Melting the Ice Princessbyscorpio_gal©
"Well, well. This is quite a situation you've gotten yourself into, isn't it?"
I say nothing, glaring angrily at my captor from across the room. God, how I detest this man! My heart is full of venom for this vile, brutish creature who dares to masquerade as a human being. No, I quickly correct myself. He is not human. He is not even worthy of my hate.
As if reading my thoughts, he looks deeply into my eyes and his mouth lifts in a half-smile. Slowly, deliberately he walks towards me. "I'm well aware of how unpleasant your feelings are towards me at this moment," he says quietly. "You are furious. And I understand why." His face is very close to mine, his dark eyes piercing. "But I am sure you are just as furious at yourself for allowing yourself to be put in this predicament. Am I right about that?"
I am silent, but my mind acknowledges that he speaks the truth. How foolish I was to trust this man! How could I have been so careless? What was put forth as a harmless invitation to dinner at his home has turned into this nightmare. Inwardly I curse my stupidity. I was duped in a moment of weakness. He is a highly intelligent man and for all his faults, he can be devastatingly charming. A few drinks, some witty conversation, an engaging smile, a harmless invitation to tour his wine cellar....What was I thinking? No, that's just it. I hadn't been thinking, not at all, and that was the problem.
Then before I could think, before I could reason, he had grabbed me roughly. He is a strong man; even though I had struggled fiercely against his grip, he had overpowered me.
He reads my thoughts again. "Yes, my dear. One small lapse in concentration...one brief moment in time when your guard is down....and this is the result. Pity."
He shrugs his shoulders and looks slowly up at the ceiling over my head. As though against my will, my eyes are drawn there also. There is a pulley attached to one of the ceiling beams; looped around the pulley is a stout rope that hangs down to just above my head. The rope is tied to a large iron ring from which hang padded handcuffs. My wrists are encased in them. It is not a painful position; my feet are on the floor and I am not stretched in any way - there is some latitude and I can move my body slightly - but there is no doubt that I am quite immobilized.
I have yet to speak or make a sound. I vow that I will not give this monster the satisfaction of knowing what I am thinking, what I am feeling: that my heart is beating wildly with fear, that I abhor the feeling of being so vulnerable. He needs to know only that I absolutely despise him. Silently I pray for calm and rational thought.
He steps back and observes me intently. "Yes, I think that it is a very efficient set-up. Simple, but effective. You really are quite helpless, aren't you?" He indicates the rest of the room. "And what do you think of this place? Perfect, don't you think?" His eyes are gazing into mine. "This is a wine cellar, designed to be air tight. Therefore it's sound-proof. Someone could scream down here and no one would ever hear them. Imagine."
I'm very frightened now. He sees it in my eyes. For a brief moment, the coldness in his gaze is replaced with something softer. The corners of his mouth twitch.
"No, my dear. Don't worry. I have no intention of causing you any physical pain. No, that is most definitely not part of my nature, and quite frankly, would not be nearly as satisfying as dealing with you in – other ways."
My heart skips a beat. "Other ways?" I hear myself whisper hoarsely.
He grimaces. "Ah. She speaks. I was beginning to think that you had no voice. But at least now I know you do." He moves close to me. His hand, warm and soft, strokes my neck. As he talks to me he watches my face intently. "And I also know that by the time I'm done with you, that voice of yours will be saying all sorts of interesting things."
I shake my head away from his touch, my fear replaced by anger. "You're insane," I hiss. "Untie me right now!"
"No, my dear, I'm sorry. I can't do that. I plan to be keeping you company here for quite some time." The hardness in his gaze returns.
"What do you want?"
He shrugs. "Nothing too complicated. Revenge, mostly."
"Revenge?" My mind is racing. What is he talking about? "Revenge? For what?"
"For you being so cold, so inaccessible. So unattainable. So frustrating." He walks around me slowly, observing me from all angles. I struggle against the bonds, but I know my efforts are in vain. He was right about one thing: the bonds are effective. My heart sinks. I'm convinced I'm dealing with a madman.
He pretends not to notice my distress and continues his conversation, his voice cold. "I have known you for quite some time. Travelling in the same professional circles, I have had many occasions to interact with you, although you usually distance yourself from me." I silently acknowledge that he is right. I have noticed him – he is far too striking a man for a woman not to notice – but up until this terrible evening I instinctively have kept my distance from him. Tonight he had lured me here with the guise of talking business. Oh, how could I have been so foolish?
He is walking slowly around me, his eyes raking up and down my body as it is stretched out before him. "Did you know, my dear, that when we attend social gatherings –" He pauses. "Did you know that I watch you?" He is behind me now, his mouth close to my ear. "You like to display yourself to men, don't you?" he whispers. "You must know that you are a terrible tease."
I remain silent. I musn't let him sense my distress.
"Yes, you are. You flirt, you play, your body throws out offers that you have no intention of keeping. We call that a tease."
He is behind me and I feel his hot breath on my ear. His voice is a harsh whisper.
"It's not very nice to tease. And do you know what happens to a tease, my dear?" He walks in front of me again, his eyes glittering. "What should be done to a tease like you? How should you be punished?"
Silence. He is insane. His comments are not worthy of a response.
"Come now. You're a smart woman. What? No answer?" He smiles that crooked smile. Then suddenly, alarmingly, his hands are at the front of my blouse. He leisurely undoes the top button. I hold my breath.
"Can't you guess?" The second button is opened, then the third. "No? Then I suppose I'll have to tell you."
The last button is undone now. My knees start to tremble as he slowly pulls my blouse open. He cocks his head to one side, his lips pursed, staring at my exposed breasts. "Well, that is very cooperative of you. How fortunate that you chose not to wear a bra tonight. Then again, that's what a tease would do, isn't it."
I feel panic rising in me but it's as if I am frozen still, unable to move. He observes me silently for a few moments. Then slowly, his hands move to touch me and I hear the sharp intake of my breath. His fingers, surprisingly soft, are gently stroking the sides of one breast. He caresses the round swell on the underside, over the top, and pauses in his exploration to gently probe under my arms. Then he returns to the side of my breast, back under my arms, circling, stroking, all the while deliberately avoiding the pink nipples that I realize with horror are beginning to harden. No. Impossible.
I hold my breath. No. I will endure this, I vow to myself silently. No matter what he does I will remain detached. But his warm hands are very experienced. They seem to know exactly where all my sensitive spots are. And there is another alarming thought that is creeping up on me. No, it can't be, I tell myself. I can't – could I possibly be – not with this man...
After what seems to be an eternity he stops, but then immediately, before I can catch my breath, moves to the other breast. Damn. His touch is unbearably tender. Again, the same methodical exploration, the same soft stroking, the same maddening circles. My emotions are in turmoil, at war with my body, that same body that is betraying me by responding to the touch of a man I hate. My nipples harden and begin to ache. The fear I had felt earlier is being replaced with another feeling. It's indescribable. Warm. Overwhelming. Something like – dear God, no....
"So have you figured it out yet?" His deep voice interrupts my thoughts. I'm grateful for the distraction. I can think.
"I have no idea what you're talking about." I hope that my voice is more confident than I feel.
"Oh, I think you do. Remember? What we were talking about before I became distracted with your breasts? You know. How to punish a tease. How to punish you." His hands continue to stroke my underarms. His mouth, hot and soft, is against my cheek, then lower, dropping light kisses along my collarbone. My neck is an extremely responsive area on my body and I'm angered that he seems to know it. I fight the sensation.
"So delicious," he murmurs again my skin. "And tied up like this you are also so very vulnerable. I am going to enjoy this."
Suddenly his hands stop and I instinctively sigh deeply in relief. It's a chance to compose myself and I intend to take full advantage of it. He has pulled away from kissing my neck is watching my face with amusement.
"I know you so well," he says quietly. "You will do everything you can to resist. But you should know, my dear – " His lips are close to mine. "That I will do everything I can to break you."
Break me! Enflamed at his words, I twist my head away from his and begin to struggle against the handcuffs. I am angry now and I want him to see that. Anger is an emotion that I can deal with. The fury is a welcome antidote for the disturbing feelings raging through me. "You bastard!" I hiss. "Dream on!" I pull at the rope over my head and thrash my body, trying to loosen the bonds. He laughs – a mirthless, cold laugh.
"You really shouldn't try, you know. It's quite useless to struggle. You should know better." His hands are on my waist, trying to settle me. "There, now. You should learn to cooperate."
"Never." My voice is firm now. Anger is proving to be my ally. I am regaining control.
"Never?" He raises his eyebrows. "That sounds like a challenge. I love a good challenge. What did you say again?"
I meet his gaze squarely, my eyes blazing. "I said never!"
Then before I can think, his hands are on my nipples. He pulls on them gently, rolls them around between his thumb and forefinger, flicks them back and forth with the pads of his thumbs, all the while watching my face intently. I meet his gaze defiantly but, oh God help me, his touch is devastating. He know exactly what to do...I realize with alarm that my erect and aching nipples are responding to his caresses. There is another part of me that's aching too - a growing heat between my legs. I close my eyes weakly to the spiraling sensation. How could it be? I hate this man, I hate him! How could my body be responding like this?
"Oh no," he chides gently. "You musn't close your eyes. Open them for me." I squeeze them shut tighter. He laughs. "Come, now. Open your eyes. I want to see what effect this is having on you." His lips are on my neck again, kissing, teasing, trailing a hot path to my ear. "Open your eyes for me," he whispers.
As if in a trance, I obey. His dark eyes are flashing with amusement as he stares at me. "There. Good girl. That's better." His hands, meanwhile, haven't stopped their torment of my breasts. "Hmm. Your nipples are wonderfully responsive. I imagined they would be." He is not stopping, not even for a moment. Slowly, methodically, he continues his infuriating caresses. The palms of his warm hands are playing out over my nipples now. I am fighting to hang on to rational thought. Perhaps if I talk with him, engage him in conversation...
"You imagined?" I say, praying that my voice sounds flat and cold to him. I need to focus on something besides his touch. I fight for control. "Imagining is all that you can do, I suppose. How pathetic."
He ignores my attempt at an insult. "Yes, I do imagine. I have often fantasized about what your breasts look like, about touching them just like this." He twists the tips of my nipples and I need to bite my lip to keep from crying out in pleasure. This is almost too much to bear, I think wildly. He is watching me face for signs of response and smiles. "I often think about doing other things with them. To them."
"Other – things?"
He nods. Then mercifully, suddenly, he stops. Again I struggle to regain normal breathing. I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing what effect his touch has on me. Wait – what is he doing? He is reaching into his jacket...
My attempts to compose myself are halted dead in their tracks when I realize what he has produced from his pocket. I feel my blood run cold.
"Do you know what this is?" I am staring wordlessly at the object in his hand. My eyes are silently pleading. Oh no, surely he doesn't intend...
"This is an ostrich feather. Quite a good size, isn't it? And very soft. Would you like to feel how soft?"
I shake my head and he laughs.
"Well, I want to show you." Slowly, deliberately, he uses the feather to stroke my face, then my chin, then down to my neck. "Apparently this particular kind of feather produces sensations that are – er, quite pleasurable." The feather is teasing my ribcage now. I inhale sharply. Surely he doesn't intend to prolong this. Dear God, I pray, give me strength.
"Did you know," he says, drawing the tip of the feather under one of my arms, "that feathers have long been used as an implement of torture in the Far East? Hmmm? It's true. It is believed that gentle and incessant tickling – like this –" He punctuates his words with a rapid shake of the feather against my skin – "can drive a person quite mad, largely because of the anticipation factor – you know, where the victim will be tickled next, how they will be tickled. It's called exquisite torture. Could be quite useful in exacting information, I'd think."
He draws the feather lightly across my chest and resumes tickling under the other arm. In spite of my best intentions to remain passive, I squirm against the bonds. Stay still, I tell myself. Try to be calm. Don't let him know....don't let him know that he is deadly accurate about how sensitive you are there...my mind is beginning to swirl...why is it, I wonder, that the tickling is not producing laughter but rather, those other unspeakable sensations. I can endure this...I will...I can...as long as he doesn't....
But damn him, he does! The tip of the feather is now teasing my erect nipple. Oh God, the pleasure is overwhelming! He is brushing the feather lightly back and forth, back and forth, around the soft pink flesh surrounding the nipple, back to the tip again. The feather's light touch is barely enough to produce a sensation but he is moving it so quickly that it results in an indescribable and unbearable excitement......damn....Then, almost before I am even aware, a groan escapes my lips. I am instantly angry for my weakness, which is not lost on him.
Smiling, and without a word, he sets to work on the other nipple, this time using his free hand to lightly stroke my underarms, ribs, belly, all the while watching my face keenly with that maddening half-smile. What I wouldn't give to wipe it off his face! How I hate this man! He is a boor, a bully. This has got to stop.
"You seem to be enjoying this." It's my own voice, and I barely recognize the hoarse half-whisper. Again, I struggle for rational thought. If only he would stop what he's doing, just for one moment, then I could gain some semblance of control.
"I am, thank you. I'm enjoying it very much."
My jaw is set firmly and I struggle to keep my voice even. It's an almost impossible task. The feather's touch is shear torture. The torment continues for what seems like hours until every inch of my flesh is on fire. My mind is racing, desperately seeking something, anything, to take his mind off his task. I speak between ragged breaths. "So....you... you enjoy trying to terrorize helpless victims, do you? Does... that.. somehow appease you...your manhood?"
Perhaps if he gets angry enough...anything to make it stop.
But he is not angry. Not even a little bit. My challenge, however, has apparently bought me some time. The feather torment stops. Thank you, God. I sag against the restraints and he watches me with amusement, his inquisitive eyes never leaving my face.
I'm breathing heavily and am grateful that he stopped when he did. As my heart begins to slow I pull myself up and meet his gaze squarely. I dig deep for strength. I try a desperate ploy. "So. You at least know when to admit failure."
"Yes. You've apparently done your worst." If only he knew, I say to myself wryly..... But he'll never know. "Time to give up and let me go. Your little game is over."
He laughs loudly. "I don't think so. We've barely begun." He has moved closer to me again, standing mere inches away, and has again begun to brush the tips of his fingers over my sensitized nipples. "You're charming, do you know that? I do admire your spirit. But you are stubborn. Which, of course, will only make it all the more satisfying when you submit to me."
"Submit? To you?" I laugh harshly. "No, I won't."
"Oh, yes." His head bends over one breast. "You will."
The first touch of his mouth is electric. I'm caught by surprise and a moan escapes my lips. Then another. Then, God help me, another. His tongue is just on the very tip of my nipple, doing all the things the feather was doing, flicking, teasing, but his tongue is hot and oh so wet and oh so excruciating. I groan again. This is more than anyone should have to endure. His mouth moves to the other breast now to repeat the torture. I thrash about in desperation against the bonds, struggling to free myself – or am I struggling to move his damned head closer, to take the whole nipple in his mouth, to suck it hotly...what is this man doing to me?
"Stop," I whisper. "Stop." He doesn't. He ignores my plea and continues to tease both nipples with his mouth, cupping both of my breasts in his hands and playing his hot tongue back and forth, back and forth between the two, until finally, he senses my exhaustion and stops. Those shimmering eyes are scanning my face again and he smiles with satisfaction.
"Good. I see you are becoming more cooperative. And was that a moan or two that I heard? Could it be that you are actually enjoying this?" I am unable to answer. My body is on fire, burning with an unexpressed need. Yes, dear God help me, I am responding to it. And I berate myself for it. Shameful.
"What? No answer? Now don't tell me you're being uncooperative again."
He is holding me tightly against him now with one arm, and with the other is reaching up under my short skirt. Weakened with arousal, I am helpless to fight as his hand moves upwards over my thigh.
"Now tell me, my dear." His voice is gentle, crooning, almost soothing. "Was that a moan just now? Did you moan for me?"
"No – "
"Are you sure? I thought I heard something." His hands are stroking, tickling, playing over the top of my legs. Maddeningly, he pauses at the juncture between my thighs. "All right then. Moan for me now." His fingers caress the soft skin of my thighs. "Come on. Just one moan."
His lips are on my neck, biting lightly, nuzzling and driving me wild. "Just one little moan. For me" His free hand cups my breast and squeezes it gently. "Come now. You don't want me to take out the feather again, do you?"
"Nooo, not that..."
"No, I didn't think you'd want that again." I can hear the smile in his voice. "No moan for me?" The hand between my legs is rubbing over the silk panties, his fingernails gently raking along my slit. The sensation of the soft material against the hot core of me sends a shock wave through my body. I feel myself pulsing against his hand. He is driving me completely out of my mind. It takes every bit of control that I have to remain silent.