honour and arguing was getting her nowhere. Time to beg.
"Please. Please let me go?"
"In good time, love. As much as I would like to, I can't keep you here forever," he breathed in her ear.
Sara hoped that meant he'd leave her alive when he was done toying with her. "Do you promise?" she asked, clinging to hope.
"Mm hm." His hand slid around to her lower belly, feathering a line upwards over her navel.
She quivered in response.
"I don't like—I can't have sex with you."
"Relax, love. You may as well enjoy it."
"No, you don't understand..."
"If I was any ordinary guy, no doubt you would be right. But if I were an ordinary guy, you and I... we wouldn't be in this situation. Relax, love. I know you better than you think." His hand continued up along her breastbone, the inside of his wrist gliding over her left nipple. It hardened again, so quickly that the pucker of flesh made her gasp. He pressed his crotch closer against her backside, and to her mortification, she realized a smouldering fire was burning between her legs, perilously close to combustion. "See?"
Sara panicked. "If you want me to cooperate, I will, as long as you don't hurt me. Just let me go. I'll do whatever you want. Please, let me go!"
She imagined he was smiling. "Stop trying to bargain with me, Sara. We're playing by a set of rules that don't require any cooperation on your part at all."
"Why are you doing this?" She asked again, shaking.
"You keep asking that. Is it a philosophical question? How about, 'because I can?'"
The hand began to travel downward again, towards her groin. It threatened to stir the coals into flame. She felt intensely ashamed of herself and her response to his touch.
Oh god, what if he noticed that she was aroused?
"Stupid reason. Let me go!"
"Mmmm... no." His breath warmed a small spot on her shoulder that chilled between exhales.
She tried another tack, feeling desperate. "Please, I have a boyfriend. I'm supposed to be getting married."
The hand holding her hair let go, and the bed creaked as he moved.
A shadow crossed into her line of sight. The man was tall and lean, with a perfect physique hiding in plain sight behind a tight t-shirt and fashionably distressed low-riding jeans. He was beautifully built and doubtless vain about it; his clothing was as carefully cultivated as his dirty blonde hair with the platinum highlights gelled into a stylish bedhead. But it was his eyes that arrested her thoughts—stunningly green and cunning. His generous lips slanted into a predatory smile and all he said was: "I know you're getting married."
Sara thought her heart might seize. "You're the stripper!"
"The very same." His smile grew wider.
A hundred questions crowded into her brain, but what blurted out was, "You followed us to the club after you left?" Then her brows drew down. "You drugged me. You think what happened at the party was a good enough reason to slip me a Mick and cart me off for a romp before I go off and get married, and for whatever reason, you think maybe I'll keep this secret for the rest of my married life? Well the joke's on you, buddy! I'm a virgin," she crowed, "and my fiance knows it! When he takes me to bed you'd think he'd notice a little thing like, oh, not being a virgin anymore!"
Of all the possible reactions he could have given to her rant, she did not expect him to smile like a Cheshire cat. It made her blood run cold.
Oh. Shit. Okay, I'll just shut up now.
Maybe he was planning to rape her, snuff her, and dump her in a ditch after all. The bondage equipment she was tied up to wasn't exactly a pair of fuzzy pink love cuffs from the local Adam and Eve. This was some serious stuff. The hair on her neck prickled painfully.
He laughed at her. "You look like I plan to eat your liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti."
Sara averted her eyes.
He walked back to the door, retrieving something, before he stepped back into her line of sight holding a cup with a straw in one hand and a couple of pills in the other. "I come with a peace offering of Asprin and water. Relax, love. I don't work as a cannibal psychiatrist."
He put the pills to her lips until she took them, reluctantly, and washed it down with the water. She sucked at the straw greedily, wanting to drink as much as she could in case he decided not to be so generous later. She flicked her eyes to his before dropping her gaze again. "You're a cannibal stripper?"
He leered at her. "I only moonlight as a stripper on special request, but I do frequently eat women," he made a rude gesture, wriggling his tongue between his fingers in the age-old gesture of eating pussy.
Sara's head throbbed, and she felt ill equipped to wrestle her way through riddles and half-truths. "So what's your real job?"
Ah, well. I suppose you could say I'm in human resources," he said jokingly.
For a moment, she was baffled. "Human resources?"
"Yes. I manage and train personnel." His hand slid up and squeezed her left breast, hard, making her cry out involuntarily. He winked at her.
She hung her head.
"How long are you going to keep me like this?"
He smiled. "Until I'm done with you. You need to accept that your place, until I tell you otherwise, is with me."
Around and round in circles. Sara realized that she didn't really want to hear any more. She was being held hostage by insanity, no longer sure there was any possibility she'd escape from this without losing something of herself.
Even as she absorbed her defeat, however, her blood began boiling. Goddamnit. She might not be able to escape now, but if she gave up, she'd never be able to. There was no reason to just roll over and spread her legs without making him fight for it.