Twisting the Melody

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A carefully planned abduction leads to...
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It was going to be one of those nights where she could get carried away by the music. Some nights were like that - none of the conversation or rustling or clinking of bottles and glasses ever reached her; totally captured by the piano she could float.

From where he sat in the half-lit embrace of his table, he watched her play, a small smile curving his mouth. It was the last night she would play here, and he'd sat at this same table the three preceding evenings, watching, waiting, pondering. The large-bellied snifter in front him held only a shallow flicker of cognac, a cigarette smoked forgotten in the ashtray next to his right hand. His other hand smoothed over his suit jacket.

He was irresistibly charmed by the idea that she was unknowing. Through narrowed eyes he gazed at the light over her head, images of possible futures running through his swiftly leaping mind. He imagined the curve of her arms stretched over her head, the sweet arch of her slender body, he anticipated the fearful questioning that would light her eyes.

Entranced by her own weaving, she played longer than she had at any other show, moving eagerly from lilt to lament to boisterous exclamations. When she rose from the bench finally, her slim legs were shaking with exhaustion and satisfaction. Beneath the benison of the final applause, her face warmed and opened with shy appreciation; a flush of pleasure mantled her cheeks, she dimpled.

He knew her routine; he'd been studying her for weeks. She went to the bar and got from the smiling bartender a small snifter of liqueur and a steaming cup of black coffee. Her fingers flickered through her small clutch purse and withdrew the gold case that held her slender cigarettes. He was at her side with his lighter before she could worry her own out of the small bag.

"Permit me," was all he said, touching her lightly on the shoulder and cupping the flame between his fingers.

She looked up at him and smiled, her blue eyes still a little dazed and filled with music.

"Thank you," she responded, tilting her coppery head down and drawing the flame close to the tip. Sitting back, she took a long draw from the cigarette, her eyes closed as she stretched slightly and exhaled slowly, head tilted back on her long neck so that the smoke spilled upwards towards the ceiling.

When she looked back at him a moment later, he was smiling at her. "I've enjoyed your shows," he offered, tucking the lighter into his pocket again.

"Thank you," she said with pleasure. "This has been a wonderful place to play . . . such a marvelous piano." Her eyes wandered dreamily over his shoulder, back to the dim black gleam of the Steinway.

He made small talk with her for a few moments then excused himself. He was eager to be prepared. He had been half-afraid that she would sense something, but she was deliciously unaware. He felt as light and deadly and inexorable as steel.

He waited for her in his car, watching through the rearview mirror until she emerged from the club. A thin black coat over her black velvet dress, a creamy scarf drifting over the glinting ripples of her long-spun hair.

As he followed her from the parking lot onto the dark street that led to her hotel, he found himself counting the minutes and the seconds. Everything depended on the car stalling within five miles.

He had no need to worry; only a mile down the dark, late road, he saw her car slowly move to the grassy verge and stop. He drove past, saw her through the window trying to re-start the car, turned his own around and circled back.

"Car trouble?" he said to her through his open window. She unrolled her own and smiled back at him.

"Hello again," she said. "Yes, I can't get it to start."

"Get in and I'll drive you back over to the club," he offered, reaching over to unlock the passenger side door. She looked undecided at the dashboard of her car, then pulled the keys from the ignition and tucked them into her purse before getting out. She opened the door and sat down gratefully on the warm leather seat, pulling the seat belt across her lap and locking it.

"Thank you," she said, settling back and looking over at him. "I'd've hated to walk back."

He put the car in gear and pulled away, smiling slightly and reaching a hand into his breast pocket, where he tapped the contents lightly with a forefinger. He drove on down the road, turning as if to return to the club.

When he drove past the turn, she reacted with surprise. When he pulled into an empty parking lot across the street and stopped, she tried to get out of her seatbelt and out of the car. The seatbelt wouldn't open, nor the door. She turned to look at him with a horrified dawning of suspicion in her eyes, and her glance lighted on the liquid-soaked pad that he was bringing up to her face.

Pinned by the seatbelt and nowhere as near as strong as he, it took only a moment to subdue her. Her breathing lapsed into the slow waves of unconsciousness, her body loosened and tumbled back against the seat. He lowered the windows and drove, breathing slowly until the fresh air replaced the thick fumes and he was alert again. He took a plastic bag and put the pad of soaking cloth into it, along with the empty vial. Before he drove out of the parking lot, the bag was thrown over the side of a dumpster, lost.

Driving, his mind danced from thought to thought. When he was safely onto the Interstate, he relaxed slightly and let his right hand reach over to stroke the glowing hair away from her face. Her skin was soft and warm, slack with sleep, defenseless.

There was a surge of triumphant tenderness through him and he brushed a wayward tendril back from her cheek before turning his attention again to the road. He didn't have much time.

She was still unconscious when he arrived; he heard the garage door slide shut behind him and sighed with relief.

She was tall, but so slim that she felt like nothing in his arms. He carried her carefully into the house, into the room he'd readied for her. He lay her down on the bed and carefully pulled coat and scarf from her, then her shoes, leaving her asleep on top of the covers. Then he pulled her wrists together, cuffed and then chained them to the top of the bed. He stepped back from her and looked, slowly roaming her body with his eyes, wanting that moment when her eyes opened at last. He checked his watch and left the room, pulling the door shut behind him, turning off the lights.

He removed his clothes and put them away on their hangers, sliding his shoes into their appointed places on the closet floor, underclothes neatly tucked into the hamper. From the back of his closet he pulled a long robe, thickly warm and deeply crimson. He slid it on over his naked body, belting it around his waist. He smiled at his reflection in the mirror, savoring the thought of her blinking up at him from the bed.

He poured a few fingers of cognac into a snifter on his way back to her room; lit a cigarette as he moved smoothly down the hallway and put his hand to the doorknob. As he opened the door, he caught the slight sound of a breathless whimper and knew she was awake.

Dazed, confused and stiffly aching from the pull on her shoulders, her body twisted on the bed. She was trying to push herself upright, but her hands were chained down too low; with a half-sob she rolled onto her side and blinked at the light pouring through the doorway.

He watched her, walking slowly into the room, letting her dazzled eyes recover so that she could watch him approach, bring him into focus. He saw her eyes move over him, see the snifter in his hand and the cigarette in the other. He sipped at the cognac and smoked, watching her face blur with fear and anticipation.

She did not speak, but bit back a moan of pain from her arms and stared up at him, blue eyes wide and unblinking.

He set down the drink and reached out to run a proprietary hand over her body, cupping her shoulders before moving to stroke her breasts through the tight velvet of her bodice. Then his fingers glided further, caressing her flanks and the smooth curve of her thighs. She shivered under his fingers, the blue eyes closed tightly and she made a soft sound of protest and tried to pull away.

He stepped back and put the cigarette out. From the pocket of his robe he drew out a slender piece of steel and pressed a button. The silvery blade of the knife erupted into the room, and her eyes sprang open at the sound.

Fixed unwaveringly on it, she watched as he drew closer and closer; saw the hand holding it approach her neck. The tip skittered teasingly over the tight skin, over the pounding throb of her pulse, and across to where a thin strap of velvet caught her dress about her left shoulder. She whimpered as the blade slid under it and sliced. Then the knife danced across her collarbone, teasing slowly over skin pale and quivering. Then the other strap, falling back over another white shoulder.

She lay under his hand, immobile and slack with fear. The knife whispered down the front of her dress, sliding through the thin fabric that fell aside like the peel of ripe fruit, uncurling slowly to reveal her. He drew a deep breath when her full breasts lay free and naked under his fingers, he paused for a moment to fondle them, savoring the warm curve and delicate nipples against his hands. Her body arched in protest and his fingers tightened and twisted slightly. He watched her writhe and heard the gasp that escaped her. Slowly she stilled herself again to him, inexorably he returned to paring away her outer skin.

Over the small swell of belly and down to the valley between her thighs, showing thin and tender white cotton over tight red curls. Slicing away the skirt from her legs, slender in black stockings that ended in lace before a few creamy inches of skin. Open before him, she lay quiescent on the bed, her hair spilling away from her face, her chest moving swiftly. Her teeth bit down at her lower lip, thin streams of silver tracked down from her eyes and soaked into the coverlet. He turned and set the knife down on a far table, retracting the blade with a snick. Her breath was ragged, her feet slid helplessly against the bed.

Before he returned to her, he flicked sparks onto candle wicks that caught themselves up in flame and danced before the dim silvery gleam of a mirror. Mysteriously twinned, standing sentinel over his conquest of her.

He turned, the rich nap of his robe gleaming, limned in reflected fire. He pulled the fragments of her clothing from beneath her with firm hands, ignoring her plaintive sobs and the steady fall of tears. Her voice was confused, dazed, frantic, pleading; it twined itself around his senses, even in terror still warmly golden.

His fingers were now rapt upon her body, gliding over the trembling skin with luxurious abandon. His, to plunder as he wished. He was drunk with the scent of her, had to pull back with icy control.

He left her with the thin protection of fabric still wrapped around her loins, and turned her over with firm strength, his hands exploring the pale thinness of her skin, every vertebra etched along her spine. Her narrow waist, richly flaring hips, rounded buttocks slid beneath his fingers. Trailing down her bare thighs to the taut stretch of lace at the top of her stockings, then over the length of them to the delicately arched feet.

The air in the room was thick with quiet, heavy with the unspoken. Her plaints had died away in the face of his disregard.

He sighed softly, trailing a last finger down the curl of her spine before bending over her and unchaining her wrists from the headboard. With surprising strength he pulled her to her feet and drew her, staggering slightly, across the floor of the room to a small stool.

He chained her hands, hooking them on a dangling catch that he then raised until they hung well above her head. Stepping back, he kicked the stool from beneath her feet and heard her gasp as she dangled, suspended, only her toes brushing the floor.

The slender lick of leather lashed out into an arc that cracked against the drawn skin of her back. He heard her cry out in shock at the slash of it, saw the thin line of pink skin rise up against the cool air.

He measured carefully the waning quantity of his self control and set the lash aside and turned from her. He could feel a hard excitement taking control of him as he plundered through a drawer, finding at last the box that he sought and pulling the tiny clamps from their nests of cotton with shaking fingers.

Onto the high, tight nipples he fixed them, maddened by the sudden thrust and twist of her body as they pulled at her delicate skin. He stood aside from her and watched as she struggled for stillness, sought to balance her aching body on the tips of her toes, all the while shuddering under the maddening force of the clamps. A trickle of sweat ran down her back, vanishing into the line of lace at her hips.

He watched her, running the tip of his tongue over his lips, one hand unconsciously caressing himself through the fabric of his robe. She could not see him standing behind her, but she felt him. With a mouth dry and tight, she finally spoke again to him.

'Please . . . don't . . . please . . . why,' she begged him quietly.

'Because,' he answered softly at last. And he curled the end of the lash about her throat, a threatening leather caress that made her shudder. The lash hissed softly from around her neck and curled back over his shoulder before slashing across her unprotected back. This time she screamed softly, jerking and shaking as the clamps reminded her. He drew his arm back again, and again, and again. He surveyed the delicate tracery of angry red that he was lacing across her back and thighs. She twisted, dangling, unbalanced. Without warning, he lowered her, watching her collapse onto her knees before him.

'Get up,' he told her, his voice commanding. She tried to stagger to her feet, but her arms were numb and she stumbled. He knotted his hands in her long hair and dragged her up onto her feet, pulled her to him.

Her face was sweet with tears and her eyes were closed, the soaked lashes curling darkly against the whiteness of her face. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling the fragrance of her fear, fingers curving through the thickets of her hair as he crushed her to his chest.

Unthreading her wrists from the cuffs, he lay her back onto the bed, hearing her hiss with the pain of the covers grating over her tender skin. With his right hand, he released first one clamp from its grasp on her, then the other. Leaning down, he tilted his lips to the swollen red nipples and circled them with his tongue. His hand drifted down over her belly, finding the damp wisp of cloth between her legs and running a soft finger across it, feeling the soft cushion of tangled curls.

'Mine,' he murmured with enchanted satisfaction. 'Oh, my dear.' And he paid no attention to her denials, curling his tongue around a hard nipple and sucking on it until her back arched up from the bed. Through the lace, he could feel her slow warming; his finger teased up and down, his palm cupped her, he could feel her hips rising mindlessly in response to him.

His lips were hungry on her breasts, his other hand moved up to pin her wrists above her head and he heard her groan in a surprised pleasure as his fingertip pressed between her lower lips and found the pouting tip of her clitoris and started to stroke it.

'NO . . . no . . . ' she protested, her head twisting against the bed as she fought herself for control. He let his finger slide away and then slip under the fabric and between the tight curls until he found the slick wetness of her.

'Mine,' he whispered with a smile, raising his head to look her in the face, his finger slowly slipping through the warm folds. Her face was tight and she tried desperately to close it to him, to pull her eyes away his, but he could feel her control slackening.

Her voice rose in soft protest against him, her body tried to pull away, her head twisted tautly on her neck. He could see the pulse pounding against the delicate skin of her throat, and he moved to kiss it.

Under his mouth she whimpered and fought with slowly decreasing ferocity. He let the tip of his finger plunge into her shallowly, astonished by the heat that met him; she let out an anguished cry of surrender at the sensation and he pressed all the way into her.

Nearly beyond thought, he closed his eyes at the tight warmth around his fingers, feeling her hips bunch and leap against his hand. 'God, so ready,' he said, gasping at it.

He found her open lips with his own and kissed her with careful delicacy, taking possession of her mouth, devouring her, feeling the slow response he was igniting in her.

He freed her wrists and stroked her breasts, twirling her nipples beneath his fingers until she gasped and her back arched. Between her thrashing legs his hand stroked, plunged, twisted, drove into her until he could feel her tense and shiver and tighten around him.

He watched her shudder into orgasm with fierce approval, his mouth on her neck as she gasped for breath and her cries of shamed pleasure escaped between her lips.

He slowed, stilled, felt her reach out to cling to shreds of control lost before he moved and stood up from her. Standing over her so that she could see him, his deep eyes framed in olive skin, his hair dark and curly against his face. She lay looking at him, her eyes tight with shame and gleaming with tears.

'Now,' he said, and his hands moved to the belt about his robe and untied it, before he let the thick garment fall to lie puddled on the floor at his feet. His naked body glowed with the warm light of the candles, she could see the hard evidence of him and her eyes closed, her face turned away and tried to bury itself in her hands.

'Look at me,' he said sternly, inexorably, waiting for a heavy moment before she turned to him again.

'Please - ' she begged him, 'please . . . '

He sat on the bed and pulled her bruised and trembling body towards himself, pinning her in his arms, her hair falling over his arm. 'Mine,' he said slowly and deliberately as he bent to her lips,

His mouth came down hard and dizzily on hers, and she was helpless as his fingers found her, plundered her, turned her, explored her, lay her open before him.

His weight pinned her to the sheets beneath him, he held her still as he slid between her legs, feeling the inviting heat of her wetness, hearing her stifled moan. His hands stroked down to her hips and he lifted her, raised her until he could plunge into her totally. He heard her cry out as he entered her and then he heard nothing but the roaring in his ears as her heat surrounded him and held him and he moved faster and faster into her. Pulling away from her was agony, thrusting back deep was beyond pleasure. He held her so tightly that his hands bruised her, his relentless rhythm against her was tearing away what remained of her control. Maddened, his mouth dove onto her breasts, tight and demanding, sucking, grating with his teeth until she cried out in mingled pleasure and pain under him.

He raised himself onto his arms and looked down at her. Her eyes were wide and dazed, her lips glimmered as she ran her tongue over them and he watched shudders possess her and take her further into the maelstrom. He could feel himself fragmenting, melting away before the heat of her; with a final thrust he impaled her and felt her body convulse under him as another climax claimed her. Holding her tightly, he let go of his own passion and exploded into her, hot pleasure shooting through him as he felt himself fall forward against her.

He held her then, loosely cupping his hands around the drawn muscles of her shoulders. She shook with weeping beneath him; he did not speak but soothed with wordless murmurs, fingers stroking her hair, her skin, the moist tautness of her cheek. Exhaustion settled in her body, weighing her; he felt her drop away from him and into unconscious slumber.

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