The True Measure of Love Ch. 01

I could tell something was wrong as soon as I opened the door the apartment. Jasmine, the love of my life for the past two years, always had time to straighten up the house despite the demands of her job. I helped as well, of course, believing that the best relationships are based on equal responsibility. On the weekends, I would wake up early and quietly tidy up the place before making breakfast for us both and bringing it in to my sleeping beauty.

The living room was a shambles. The cushions from the furniture were tossed about the place. The collection of magazines and bowl of candies that normally adorned the guest table were strewn across the carpeted floor. The telephone was pulled out of the wall and lay in a jumbled heap on the other side of the room.

"Jasmine?" I called out as I entered and shut the door. "Honey, are you here? Are you all right?"

Silence was my only answer. I set down my briefcase and removed my tie, letting the richness of its silk fabric ebb through my fingers as I looked into the kitchen. My gaze was drawn to the block of unfinished wood that held a set of kitchen knives. I stepped over slowly to it, pausing to finger the sole empty slot in its display of sheathed blades.

"Serrated bread knife," I murmured to myself. It was big and menacing, I mused, capable of inflicting a wicked wound on exposed flesh. My brow knit as I glanced at a small scar on my left index finger where that same knife had left a reminder for me to be more careful in the future. It was the perfect weapon to intimidate someone. I called out for Jasmine again, a little louder this time, but there was still no answer.

The apartment's bedroom was less disturbed than the living room but the bed covers were thrown akimbo and the lamp from the nightstand lay on the floor, its bulb broken. The covers were darkened by spots of dampness, especially near the head of the bed. The top drawer of the dresser was open -- the place Jasmine stored the fancy lingerie and delicate negligee she would wear for my eyes alone.

While we were equals in everything else, Jasmine ruled the bedroom. She must have sensed that need in me, that basic insecurity due to lack of experience in such matters. She was patient, comforting and yet subtly demanding, always taking the lead. The year before, she bound me to the bed with scarves and stockings and had her deliciously wicked way with me for the better part of a night and a day.

Since then, we spent much of our available earnings on a large plastic tackle box and had filled it with various toys and restraints that she gleefully used on me time and again. I had spent many happy weekends as a helpless prisoner of that bedroom, squirming in cat's cradles of rope, while expressing my wanton desire and climatic pleasures in smothered moans through gags of various types.

The box now lay open next to the closet door, its contents spilling out onto the carpet. My eyes widened in realization as I studied it. Several lengths of silk rope and a ball gag were missing. I felt my panicked pulse quicken as I drew shallow breaths, desperately suppressing an urge to cry out her name at the top of my lungs. I issued a bitter, shuddering sob before noticing the bathroom door was slightly ajar.

I slowly pushed the door open. A sodden bath towel lay on the floor, amid the scattered contents of Jasmine's cosmetics and toiletries. Her wooden handled hairbrush lay in the sink. I picked it up, remembering the time she had turned me over her knee and applied its back to my posterior with several firm but loving strokes when I arrived home late from the office.

Hot tears burned my cheeks as I clung to my memories of her -- of her long dark hair framing green eyes and night-pale features smiling at me just before we embrace. I relished the warm touch of her lips when we kiss, just before she forces her hot, wet tongue between mine. I longed for the pleasant swell of her bosom against my chest, the delicate scent of perfume on her skin, the music of her laughter...

The cell phone in my pants pocket warbled, snapping me out of my longings and back to the present. I fumbled it out and checked the number and saw that it was Jasmine's cell phone. I hastily flipped the phone open. "Jasmine?" I practically yelled, "Honey, are you all right?"

"No, Jonathan," said a calm but firm feminine voice at the other end. "I am Jasmine's kidnapper."

It took several rapids beats of my racing heart for that to register. With that realization, came an unnatural calm. I took a slow, trembling breath and blew it out before speaking. "Is Jasmine all right?" I asked in a lower tone of voice.

"While she is not entirely comfortable," replied the woman's voice, "she is unharmed."

"What do you want?" I asked.

The woman chuckled softly a moment before answering. "You are surprisingly focused, given the situation," she said. "That is good. You will need to be focused if you ever want to see her again."

"You didn't answer my question," I said, letting some irritation creep into my voice.

"Do not take that tone of voice with me, Jonathan," said the woman with an undercurrent of malice. "Let's make this perfectly clear at the start -- I will make demands of you, and you will obey. If you fail to follow my instructions precisely, Jasmine disappears from your life, never to return." There was a pause before she continued. "Do you understand?"

I closed my eyes and fought down the urge to scream at the disembodied voice. "I understand," I said at last.

"First and foremost," said the woman, "have you contacted the authorities or anyone else concerning Jasmine's disappearance?"

"No," I replied. "Not a soul."

"Keep it that way," replied the woman. "You will not involve anyone else in this matter -- NO ONE. Is that clear?"

"It's just between us and Jasmine," I agreed. "Just please don't hurt her," I added with my voice cracking.

"Steady, Jonathan," assured the voice with a touch of sympathy. "As long as you do what I say, I won't. Compose yourself, and then I will tell you what to do."

Twenty minutes later, I was walking toward a small mom-and-pop motel that was nestled into a run-down residential neighborhood. I still wore my plain white dress shirt (sans tie), belted khakis and polished leather dress shoes from work. I stepped through the door to the office and rang the antique bell on the counter. A young woman in a pink t-shirt with her blonde hair tied back into a ponytail stepped through the beaded curtain.

She favored me with a smile. "You must be Jonathan," she said cheerfully as she dug under the counter for something. She flipped a room key onto the counter before I could reply. "Suite 14," she said pointing to my right as she went back through the curtain and disappeared from view.

Rather than shout in her wake, I sighed in frustration and picked up the key. I exited the office and walked down the sidewalk in front of the line of rooms to my right. Suite 14 turned out to be around the corner of the single-story rectangular building in the back. The area was screened in by trees and hedges and there were no vehicles parked next to the room door, nor any other room on that side of the motel. I noticed there were heavy curtains closed across the windows as I slotted the key and unlocked the door.

I felt a hand grab the front of my shirt as I opened the door and yank me inside the room. As the door slammed shut behind me, my feet got tangled up in something and I pitched face-first onto the bed, whose ancient springs squealed in protest. Night-blind in the darkness, I felt someone -- a woman -- jump onto my back and clasp my wrists with warm, firm hands.

I began to struggle, when I felt the touch of cold metal on the side of my neck. I stopped instantly, recognizing the feel of the serrated bread knife from the apartment kitchen. "That's better," said a woman's voice -- Jasmine's kidnapper -- from near my head. "Go limp," she added. "Offer any resistance and I will cut you."

The woman on my back continued to hold my wrists. "May I ask a question?" I ventured.

The knife came away from my neck. I was becoming aware of the dim shadowy figures of the two women in the gloom around me. I could hear the whisper of silk as the one near my head moved, towering over me in the dark. When she turned back, she had something in her hands. "You may," she replied to my question.

"What is your na—MMMPH!" Her hands had shoved a wad of silky material into my mouth and were already strapping some sort of harness around the lower part of my face. I felt leather straps pulling tight around my head as she deftly buckled them.

"My name," she replied as I felt metal rasp against metal behind my head, "is Cassandra." There was a click and I realized that a small padlock had been inserted into the buckle and locked. "But you will call me 'Mistress,' if I permit you to speak at all."

I felt the knife's chill upon my skin near my neck again as I heard its working side shredding the fabric of my shirt. I whimpered softly with fear at the touch of the weapon. "Easy, Jonathan," said Cassandra, "Just relax and be still." With a series of quick cuts down the sleeves and the middle of my back, the shirt lay in rags around me. "Believe it or not," she added as she worked, "I really don't want to hurt you -- yet."

I felt my hands drawn behind my back and the two women worked together to slide my hands into heavy mitts of leather that were buckled tightly around my wrists. My wrists were locked together with another padlock that passed through metal rings mounted on them. The women than rolled me on my side. While Cassandra undid my belt, the other woman pulled off my shoes and socks before Cassandra peeled off my pants and underwear.

I could feel a blush coming to my cheeks as I saw Cassandra looking over my naked form. "Jasmine," she said, "has good taste in men." I felt her hands running lightly across my thighs, buttocks and flanks. I could see her smile as her hands lightly brushed my balls and cock. I twitched at the unexpected touch. "Very good taste," she added and turned back to the bag on the night stand beside the bed.

Cassandra was a beautiful woman, despite the fact that she had kidnapped my love and was seemingly intent on doing the same to me. She was a tall, voluptuous woman with red hair and pale skin. The long-sleeved white silk blouse she wore clung to her generous bosom and enticing flanks, revealing that she wore a dark-colored corset beneath. Her black silk pencil skirt hugged the curves and contours of her hips and buttocks, distending slightly across her thighs as she moved, revealing the telltale bumps and bulges of a garter belt beneath. Her legs were sheathed in shiny, sheer copper stockings that whispered as she moved, providing wonderful highlights of her very long, shapely legs. Her feet were perched on open-toed stiletto shoes made of black patent leather.

As I watched her, I felt leather cuffs encircling my ankles and being buckled in place. The now-familiar rasp of metal indicated that they too were padlocked together. Cassandra looked over at the other woman. "Get him on his knees," she said distractedly as she continued look through her bag on the nightstand.

The other woman allowed me to pivot on my hip and squirm off of the bed enough to plant my feet before she eased me over the side and onto my knees. I glanced back at her and gave her a slight nod of appreciation for being gentle. I noticed that she wore a leather collar around her neck with a mounted ring of metal just below her chin. She flashed me a shadow of a smile in return then threw a cautioning look toward Cassandra. I quickly turned back to face my captor.

Cassandra turned back toward me while holding a wide strap of leather in her hands. With me kneeling and her on five-inch heels, she towered over me. She stepped in close enough to let the hem of her skirt brush my face. I caught a hint of perfume as I felt the other woman threading a cord through the padlocks at my wrists and ankles.

Cassandra looked down at me with a slight smile. Behind me, I felt the other woman tying off the cord, pulling it slightly tighter so that I had to lean back to put slack in the line. The other woman then stood and walked to the door, exiting the room quietly. I was now alone with my captor.

"This," said Cassandra, indicating the strap she was holding, "is for you." She turned it over in her hands so I could see it. It looked like a slightly more heavy-duty version of the collar the other woman wore. My brow furrowed and then I looked up at the woman again.

Cassandra nodded knowingly. "I know, I know," she said, "you are worried about Jasmine and are wondering what this has to do with her -- yes?" I nodded slowly so as to not show irritation. Cassandra smiled again. "You will see her shortly," she said, "provided you agree to wear this collar." I nodded.

"I would not agree to that so quickly," cautioned Cassandra with a waggling finger. She turned the collar over in her hands again, looking at it. "I am a mistress, Jonathan. Not the kind you see in the movies who manipulates married men for money." She bent forward a bit and looked at me intently. "I am the kind of mistress who OWNS people. I take advantage of people's wants and desires, making them submit to MY wants and desires. And my desires are a mix of pleasure, debauchery and pain."

Despite the situation, I could feel the sexual power of this woman. My heart was racing and I could feel a stirring of my loins. I could feel the heat of her against my naked skin, her perfume filling my senses with its enticing aroma. And looking into her eyes, I realized that she could sense my resolve eroding away under her feminine power. I gently strained against the bonds holding my wrists and hands, the leather creaking audibly in the silence of the room.

"Oh dear God," I thought desperately, "I want this woman." I could feel an erection starting as my breath quickened. My cheeks were flush, burning hot against the strap holding my gag in place.

Cassandra's smile widened as she regarded my discomfort. "If you wear my collar," she said slowly, "then you agree to do anything and everything I demand of you for as long as you wear it. It is a mark of ownership -- MY mark of ownership. Once I put it on you, it remains until I decide to remove it. Should you disobey or disrespect me in any fashion while you wear it, your punishment will swift and painful -- as will Jasmine's."

The last of my resistance crumbled and I cast my eyes downward, my shoulders sagging as much as they could against my bonds. Cassandra gently kissed my forehead. "Good boy," she whispered.

The leather collar encircled my neck, but my eyes were closed. Cassandra drew it snug, but not uncomfortably so, and buckled it behind my head. A padlock was slotted and locked home. I drew a shuddering breath as she walked around in front of me. A soft, warm hand found my chin and drew my gaze up to meet hers.

Her blue eyes blazed in triumph as she looked down at me. "You are mine now," she said in a voice barely above a whisper. "Mine." The tableau was broken by a gentle knock at the door.

Cassandra turned her gaze toward the door. "Enter," she said. She looked at me again, favoring me with a wicked smile. "Let's take you to see Jasmine."